by Tom Sheridan
The man shuffled his feet. Looked to The Man. Took a big inhale. Then. “You smell nice, Marie.”
The wife was so cozy on her man’s shoulder that she almost shut her eyes. Almost. “What’s that on the cawfee table? Is that a pistol in my parlor?” shrieked Marie.
The man snapped out of his bliss. Looked to the Glock. “Ah that? That’s nothin. I’m gonna throw it in the Sewaren sea tomorrow.”
Marie looked up at him. “Hon. Are you okay?”
The man looked into his wife’s eyes. “I haven’t felt this good since we last danced to this song.”
The look in Marie’s man’s eyes was more serious than the pistol in her parlor. She lay her head on his shoulder.
The man looked over Marie’s shoulder. To the 45s sprawled about his bar. To the jacket of the first record he spun that night. To the beautiful lady on the cover of it. Gladys Knight had saved the Dark Knight.
And Ben E King had him feeling like a king.
The Man on the Moon made his way into Franco’s open window. Franco had sucked the summer wind till it left him for dead in his bed. Then something else blew in. Something mystic that tiptoed over and tapped him on the shoulder. Gave him a message. A premonition personified.
Hours later, Franco sprang from bed. Went over and looked out the open window. The premonition was nowhere to be seen. Still. He soaked in the pink dawn of the new day. Then ran out the door.
A Bunns Lane Boy belted, “Yo Franco! Whoop that pretty boy’s ass!”
Franco stopped in his tracks. Nodded. Then hurried over to Amboy Ave. Street numbers ran upward as other numbers ran up in his head. Ten years prior, Franco had put ten Gs down on his hundred-fifty-grand house. After a decade of chopping at the tree that was his mortgage, Franco now had half a hundred in his house. His “pension” from the fight game could be cashed out for fifteen. Ditto for the one from the docks. Eighty Gs. Twenty shy of the hundred Arturo stood to win by betting The Prince.
Franco ran along Rahway Ave. Toward Joey Yo’s. The sprawling two-story compound with the stone façade that was the mansion of Young Joey’s dreams. Franco flew up the stairs. Could hear rap blasting as he rapped on the door. Of Unit 204.
Joey swung the door open mid-workout, mid-sweat, mid-sentence— “No, I’m not gonna lower the fuckin music. Do I ask you to shut your daughter’s goddamn piano off—”
“How do ya shut a piano off?”
Joey welcomed Franco in with a “Shut the fuck up.”
Franco moseyed over to the kitchen table packed with packages of protein powder. Stacked with videos of stacked guys. Franco perused Pumping Iron. An old fav from back in the day. “Hey, uh, remember that time in seventh grade when I lent you twenty bucks for firecrackers?”
“Are you fuckin serious?” said Joey, still jacked from getting jacked. “Let me go get my fuckin wallet.” Joey beat feet past equipment from various fads. A thigh master. A stair master. All to delay meeting his Master.
Franco slowed Yo’s roll. “I’m not here for that twenty. I’m here for another twenty. Large.”
“You been juicin me since seventh grade?”
“What? No. Forget the fuckin twenty for firecrackers. I was just tryin to break the ice. Before I asked you to break the fuckin bank.”
Franco and Joey sat at the black kitchen table like an amicable Pac and Biggie. Circa ’93. TuFranc went on to explain how he was tryina make a dollar. But only had eighty cents. “What I’m saying is, if I can guarantee Arturo a hundred myself, I’m off the hook for the fall.”
Joey stood up in grand Italian fashion. Or was it grand Puerto Rican fashion? And didn’t he have quiet cousins on both sides who would never grandstand like he was now? With his hands on his hips. Pacing. Hands flailing. “First you ask me to whack a mob boss. Now you want twenty large to double-cross another? I’m tryin ta become a teacher!” Seven years since Franco’s fall from grace forestalled Joey’s chance to launch a training career. Five years since the internet erased his family’s travel agency. And Joey was still seeking his life’s agency. “You know what it took me to save up twenty Gs? Double-shifting at the warehouse. Clubbing once a week. Once!” Joey motioned down the hall. “Not to mention a roommate I caught jerkin off. In my room!”
TuFranc stood. Hands clasped before him like a Salvation Army officer grateful for any donation. “I know. Look. Think of it as a bet. If I win…big return on our investment.”
Joey put his hands on his hips. Caught his breath. Grabbed a plastic bag from his kitchen counter. “Then we make it a fair fight.” Joey tossed the bag on the table in front of Franco. Full of glass bottles so little yet full of liquids so powerful. Magic potion. “I picked em up off Herc soon as you texted me you were fightin The Prince.” Joey put his hands up. “Just to keep it fair is all. We don’t let it go down like Denver.”
Franco sank into a chair. “I could get tagged.”
“Cuz they went after baseball? That’s only cuz the racist fucks couldn’t stand Barry Bonds and his big fuckin head. Oh yeah it was all good when Mark McGwire was hittin em past Pluto. Fuckin best thing since Babe Ruth. And look at Lance Armstrong. Allegations out the ass awl these years. And he’s a national hero. They ain’t testin anybody in MMA either. The Prince ain’t just a mixed martial artist. He’s a fuckin mixology artist! Holed up in a Saudi embassy that time the British Olympic team tried to test him. Tell me that fucker ain’t on the sauce. The dressing, the gravy, and the sauce. EPO for endurance. Amphetamines for energy. And this stuff to get buff. Fucker’s got five more pounds of muscle since your last tussle.”
Franco eyed the magic potion. The answer to all his problems. From fuckin Herc. Franco shook his head, wouldn’t have it. His mind inclined to realness over magic. “I ain’t never been finished. Never.”
“Yeah, but there’s these things called decisions.”
“Championship fights are five rounds. The Prince has never gone past three.”
“Neither have you!” Joey pulled on his puffed hair. “Because you’ve never been in a championship fight! While The Prince has been in plenty. Knockin niggas out in no time!”
Franco stood up. “I take him the distance. Further than he’s ever been. Way out in the fuckin ocean. Where his fuckin dinghy, his fuckin life vest, his fuckin flare gun are all miles behind. Back at shore. Just me and him in the deep blue sea. And I drown his ass.” Franco’s metaphor lingered so heavily, it seemed to cloud out everything else in the room. Leaving just him and Joey. Then—
“Did you think that shit up before you got here?”
“Mighta popped in my head on the way over.”
“Ya know, you already fought this guy once. Before all his added staff and added stuff and added experience. And even before all that… He kinda broke your ankle.”
Franco took a breath. Looked out Joey’s window to their town. To passing trucks. A kid with Chucks. Givin a bum a few bucks. “I’m gonna admit somethin to you right now that I haven’t even admitted to myself.” Franco looked back to Joey. “I slipped up. I broke my ankle. But that’s how we learn around here, ain’t it? The hard way.”
“Right. Right. What you don’t learn at first, you do it twice. Forget Eric Church. You’re fuckin Billy Joel, son!”
Franco was in no mood for Joe’s joelking. “Listen. Do you got twenty Gs for me? Or do I gotta go rob a fuckin bank?”
The Notorious JOE again tried to lighten the load. Of Franco asking for the mother lode. “I feel like Biggie, son. You stickin me for my paper. My homie who used to smoke blunts with me…”
“If I win. We smoke a fatty,” sold Franco.
“If you lose, we smoke mad fatties. In your old apartment we move back into together.”
“Least we’ll get that college dorm experience we never had.”
Joey was already over at his 50 Disc changer. He ran track five of disc six.
The beat dropped. The beeper beeped. The Notorious rapped.
&nb
sp; The two homeboys bobbed their heads. Listened to Biggie spit verses full of curses. They strutted around the room. Rapped along. Loud enough for all nine hundred neighbors to hear. Then Joey inquired so loud about what one was gonna do “WHEN BIG FRANCO COMES FOR YOU!”…it was as if The Prince himself could hear the Warning.
The final days leading up to the fight were a blur. Franco’s body went through all the normal motions. He danced around the ring with Joey and Taz. Rolled around the mats with Nelly and Brazil. Ran around Woodbridge with he, himself, and I. Franco even went ho hum through the abnormal motion of handing El Jefe a duffel full of dough. Franco’s whole life in a handbag. Dropped it off like a UPS driver dropping off a package.
Franco also went ho hum through the abnormal motion of attending his first presser. He sat in front of the mic. Hunched over. Arms crossed. A sea of reporters and flashing cameras before him. Didn’t even flinch when The Prince said he was fifteen and Franco. Said how he was gonna finish Franco. Again. But before the final bell, I reckon. How he was gonna do the lad dirty. Right in Dirty Jersey. Franco then said all the right things in the conference room of the new hotel in Newark. About how he was glad to get a second shot. About how he just wanted to win one for Jersey and his fans across the country. About how he was gonna just focus on his game plan and tune everything else out. While the first two sentiments were true. The last was a lie.
For every dream, there’s a nightmare. Franco was having one the whole week. Wondering if The Dealer had set him up for the ultimate bust. It wasn’t enough for Franco to privately lose it all like every other degenerate who doubled down to his last dollar. No. Franco was gonna go belly up before millions on Pay-Per-View. His ankle hurt more than he’d admit, didn’t it? He was lucky his last opponent didn’t attack it, wasn’t he? The Prince’s camp had Franco’s whole fight game decoded down to the last deke, didn’t they? Franco was trying to beat Super Mario Brothers straight-up. The Prince had Game Genie. And those fuckin six Bud Heavys Franco had? Sluggin a six-pack while The Prince took six shots below the back. Franco years past his peak physical age while The Prince had just arrived at his. His physique, his staff, his experience all exponentially improved. And while The Prince was peaking, Franco was puttering. Wheezing and kicking like his old pony. The entire state of Jersey would be watching as his faded headlights found their way to the cage. All his fans across America would be cheering while his brake pads chirped to a stop. All to watch the Porsche Prince blow away the old pony. Right in front of TJ. There to witness once and for all that Mom was right. As Franco, too, was turned into glue.
TRACK 13. WOODBRIDGE
AFTER PRESSING DAD, T was able to attend the presser. Got a bad vibe as he watched from the back. Was depressed the whole way back. They didn’t say anything to each other. Didn’t even sit together on the NJ Transit train. They sat opposite the aisle. So they could both sit at a window and stare out at their stomping grounds. Listen to the conductor run off the stops. His voice crackling over the static feedbacking from the speaker. “Welcome to Newark Penn Station. Next stops. Elizabeth, Linden, Rahway, Woodbridge.” The North Jersey Coast Line. Ha. Sure, the train coasted to the coast after the Amboys, but there wasn’t any sand or sea in sight for this rough stretch of ride. Just mud and murky water hiding murked mobsters. And of course, the towns. Those tough little towns. Newark’s industrial outskirts with its brick factories that almost brushed the train as it tracked past. Some closed down. Their broken windows a window to broken dreams. Some in operation. TJ peeked through the windows cranked out a quarter way. Wings of a bird debating flight. The horde of seamstresses inside debating the same thing. Then onto Elizabeth and all its asphalt. Exhausted immigrants wonderin if it’s they own ass fault. Standing at the dilapidated platform trying to catch a lift to the America of their dreams. Unlikely they found it when the train linked them to Linden. With its little houses and big block letters tagged onto the wooden fences facing the tracks.
Out the other window, Franco caught the work of CROCK. On the outskirts of Rahway with its one-story garages, warehouses, industrial shops. A commercial zone where no one shops. Then past the junkyard and into Woodbridge. TJ leaned in. The forest was a little denser all the sudden. The lots a little bigger. The train station revamped and overlooking the petite park. Kids playing on the play structure. Next to the ball courts and tennis courts whose locks were now sprung for spring. A park that wouldn’t blow your hair back. But it got the job done, didn’t it? TJ left the train with a hop in his step. Then halted.
G-Dub was passed out against the brick wall. Franco took out his wallet. Sawed off a sawbuck. Almost put the ten bucks in G-Dub’s Dunkin’ Donuts cup. But. That color toffee non-coffee. Franco instead tucked the Hamilton inside the chest pocket of G-Dub’s jacket. Even better—no one would jack it.
Franco and T walked home. Still didn’t say a word. Save for when a new Mustang moseyed down Main. “Nice,” muttered Franco. When they got home, T went right to his room. Told Franco he had something important to work on.
The next morning was the morning before the fight. Friday. A school day. So T went on his way.
Franco meanwhile started the morning the same way he did the day before every local fight. With his run around Woodbridge. He usually looked forward to his burrow through the nine boroughs. But his mind was a mess as he threw on his sweats. Of the million Rocky quotes, he only heard one. Over and over. About how you gotta be a real moron to be a fighter. About how you’re just about guaranteed to be a bum. Franco could already see it as he hobbled down his stairs. The cover of the Sunday Star-Ledger: THE BUNNS LANE BUM.
Franco stepped out the door. Almost stepped on the Discman. “What the fuck?” Franco picked it up, turned to put it back inside. He always ran without music. No music in the cage, so none for his run around The Steel Cage. Had to have his mind ready for war. Like fellow Jersey boy Memph Bleek. But there was that piece of paper tucked under the Discman:
Dad. I know you usually don’t run with music. But,
And goddamn if T didn’t know his dad—
You gotta get your mind ready for war.
Franco strapped the Discman on his upper arm like an astronaut affixing his space suit. Only with more difficulty.
Franco then did his traditional trot across the street like he was Andy Pettitte taking the bump. He ran up the project side of Bunns Lane. Pressed play as he passed his old apartment. Anthemic rock rocked his ears. “Born in the USA.” Franco shook his head over the genius mix of downtrodden lyrics hidden inside uplifting music. Fooled the president himself back in ’84. Franco picked up the pace. He reached a double-lane highway and got a double dose of The Boss. “Born To Run” as Franco ran onto Highway 9.
A mall-bound bus of black folks breezed past. One dude threw two signs to Franco. An E with one hand. East Coast for sure. And a W with the other. Maybe showing Franco love from coast to coast. Or maybe the W was for Woodbridge. Which, to Franco, covered even more ground. Franco sent a fighter’s fist back. Pondered the ambition of the rider as the disc played “Ambitionz Az a Ridah.”
Franco hauled into Hopelawn. Past the bowling alley where a couple of blue-collar Bettys were just leaving their league match.
“Ay Franco. You gonna mash His Majesty or what?”
“Yeah, what’s it gonna be, Bunns Lane Brawler?”
Franco only had a shrug for the two ladies rollin outta the bowlin alley with the biggest balls in town. Just two more reminders of how big a bust The Dealer had set him up for. Franco reeled off Route 9 past an old-timer reeling in nothing but bait from the creek that ran past Lou Creekmur’s. The Hall of Fame NFL lineman who was famous for playing through dislocated limbs and other ER-worthy injuries. All back when the NFL was so young, he had made more money in the offseason as a trucking manager. The Brawler could relate. Save for that one part. Where Creekmur went on to become a champion.
Franco pushed past a park as the Discman dished out “If I Can�
��t.” He took a pass from one of the hooping Hispanics. Dropped a trey and put them all in a panic. Even 50 woulda scored it a 50. Too bad tomorrow was gonna be ten million times harder.
Franco cruised into Keasbey. Aka Crazebee. Past a mami pushing a baby.
“You that fighter, aintchyou?”
Shit. Too many people knew him already. Wait till tomorrow. Franco definitely wasn’t ready for Freddie as the Discman rocked “We Will Rock You.”
Franco ran along the Raritan. Puerto Rican Perth Amboy perched to the east. White-as-the-South South Amboy to the south. Franco in between. Jogging past smashed 40s. Then out to Highway 440. Past a billboard promoting the fight. For a split second, Franco thought it was him on the left. With the nifty nose. The almond eyes atop chipper cheeks. The glowing skin that gave way to spikes scurrying this way and that. But no. That was The Prince. Franco was the fighter on the right. Looking just like The Prince. After ten licks with the ugly stick. Franco always thought he was halfway handsome. But The Prince was world-class handsome. Internationally approved while Franco was barely over the hump in his haggard hometown. The billboard an advertisement for Franco’s delusion. What he thought he looked like versus what he actually looked like. Mario Lopez versus Mario Fauxpez. Could the same be true of Franco’s athletic ability that was the bedrock of his foray into the fight game? Him and his three-sport athlete talk. He managed to pass on the court by passing to superior players. The five-niner who ran himself rail thin in soccer n ball all winter n fall. Then sprung into baseball season as a 160-pounder who ripped singles and beat out bunts while it was the big boys who banged him in. And the soccer team that he bragged about being varsity as a freshman? Buncha working-class kids foolin with fútbol in a town obsessed with football. Pre-1994 World Cup, pre-Alexi Lalas, pre-Tab Ramos snacking on Snickers. If soccer was a joke in the aughts, it oughta been the king of comedy back then. Cuts? Barely enough players to field a team and we talkin about cuts? introspected the AI fan. Not to mention Franco’s All-County claim. Every team got to elect one player. He slipped in his senior year. Not first team. Not second. Not third. Just honorable mention. The most dishonorable of all the mentions. Franco, too, was thinkin, Damn. As he listened to “Everything I Am.” Thinkin about everything he was. Delusional. Outmatched. Destined to be a bum.
