by Poppet
“Yo, I’m Steve,” I nod, standing to his right instead of directly in front of him, angling my stance toward the gym. He understands the body language of confrontation, I don’t wanna scare him off. I want to keep him hungry and desperate for victory. It starts with baby steps.
“Christ,” he nods back, adopting a relaxed pose, arms crossed, weight on one leg, chewing on his cheek, focus darting around the vacuous space.
I watch him, hiding my smile of satisfaction when the weight equipment garners his full attention. There’s my boy. Strength first, then skill.
“You go by the name Christ?” I ask, keeping my tone congenial and approachable.
“Yeah. My folks, since I was young …”
He trails off, the harsh swallow audible over the heaving and puffing of my contenders.
“Short for?” I pry, cos I can’t be calling this kid Christ. My Italian mother might reach my armpit but she’d still break my knees if I let this kid go into fights as Christ Almighty.
It makes me smile cos I’m tempted to laugh. Oh yeah, I’m counting chickens way before they hatch. I’m tempted to slap his shoulder with glee. This Christ is going to be delivering judgment day, leaving a host of losers in his wake. Right now he’s all knobbly knees and angular shoulders, but he’s already got the height advantage over most opponents his age. Boxing goes by weight division, not age division. This kid’s close to six foot already, and a featherweight. Teach him now and he’ll win by next month in his division. If we put muscle behind that reach he’ll be unstoppable.
“Christopher,” he mumbles, ogling the layout and sparring.
“You here to learn the ropes?” I ask, knowing the answers but doing the dance regardless.
Kid nods.
“You over sixteen?” I ask. It’s mandatory. If he’s under sixteen he needs parental consent and a bunch of signatures on paper.
He nods again. “Yessir.”
“Steve. If I’m going to train you I can’t have you calling me sir.”
“Yessi– Steve.” He glances at me, looking chagrined.
Laughing I slap his shoulder, feeling the raw bone under my touch. The kid is skin and bone. I’m accustomed to growing boys being beanpoles once they hit the growing spurt, but this is emaciated.
“Okay Chris, let’s go to my office and have a chat.” I need to get a feel for him.
Leading the way, I urge him up the tread-plate steps and into my office, which is more of a filing room with my desk planted at the window. Pointing to the torn vinyl chair opposite, I plonk my weary ass in my chair, interlinking my fingers and facing the kid.
“First off, don’t be offended when I call you kid. You’ll be kid even after you’re a prized fighter, got it?” He nods, dropping his backpack on the floor, keeping a hold on it like it’s got his worldly possessions in it. Maybe it does? “You homeless, kid?”
He shakes his head, swallowing that uncomfortable swallow of his. “Nope.”
“Alright then. I know kids like you, I was a kid like you once, so this is how this is gonna work. I’ll train you whenever you stop by. If you don’t show for a fortnight I’ll take that to mean you aren’t committed to this. I’m not going to put hours into training a kid who doesn’t see that as an investment of my time and skill. Alright?”
“Yessir,” he nods, the words ingrained.
“What do you want out of this, Chris?”
He nudges his head to the window, hungry eyes looking down at the fighters. “I need to learn how to fight.”
“Why?” I interrogate. I might have him pegged wrong, so am satisfying my own curiosity here.
“It’s tough out there,” he whispers, a haunted pain fleetingly crossing his expression, making his eyes so empty I have the urge to find who did this and give them a lesson they won’t forget.
“Yes it is,” I nod, agreeing. Depending on which side of the tracks you live it can be very tough indeed. “Listen, Chris, most of the guys who train here pay a monthly fee to be members. I’m going to make you an offer. You can use the gym locker-room to keep your stuff safe, and if you help me mop up at closing, or early in the morning, whichever suits you best, then I’ll take that as payment for your fees. Use the showers, you’ll find extra supplies in the utility closet, and if you make me proud I’ll even throw in burgers with me on Monday nights. That sound like a fair plan to you?”
“For real?” he smiles, and I’m surprised he didn’t tear a new seam into his cheeks it’s so broad.
“Yup. I’m a straight shooter, kid. If you do something I don’t approve of, I’ll let you know. Don’t disrespect anyone here, keep your head down, learn the ropes, we’ll build you up, make you powerful and lethal, but you save the fight for in here. Got it? Save it for the ring.”
“Ah hmmm,” he mumbles, not meeting my eye.
“I mean it, kid. Save the rage burning your stomach acid for the ring, cos that’s how you win. In time we can get you in paid fights, then when you win you’ll get prize money for the effort. You hearing me? This is an opportunity to learn a skill which has a payday.”
“Wow,” he gasps, sitting back, finally giving me his undivided attention. “I’m in.”
“Good. That’s why you save the rage for here. Channel it so it benefits you.”
“Yessir. Steve. Um.”
Laughing, I give him a nod. “Let me show you around. First we need to put you on a fitness schedule, you have to learn the basics and bulk up a little before you get behind the ropes, but I can tell you’re a fast study. Follow the protocol and you’ll be in the ring soon enough.”
“Right,” he grins, his demeanor transformed.
It twinges my heart a lil. I was once the kid in the chair when Sergei offered me the one thing I didn’t have.
Hope.
How long since he had a hot shower? He’s a broomstick of a kid. I’ll find excuses to feed him, and I’ll start with the protein shakes. I always have extra, he can mix it with water, and at least I’ll know my boy is getting the nutrition he needs to bulk up. If he thinks he’s hungry now he has no clue how hungry a night of training can make a boy.
Standing and following him out my office, I grab his neck and rub my knuckles into his overgrown hair, “Come on squirt. Let’s get this party started.”
His reaction is appalling. Instead of shoving me away, laughing or tangling, he grips my wrist, looking up at me like I’m about to whip my cock out and shove it in his mouth.
It galvanizes my resolve.
“Okay, no foolin’ around. Let’s stash your gear, then we’ll hit the weights.” Exiting my office I lead the way so he doesn’t feel threatened. I have questions he’s not ready to answer, but by God I’m going to teach this kid to fight like a demon. Whoever has him so scared will rue the day they hurt this boy. I’ll fucking make sure of it.
•
Christopher:
When I left the gym I was jubilant. Sterilizing the equipment and cleaning the floor is a small price to pay for the returns. Steve gave me a tub of vanilla protein shake, a mixing bottle for it with measurements and everything, plus the showers are hot, the towels clean and fresh and fluffy, and I’ve already got my own knuckle wraps to box against the speed ball. The entire time I pictured ADamn, punching at it until my arms got fatigued, which was one hour and thirty-nine minutes. I used creamy soap for the first time in years. I feel like I’ve been reborn I’m so clean and new, fresh, this day turning out better than ever.
Heading to KFC, I wait until it closes before rifling through the dumpsters and trash cans, gnawing enough protein off recent throwaways to make me feel like today was an exceptionally good day. Lunch and dinner, that counts as Christmas in my book.
Then I head to the park, finding my quiet corner, just far enough from the lamp to feel safe without being noticeable.
•
Steve:
I have a hunch about this kid. He’s desperate. I can tell by the way he watches everything around him. He covets shoes,
sweatpants, sweaters, the gym printed tees, the warm threads the guys yank on when they’re ready to head into the night, keeping their muscles warm and helping stave off post-training cramp. Yet Chris arrived in shorts and a cut-off flannel shirt, both so faded it’s hard to determine what their original colors were. He’s homeless. I’m pretty darn sure of it. And if he is, there’s no way I’m leaving this kid outdoors in the dead of winter.
Walking outside the sheer force of the wind hits me like a freight train scything through a tunnel. It’s so strong I’m forced to lean into it, the gale biting into my face and knotting my lashes. Shadowing the kid after locking the gym, I find myself at the park three blocks over and my stomach drops when I witness the kid crawling into a thicket of bushes off the main walkway. I’m torn between wanting to be stern and needing to be sympathetic. I understand the kid has pride, but if he was honest he wouldn’t be sleeping under brush tonight. Making the decision I stride to him, then back off when I hear him crying. Shit.
Instead I take a walk around the circuit to give him time to compose himself, hands in hoodie pocket, surveying my surroundings while the wind whips the trees with an antediluvian vendetta, my breath fogging in front of my face. Stupid kid. He’ll catch his death out here. On the far side of the pond I spy McFarlane’s still open and make a beeline for the pub. They close when the last bell rings and everyone is too drunk to find the exit, which means they’re hopefully still serving fries. That kid needs hot carbs in his stomach.
“Can I help you?” asks the barkeep, the dude next to him smirking, and saying, “What I can get you?”
“Fries?” I ask, wiping my feet and soaking in the warmth of the establishment. Dude two is the salesman here, a regular Laurel and Hardy duo.
Barkeep nods, moving to the cash register to ring it up. I turn down their offer of a drink, I need my wits about me and don’t want to lose Chris, so I’m trying to rush them in case he is disturbed and forced to relocate somewhere else, then I’ll never find him.
Finally with paper wrapped fries in hand I head back to the park, finishing the circuit at a remedial jog, slowing as I near his location. Stalling to a dawdle I choose the bench closest to him, leisurely sitting down, pretending to appreciate the icy evening, then stretch my legs out and rustle the paper around the fries as much as possible, picking them out one by one, slowly munching, then scrunch the edge closed to keep them warm, pretending I’ve had my fill.
By now he must be aware of me, watching me, so I stroll his way, looking where I last saw him, and instead of two eyes spying on me I find him passed out, so tired he’s dead to the world.
Breaks my fucking heart this does.
Leaning to a crouch, I shake him. “Chris.”
He snaps up so fast, straight to his feet, exploding from the shrub like a scarecrow, chopstick arms up and ready to defend. That’s not a normal reaction. This kids lives in constant fear or he wouldn’t wake up ready to fight for his life.
Standing with him I hold my hand out in the peace gesture, “Whoa, slow down son.”
“Steve?” he frowns, then awareness dawns and he slides his gaze to the dirt, ashamed.
All I can see are pale arms covered in scrawls, bare to the elements. It’s the only thing my brain wants to obsess over. It’s cold, time for a fire and a whisky cold, and he’s out here like he’s a surfer ready to catch moon rays.
“Kid, you lied to me. Why didn’t you just tell me you’re homeless?”
“I’m not–”
“Don’t bullshit me when I caught you redhanded, son.”
He sighs, his gaze drifting to my face, then my fries, then my face, then the fries, the scent of hot food calling him like a red light. I knew it, this kid is below the breadline and probably starving.
His shoulders droop and his pride wilts. “I’m not homeless, I just don’t want to go home tonight.”
“Why not?” I demand. “Surely your parents are worried witless?”
“My mom died when I was eight, it’s just me and him now. Sometimes it’s easier to not go back.”
I offer him the fries, “Eat these, I’ve had enough.” Once he takes them and sedately rips them open like he’s not ravenous, I ask, “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah, when I go to school I get school lunches, when I don’t go to school I manage.”
Now I’m getting pissed. “What do you mean ‘when’. How do you expect to better your situation if you don’t get an education?”
“I’m top of my class, and they think I’m sickly when I don’t pitch.” Now he meets my eye, pride showing in his visage.
“Top of your class? For real, kid? You’re not just blowing smoke?”
“I swear, it’s true. They call me gifted, a genius or something.” Between answers he’s polishing those fries off faster than Halley’s comet went past Earth back in 1910.
I can’t figure this kid out. He’s a genius but doesn’t go to school. He’s got a home but chooses to sleep in the park.
“Did you run away from home?” I ask, stepping out his way for him to join me on the bench across the way.
He brushes off the leaf detritus and strolls with me, sitting down, rubbing his arms. “No. It’s just not safe right now. I can’t run away, I’m waiting until I turn 18.”
“Why then?” I ask, wishing I could warm him up, give him my sweater, at odds with my internal debate. I’m thinking maybe the bloody nose he arrived with might be a reason he doesn’t want to go home.
“There’s a paycheck that comes until I turn eighteen, and I’m hoping a scholarship will help me get away without me losing anything in the process. Right now it’s better the devil I know than the one I don’t.”
Arching eyebrows, I’m tempted to call bullshit. “There’s a paycheck? Then how come you aren’t dressed for the elements?”
“Cos he sells everything I bring home.”
I was right. His worldly possessions are in that backpack of his.
“Right, that’s settled then. You can sleep in the gym, cos you’re a hard case with pride issues.” Standing, I nudge my head in the direction of Steve’s Fight Club, “C’mon.”
He looks ready to argue, then thins his lips, giving me a marginal nod, standing and retrieving his backpack from its undergrowth haven, and then we take a brisk walk back to the club.
As soon as we’re in and the lights are back on, I guide him to the storeroom. “We sell gym gear here. Grab track pants and a sweater in your size, and a few t-shirts your size too. Put them on, get warm, and you can bunk down on the couch in my office. I’m here at 6 a.m., I’ll see you then. I’ll lock the door behind me, I don’t need dipshits getting in here, but you need a safe place to sleep without the weather or interference factoring in. I’m not letting my next top fighter sleep under a bush.”
“Um, I can’t–”
“Save it for someone who will listen,” I grumble, giving him my no-nonsense glare. “I’m your trainer, I’m doing what’s best for you. The clothes are yours to keep, if you don’t want to take them home then you stop here and change before you head home after school. Keep them in your locker, or my office, and kid...”
“Yeah?” he grins, a lopsided jubilant affair.
“You’re going to school tomorrow.”
“Yessir,” he nods, eyes focused on the selection of threads in front of him.
“Okay then. See you bright and early,” I smile, slapping his shoulder and leaving, locking the door behind me.
I’m thinking those bruises he’s wearing as the latest fashion are a gift from the dad runway. There’s more to the story but today’s not the day to ask those questions.
By the time he can fight he’ll trust me, maybe then we’ll have the heart to heart we should’ve had tonight.
~ Chapter 8 ~
Now it’s your turn to be in trouble,
and you are too stunned to face it
~ Job 4:5
Christopher:
THE AMAZING THING about walking outside
after a night smothered with snow clouds and frigid temperatures is the surprise that all the altostratus in the troposphere étage have blown to the hinterland in record time, the sun that’s been hiding from me for days is out in force, the heat surprising, considering this is supposed to be midwinter. Normally the daytime high is in the upper 30’s, today it feels like June, not January.
It’s like the universe is looking out for me, providing temperatures which nurture life, the sun so crispy warm that I can imagine myself on a yacht, nursing a cocktail and a mammoth bank account groaning with cash, veritably splitting at the seams.
Yet here is this Santa Ana wind ravaging the city, the anabatic squall drying out my eyeballs and skin, reminding me that I am alive.
I am alive!
In sunshine, in warmth, in wind, alive and thriving because I have a sanctuary, a mentor, one adult in this entire solar system finally gives a shit about Christopher Adam Ward.
I feel like a gazillion bucks after winning my first fight last night. I’ve been training for six months, and Steve not only lets me basically live at the club but he’s also started paying me a weekly wage for my slogging. I don’t mind it at all, the peace and quiet means I can study, I can concentrate.
I’ve always hit the books after A-damn falls asleep, so waiting for the gym to close for the night is no hardship. I wash the windows on Sunday mornings, and swab and mop the entire place every weekend.
I have freedom here, listening to music which I’d never be permitted at home. After hours when the gym closes and I’m all alone I lie on my bedding, listening to Pink Floyd’s brand new Dark Side of the Moon album. Brain Damage is a song made just for my father.
The laundry in the back room means I can wash my own clothes and even have new jeans that I bought with my own money.
Honestly I’d love to splurge on fly threads, but it’s pointless. My muscle mass changing so often means shopping is moot. What fits this week won’t in a fortnight, so I pay it back, wearing sweats from the gym and paying him for them. At times it feels ridiculous, he puts money in my hand and I give it right back for my new threads. I can tell you this much, I haven’t dressed this well since I was a newborn. Brushed cotton against my skin has to be the best darn feeling in the world.
