“ . . .”
“Which I guess brings me to the heart of the matter namely this. You could argue that when I do finally get around to it and recount my sins, that the telling itself will be a form of lying. You see the problem is I’m not really a true believer, I don’t think. I don’t truly believe in the things you’re offering me right now. Don’t believe they truly and accurately represent the world we live in. Not that I’ve given it an overwhelming amount of thought either. But I also didn’t give it much thought earlier in my far younger life when I did believe in all you expound. That didn’t seem like much of a conscious decision either. My environment back then just seemed to actively gravitate me towards those beliefs just as I now find myself pulled towards the opposite belief. The belief that there is no God et cetera and that this is all just a somewhat unhappy accident that lends itself to people seeking solace in things like a belief in God. But I can’t stress enough what a gradual undramatic process this has been. It’s not like I did have a strong belief in God until the day my best buddy had his balls blown off in Korea and died in my arms and I decided that such a thing would never occur in a world ruled by God, it’s nothing like that. It’s also not a case where I’m making a conscious decision that I’m going to attempt to define myself by this belief or non-belief. It’s more like a continual weakening that turns into a disappearance.”
“I understand.”
“Thing is I don’t think my disbelief has ever quite risen to the level of certainty of my previous belief, I know it hasn’t. I may not believe that God exists but I also recognize I could be wrong. I know this because I have previously been wrong about other things that I was far more certain about. I also recognize that this is not the kind of area where an error is impossible or even unlikely. What that means is that if I am wrong and everything that you, Father Mulcahey, believe accurately represents the state of the universe then engaging in this process in a state of disbelief could be just the kind of slap in the face we spoke of earlier. At best it seems to be a kind of cynical attempt to cover all my bases in the absence of true contrition. On the other hand, since I recognize that your worldview might be correct shouldn’t I attempt to remedy my failings and redeem myself in conformance with that possibility? In other words it’s the lack of certainty that gives me pause. If I knew with certainty that this was all just a pleasant fiction, which if you were honest you would admit is at least a possibility as I have done with the converse, then there’d be no reason to be here at all. Anything would be permissible. Certainly there wouldn’t be any reason to worry about something as silly as whether or not your words conformed with amorphous truth and we could dispense with a lot of the ill feelings we experience in this and similar areas. Quality of life would improve dramatically for everyone. No guilt, conscience, or restrictions. Which of course raises the possibility that my desire for such an existence influences my lack of belief in those things that would make such an existence impossible. See what I’m driving at?”
“ . . .”
“Well, let me start. It was a small thing. I guess the idea was you would push the little red button at the top and that would set into furious motion these little wheels or whatever. The whole thing was probably two by three inches at most. Looking back I guess it was some kind of miniature slot machine although that was not a comparison I could have made back then. I was just a little squirt there at our Lady of Perpetual Remorse or whatever and severely limited in what I knew of the world outside. I did know that I liked that little thing when my man Marlon showed it to me. He showed it to me in the bathroom and I got to try it out a couple times. I liked everything about it for whatever reason. Well everything except the fact that it belonged to Marlon and not me.
Anyway don’t ask me why but I thought it was just about the coolest thing in the world at the time. Of course once I had it in my grubby mitts it didn’t seem like such a big deal at all. The worst part is I think I had to stand there mute like the little prick I was as he told me he had lost it. As I recall I lost it myself later that day and felt a profound sense of loss. What a mangy twerp. I feel nothing but disgust when I look back at that. That place is full of all kinds of things like that for me. Like there was this dopey kid there that everybody ragged on including peripherally me. Poor sap. I once told this other kid to put a carton of milk on his chair just before he sat on it and he did. Do you see the immensely weasely aspect of this? I didn’t put the milk there myself where I would be sticking my neck out and risking getting in trouble. I gave some other kid the idea and watched him get in trouble while not ratting me out. God, what a dick! I think of that all the time. I think of this kid, barely old enough to watch cable, sitting on that carton of milk and what that must have felt like, physically and mentally. They made us wear these hideous polyester pants then and this would have been lunchtime so I’m sure he was wet the rest of that day. More than once that day he probably wondered what he had done to merit the constant abuse he endured. I think of that kid. I think of being at a party years later where these lowly vermin were fucking with this girl who had passed out from too much drinking, drinking she probably did to get over some kind of social anxiety because she wasn’t the type of girl who could just drop into any party and expect to receive favorable attention. What I think about is how I just stood there doing and saying nothing like some damn wooden pole. How instead of mentally telling myself the countless, sickening ways they were wrong, I instead chose to rationalize and diminish the actions of these worthless fucks. Whatever. I don’t like remembering those things but every once in a while you know? I fantasize about living those moments again, avoiding those acts I regret and taking stands I should have. Can you offer me that? Can you arrange for me to travel back in time as they say in sci-fi? That would be something useful you could give me instead of whatever you have planned for me at the end of this. What do you anticipate that’s going to be by the way?”
“ . . .”
“Well, whatever. Maybe you’ll rule that I have to recite seven penitential psalms once a week for the next three years, I don’t know. Of course someone could question the legitimacy of your role in all of this. I mean what do you have to do with anything? You didn’t sit on that carton of milk. Forget it, I know what you’re going to say. Go ahead say it.”
“ . . .”
“Besides that stuff was a long time ago and I’m sure I covered it in a previous session. After all it’s been a long time but this isn’t the first time I’ve been in here either. Here’s something I know I haven’t covered. I stole some money. Well stole is probably too strong a word. I took some money that wasn’t mine but also really didn’t rightfully belong to the people I took it from, which makes it probably a technical violation at most and likely not that big of a deal. Although it was a lot of money I should add.”
“How much?”
“Well, a lot. Like ten million dollars or so.”
“How much?”
“Exactly. But don’t jump to any conclusions, I plan to use the money to do a lot of good whereas if I hadn’t taken the dough it would have been used for entirely nefarious purposes. Overall, society will benefit. That’s the only reason I’m going to do it. I know that sounds like a rationalization but you have to realize that the people we took the money from are pretty bad characters and I’m essentially a good person. My real problem is . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well what if someone got hurt? I mean really hurt. What if someone died? Isn’t that as bad as it gets?”
“Are you telling me someone died?”
“Yes, someone did, I think. What’s the situation in that case? You know what, forget it, it’s not relevant. What I really want to talk about is a little tricky. This was a couple of years ago. I don’t want to talk about that either actually. Isn’t there some kind of general dispensation you can give. God, I hate this!” As I said that I kind of slapped my hand down on the ledge in front of me. At first nothing happened. Then there was a lou
d cracking noise and it felt as if the entire booth was collapsing on us. Mulcahey booked out of there in nanoseconds. I stayed seated, curious to see what would happen next. The booth didn’t collapse but the dividing wall did crack and fall forward into the space the priest had just vacated. I got out.
“Look what you’ve done,” he said pointing.
I looked at what I had done then back at him. “Look what you’ve done,” he repeated.
I looked down at what I had done and saw that it was bad.
“Look what you’ve done.”
“I can pay,” I said.
“Look what you’ve done.”
“I can pay for it. I’ll leave you a blank check and as long as you wait a week or so you can make it out for whatever you need. I can also just probably fix it myself.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Well here’s my card. I can pay if you change your mind, but right now I have to go,” I began a near-sprint out of there.
“Wait son!” he was running after me flapping some paper up and down.
“I really have to go,” I said.
“I just need you to sign this release.”
“Release?”
“Yes, a release is a—”
“I know what one is, release for what?”
“It’s standard, it just says you agree to appear on the program described therein.”
“Clerical Confessions? What is this?”
“Yes, that’s the program. You see there was a hidden camera in the booth. They recorded everything we said and if the producers think it’s interesting enough they may decide to use it. On the program. It’s going to be a new show on HBO.”
“You want me to agree to put what I just said on Television.”
“No it’s not TV, it’s HBO.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think—”
“No you don’t understand. This is a legitimate program on HBO called Clerical Confessions. You can see it’s on the up and up. You see the letterhead on the form? I’m assured the program itself is going to be quite tasteful yet compelling.”
“Are you a real priest?”
“Yes, absolutely son. It’s designed as an educational tool.”
“No, sorry. Sorry, no. I have to go.”
“But the release, no one has refused.”
“I’m sorry I just don’t want to be on Television.”
“It’s not TV, it’s HBO!”
Outside I slowed from sprint to jog then brisk walk. I ended up walking the whole way home. Miles in the dark cold. Many times I thought of diving underground into the tubes but I never did. I didn’t think of that nutty priest either.
Instead I thought how there is no height you can reach that ensures you won’t then fall. To fight Sugar Ray Leonard in Las Vegas on November 30, 1979, Wilfred Benitez was guaranteed 1.2 million to Leonard’s even million. It would be the only time the magnetic Leonard would make less than his opponent in the ring and was evidence of Benitez’s higher standing, at the time, in the boxing community. The greatness of the undefeated two-time champion Benitez was already beyond dispute so the most intriguing element of the fight was the expected verdict on Leonard’s worth. Although at twenty-three he was two years older than Benitez, Leonard had less ring experience, particularly at the championship level where this would be his first such fight. Leonard’s talent was evident. He had tremendous hand speed and, while probably not quite as difficult to hit as Benitez, he was no defensive slouch. The question was whether inside he was a real fighter or just a flashy media creation in a sport that missed the sensational presence of Muhammad Ali.
Of course while the general public understandably viewed the upcoming fight through Leonard’s eyes, the fight was no less critical for Benitez. If he could become the first man to defeat the biggest star in the sport he would at least partially ascend towards his celebrity, money, et cetera. The fight was a crucial challenge.
Benitez responded to the challenge by becoming San Juan’s foremost discotheque inspector and not beginning rigorous training until he arrived in Vegas on November nineteenth, eleven days before the fight. Eleven days. Eleven days to prepare for something you’ve spent the sum of your twenty-one years preparing for. The first two days were occupied just adjusting to the shock of the physical torture that is boxing activity. The next nine days were insufficient and troubling. During sparring sessions those days Benitez’s nose was broken, which means a sparring partner hit him hard enough and cleanly enough to do that. That was not a good sign. Goyo was upset and worried, predicting his son would lose to Leonard.
Benitez himself made no such prediction. He was confident going in. He always was when inside ropes. So inside the ropes of that Caesars Palace ring on November 30, 1979, he knew he would be better than his opponent because he always, every single time, had been. Except this time the other guy felt the same way.
Three separate times, while waiting in the ring for the announcer to attend to various details (exempli gratia: Benitez 36-0-1 [23 KOs]; Leonard 25-0 [16KOs]), Benitez and Leonard engaged in staredowns—those ritualistic exercises peculiar to Boxing where the two opponents will stare at each other from a negligible distance with neither man willing to optically cede an inch. (On those occasions, although both men were listed at five-foot-ten and about one hundred and forty-six pounds, Benitez appeared to be the bigger man). The sight of these staredowns must have seemed an odd one to an audience fully aware that neither man was known for his punching power or aggressiveness in the ring. What it was was more like a staredown of abilities. And the whole thing the height of silliness in a sport where you could legally punch your opponent in the face if he bugged you so much.
But all that was beside the point; the unmistakable one being that when two truly great fighters get in the ring then the fight can’t help but be great on at least some level. On these occasions, and on that night, several elements hang in the air. There’s nowhere to look, that’s the first thing you notice. Any fight is lucky if it contains one great fighter. If it does, you watch that fighter. You watch him because it’s hard to watch both and the great fighter’s ability pulls your eyes. You watch his superior ability allow him to do as he pleases. But what happens when both fighters draw your eyes equally? What happens when all you’ve ever seen each do is dominate? When you can’t picture either fighter being overtaken but you know one of them will be? Well you get what they had there in that ring on that night. You get those charged moments just before the bell rings and the fighters’ world begins to decide which of the universe’s infinite possibilities will be actualized.
I think Benitez was lonely in those moments before the opening bell. The kind of loneliness that can normally only be attained through extreme solitude. There can be no more alone.
Boxing gets called an individual sport and that, I think, gets it wrong. It’s individual, true enough, but unlike say tennis where you are promised, regardless of your comparative skill, a minimum period of survival, that is, some success, Boxing offers no such quarter; the whole thing can be over at any second, embarrassment always peering around the corner. It’s that potential for embarrassment that makes Boxing less a sport and more like concentrated life; a life where you accept that you’re going to have to be hit on the head, and it’s going to hurt and harm you, in order to accomplish what you wish.
Often the greatest art is inaccessible to all but a few. After the bell rang to start the fight, Benitez and Leonard met in the middle of the ring and did little that was obvious. Warily they circled each other, each channeling from above their half-share of the pulsating energy in the surrounding atmosphere. Both missing, nothing landing, neither willing to open up, wary of the other’s counterpunching ability. Leonard in particular seemed cautiously mindful of what had consistently happened to previous Benitez opponents who had rushed forward to attack only to miss everything while providing ready targets for vicious Benitez counters. So he stayed back. Nor did Benitez go against his nature and rush
forward. Instead the audience was given an ebb and flow dance in the middle where true knowledge would be needed to discern any slight advantage that might emerge.
Those looking saw that while he wasn’t coming close to landing it, Leonard’s left jab was extremely quick and sharp, certainly the best Benitez had ever faced. Midway through the first round Leonard shot out a right that Benitez easily made miss; but as Benitez raised his head back into position, Leonard landed a left hook to the head, the first effective punch of the fight. Leonard sought to press his momentary advantage. He fired multiple punches in perfect combination and each with steam. They all missed. Benitez effortlessly slid his upper body side to side, to and from, here to there. Leonard didn’t land again that round. At the end of the round they stared each other down again but it was Leonard who had to be a little unnerved at the realization that sometimes hype matches reality and is more like unadorned truth and maybe the person across from him did have radar and was impossible to hit other than incidentally and intermittently.
A Naked Singularity: A Novel Page 52
