Out Cold ddm-3

by Tom Schreck

  Going across town to another gym was a win-win situation. Just south of Crawford was Ravenwood. They had their own boxing club so I drove the fifteen-minute ride. I wanted to spar so much I could taste it, and with Elvis doing Trouble from '68 on the way over, I was primed and ready to go. Stan Cummings had run the gym for twenty years. As an amateur I regularly competed against his guys, so I was known and respected at Ravenwood. There had about a half dozen guys training in the gym, and from watching for a few seconds I could tell only one of the guys actually fought. If you've been in gyms most of your life you can tell almost instantly who fights competitively, who might be a sparring partner, and who just comes to hit the bags and feel like a fighter. You can tell by the way they carry themselves mostly. The guys who fight aren't posturing or strutting, their movements are natural and not contrived because they're not thinking about proving anything. The guys who spar, and particularly the guys who come in and out of the gym with long periods of not sparring, are more herkyjerky in their movements. They're not as at ease and, though they don't posture all the time, you can sometimes pick them out because they're doing their best not to look nervous, which is, of course, a dead give away.

  The final group is the guys desperately trying to fit in. They study how guys talk, how they move, and what kind of slang they use. They have the right equipment, sometimes the most expensive kind, but it's broken in differently because they haven't really programmed the body to do everything in an economical boxing style. When they hit the bag they waste movement, they wind up and over hit-all things that would leave you open in the ring. After you did it once and got drilled in the ring you'd stop doing it in your shadow boxing and on the bag. People ask me if I hate the whole boxing-as-workout movement that kind of peaked and since has sort of petered out. I didn't feel strongly about it either way, but I never considered it boxing, and no one who really boxes did. Sometimes guys got good at hitting bags and doing drills and they'd want to go to the next level and actually spar. They'd get in the ring with even the kindest of real boxers, and the realization that they knew nothing about what they were about to do would hit them. A decent guy wouldn't blast a newbie like this unless maybe they needed to be taken down a peg, but probably not even then.

  Even though they didn't really get hurt, the boxercise guys would all of sudden understand when someone else is in there with you it is a whole new thing. 'Boxing' without fighting is kind of like masturbation is to sex-there're some similarities and it can make you feel good, but you should never mistake it for the real thing.

  Cummings finished working his one real fighter on the pads, wiped the sweat off his own scar-tissued forehead, and caught my eye.

  "Duffy…what brings you around?" Stan carried about fifty pounds more than he should, but his years as a middle of the road heavyweight were still there under the layer of hard fat.

  "Just looking to see if I can get some work in," I said.

  "Nobody at the Y?"

  "I don't know. I just wanted to get some different work in." The real deal was if your trainer didn't want you sparring, another trainer wouldn't let you. I didn't want to lie so I let ambiguity do it for me.

  "Smitty okay with it?" Stan said.

  "Uh-huh," I said which felt damn close to a lie.

  "Well, let's see, the only guy I figured on working was Stefon, the young heavy. He's got the Golden Gloves in a week and half. You wanna work with him?"

  "Sure," I said.

  I loosened up a bit, got my hands wrapped, and Stan got me laced up. When the round bell rang, Stefon and I touched gloves and went to work. A big and wiry kid, maybe six foot three, and around 200 pounds who clearly had strength, but like a lot of amateurs his footwork gave away his inexperience. We exchanged some jabs with the neither of us landing. The punches slid off the 18-ounce gloves and I turned Stefon just by my positioning. Most people don't let footwork cross their mind when they think of boxing, but it may be the most important thing when you get up to the higher levels of the sport. I kept moving to my left, planting and throwing my straight left-a very fundamental practice for a southpaw fighter. He blocked the punches easily and I trying to figure out if the kid was quick or if I was telegraphing my punches. I could tell one thing for sure, my body wasn't in a hurry to loosen up. I felt stiff and a little slow. It was one of the reasons I hated staying away from the gym and out of the ring. It always seemed like it took a little while to get my reflexes back.

  The kid doubled up a jab and they connected off the top of my headgear. The first one he just flicked out, but the second one he stepped behind and it thudded. He was a decent amateur and an athletic kid, but he shouldn't have got that in on me. I threw a right hook followed by a straight left and they both missed. I lost a little balance by missing. The kid leaned backed and countered with a straight right and a hook of his own. The hook hurt. I got up on my toes to shake things out and work my footwork a bit. Stefon got a rhythm and now moved on his toes. He came in with the same double jab and I could see it coming a mile away, but for whatever reason I didn't get my hands up in time. The flicky one caught me on the bridge of the nose and the thudder thudded. I swung a hook and missed again and this time I was off balance enough to be embarrassed.

  The kid waited, timed it until I stood up straight, and drove his right hand straight down the middle.

  There came a thud, and then a flash of orange light inside my head.

  That was all I remember.

  7

  "Duffy, you know where you are?" Stan Cummings said. My head felt soupy.

  "Duff, you all right?" Stan said again. I was on my back, squinting to figure out what was going on. The top left part of my head ached and I felt like I when I came out of a deep sleep.

  Maybe hibernation.

  "Yeah, I'm fine," I said and began to sit up. When I did, it felt like my brain rushed to the front of my head and I felt like I throwing up.

  "You know where you at?" Stan asked.

  "Sure," I said. I was at Gleason's but it didn't look right.

  "You're at Ravenwood, remember?"

  "Fuck you, Billy. I know where I am. I just got caught." I started to stand up. When I did it didn't seem like all the circuits fired. My legs were a little slow on the uptake.

  "Easy, easy," Stan said.

  "Oh fuck you, Stan. I'm all right," I said. "Smitty didn't call an ambulance or anything did he? Smitty! Where is he?"

  "Duffy, Smitty ain't here."

  "Huh?"

  "You're at Ravenwood, remember?"

  "Billy, stop the dramatics. I know where I am." A tall wiry black kid stood on the other side of the ring, looking at me like I just landed from Uranus.

  "Nice shot, kid," I said and walked over to touch gloves.

  "I hardly hit you, man," the kid said. He didn't say it to brag.

  He said it out of confusion.

  "That's the way it happens sometimes." I stepped out of the ring and walked carefully down the steps of the ring.

  "Duff-You wanna go to the hospital?" Stan said.

  "Stan, c'mon will ya," I said.

  Instead I went to my own treatment center-AJ's. I'm not trying to say I felt fine. There's no question I got my bell rung. It wasn't the first time and it damn sure wasn't going to be the last time, at least as long as I stayed a fighter. It's not as macho as it sounds, it's just something over the years you get a little used to, or your muscles and joints get used to it, and it's not a big a deal. Big deal or not, I had a pretty good headache and it was starting to feel like a bourbon night. I'm mostly a Schlitz man, but when medicinally called for, I'll prescribe myself some of the brown elixir. Getting out of the car got it throbbing a bit, which wasn't pleasant. As I headed into AJ's, the Foursome were already throbbing about something else.

  "What the hell are you going to do with a truck from World War Two?" Jerry Number One asked Rocco.

  "It's not just any truck it's a 'Deuce and a Half,'" Rocco said.

  "The Beach Boys had a
song about it," TC said.

  "No that was 'My Little Douche Cup," Jerry Number One started to sing. "She's my little douche cup. You don't know what it's for…"

  "I think it was 'My Little Deuce Coupe-Coupe, Jerry, Coupe," Jerry Number two said.

  "You guys are assholes. The Deuce and a Half was the most versatile truck in World War Two. It could haul equipment, troops, equipment…you name it," Rocco said.

  "What are you going to do with it?" Jerry Number Two asked.

  "Refurbish it and restore to its original grandeur," Rocco said.

  "Grandeur?" Jerry Number one asked.

  "Yeah 'Grandeur.' You gotta problem with 'Grandeur'?" Rocco said.

  My head really throbbed now. AJ slid the long neck in front of me without me saying a word.

  "Had a few already, huh, Duff?" AJ said.

  "No, just came from the gym."

  "You sure?"

  "What're you talking about?"

  "I don't know. You kind wobbled in and your eyes are glassy like you had a bourbon or two."

  "I'm tired and I got a bit of headache is all. You know what though, the bourbon sidecar sounds pretty good. Can you throw a cheeseburger on for me too?"

  "Sure," AJ said without a smile. He was softly singing 'My Little Douche Cup.'

  The carbonation in the Schlitz tickled the back of my neck and felt cool all the way down to my stomach. A hit of the bourbon brought a little warm glow on top of that and life seemed to be getting better.

  Rocco was halfway through a knock-knock joke involving Oprah and forty pounds of crack when Jerry Number One shouted, "Yo, AJ can we get some sound?" The news was reporting on the nationwide drive to get snack foods and other items to the overseas soldiers. They showed several cut-aways to boxes at malls and schools and other places filled with snack foods, CD's and books.

  "AJ, you should set up a 'Snack Attack' box in here," Rocco said.

  "A box of what?" AJ said.

  "They're collecting Spam and what-not for the soldiers," TC said.

  AJ just stared at TC.

  "Well, it's not just Spam. It's other shit. They got them Vietnamese sausages."

  AJ kept starring.

  "Vienna," Jerry Number Two said.

  "She's the one on 'Wheel of Fortune'," Jerry Number One said.

  AJ continued to stare.

  "Hey, AJ, I wanted that burger rare," I said. He rolled his eyes, started whistling 'My Little Douche Cup' through his teeth and got my very well-done burger. Accompanying it were the bottom of the bag potato chip crumbles and a pickle from a jar as old as the Beach Boys' last hit.

  "Yum," I said to no one in particular. AJ disappeared into the kitchen and came back with an empty box that said on the side '124 count quarter pound hamburger. 72 % beef.'

  I said, "Yum" again.

  "Hey, that place is only about thirty miles from here," Rocco said. The Northeast can depository, or whatever the hell it was, at a local farm that was also a dog kennel and rod and gun club. The guy talking on camera had a flattop and looked about as ex-Marine as you could get. He talked about supporting troops, loving America, and knowing what it's like. They were panning the farm and the cans collected when the camera abruptly cut away and the 'Special Report' graphic appeared without sound.

  AJ's stilled.

  There was nothing the brain trust liked more than the drama of a special report.

  "…Reminiscent of Ruby Ridge and Waco, an organization just outside Tuscaloosa, Alabama has been raided by U.S. Marshals. We are gathering information as we speak, but we do know this: The farmhouse you see pictured here is the home base for an organization known as The People of God's Kingdom. It is a fundamentalist Christian organization that takes in drug addicts, street people and the mentally ill, and rehabilitates them. The organization has come under criticism as cult-like and has been accused of brain-washing their members. Some have speculated they are supported by, and receive financial backing from, anti-US organizations outside of the country. The organization is now headed by Jeremy Rukhaber, an ex-Marine, highly decorated in Iraq, who was dishonorably discharged from the military following the Abu Gahrib scandal.

  "You can see on your screen the U.S. Marshall special tactical unit, those large armed trucks, circling the farmhouse where Rukhaber and an estimated 17–20 of his followers are holed up. This stand off is now in its twelfth hour and…" There was a large explosion and cascading dark gray smoke. The sound of rumbling came through the correspondent's microphone.

  "Holy shit!" the correspondent screamed, unaware of still being on the air.

  Holy shit was right.

  8

  The corpse is stuck in the door jam and I'm throwing punch after punch into his head. With each punch his head becomes more and more disfigured, like it's not human. There are little girls all around begging me to stop. I pay no attention and keep throwing punch after punch into the corpse. I keep throwing punches over and over. As I do I realize though I'm punching the corpse, the girls start to bleed as if I'm punching them. Their screams and shrieks go right through me and I feel the nausea, but I keep throwing my combinations. Their screams get louder and more intense and still my hands go.

  I feel the sickening vomit feeling and I punch through it until…

  The wet scratchy feeling goes across my face, followed by an ear piercing bark. Al is on my chest again, looking worried. I push him out of the way and run to the bathroom and throw up.

  "Morning Duff," Sam, from the business office, said.

  "Good morning, Sam," I said.

  "Duff, what's the name of the guy who works in the forest, wears a forest ranger's hat and carries a can of kerosene?" Sam never ran out of Polish jokes. I've gotten used to them like people get used to annoying ringing in their ears.

  "Geez, Sam, I can't wait to hear."

  "You sure, Duff?"

  "Go ahead, Sam?"

  "Stanislaus the Fire Prevention Bear of the Polish National

  Forest Service." Sam laughed way harder than what the joke called for and headed back to the business office. Showing up at work wasn't a slice of heaven on most days, let alone days with a throbbing headache, but Sam's morning greeting made even the below average day much more below average. The Advil wasn't touching the throb. I reconsidered my previous night's use of bourbon as an analgesic. I grabbed some files and headed to my cubicle. Just to sweeten the pot on this bright sunny morning, there was a note from Claudia.

  Please see me when you get in immediately and bring the following records…

  She asked for Eli's file and a few others, but Eli's alone was worth getting me in a shit load of Michelin Woman trouble. The woman lived for the by-the-book paperwork stuff I hated. It had been awhile since I had gotten in trouble for paper work negligence, not so much because I had got much more conscientious about it, but more because I had been lucky enough not to get caught.

  I headed into Claudia's office, dreading what was about to happen.

  "Please close the door," she said without looking up from her day planner.

  I sat down, not saying a word. I wanted this to get over as soon as possible, and I knew talking wasn't going to slow it down, so I kept my mouth shut.

  "I did my regular review of charts. I am dismayed at the state yours are in." She looked up at me. I just shrugged.

  "Do you realize you haven't updated Eli's chart in six weeks."

  "I thought it was five."

  "Five is just as unacceptable."

  "Technically, five weeks late would be a little better than six weeks late, wouldn't it?" I said.

  "No. You are either in compliance or out of compliance, and you are definitely out of compliance."

  "Story of my life," I said.

  "This isn't something to be flip about Duffy. You are getting a written warning. I insist these charts get updated within seven days."

  "Seven days? C'mon Claudia, you know that's not possible."

  "Well then, it won't be possible for you to wor
k here," she said. She slid a written warning form, for me to sign, across the desk.

  My head throbbed and I just wanted to get out of her office. I've been behind before-some might say perpetually-so I knew the drill. Staying up all night writing in files sucked, but it didn't suck as much as listening to Claudia.

  I headed back to the cubicle and saw Monique busy writing away at her charts. She was a disciplined character, but she was in no way a goody-goody or Michelin Woman butt girl. She just saw it as something she was responsible for. Today she had her IPOD ear buds in while she wrote.

  "What are you listening to?" I said loud enough to be heard. She finished writing a sentence, pulled the ear buds out, and rolled back in her chair.

  "Stan Getz."