The Streets

by Tom Sheridan

  “Are you setting me up for a finish?” joked T.

  Franco smiled. Tightened the stranglehold on his boy.

  The Bull charged in the octagon for the post-fight interview. Franco’s fight team lifted him on his foot. Joey Yo again Franco’s human crutch.

  The Bull spoke into the mic amid the continued chants. Fran-co! Fran-co! Fran-co! “You come into this fight a monster underdog. Not even a week’s notice. Up against the greatest finishing streak the fight game has ever seen. Tell us, how did you pull off the heist at The Vault?”

  The lights went up on the crowd. Franco’s eyes were so swollen, he had to tilt his head to spot his lady. He leaned into the mic. “I just had to find the jewels.” Franco then motioned to his own two moon-sized bruises. “Look at me, Jewels. I finally got big beautiful blue eyes. Just like you!”

  Julie’s Pacific blues emitted oceans of tears. Into an inlet of laughing lips. It had been so long since she laughed like that. Like how Young Franco used to make her laugh in high school. She laughed and laughed. And cried and cried.

  The Bull tried to move on. “As far as the fight—” Franco held his hands over The Bull’s, held the mic firm. “Look at her laughin. I think I’m ready for The Tonight Show.”

  The Bull leaned into the shared mic. “Or how about a next fight?”

  The crowd erupted. Fran-co! Fran-co! Fran-co!

  “Look at me,” the mauled man motioned. “Think I got a better shot at The Tonight Show.”

  The Prince watched as Franco delighted the fight night fans. He shooed away his sheik father. Watched as Franco’s fight team stood with him arm-in-arm. A team that included his son and every walk of life under the sun. A visceral bond between them. Between them and the whole arena, The Prince reckoned. Twenty thousand blokes with cheers and tears. That’s when it hit The Prince after all these years. He finally sorted what had struck him about the lad from across the Atlantic. He had a toughness that couldn’t be taught. Born of something far more motivating than money. Or fame. Or parental rivalry. The Prince shook his head. Wished he’d had the privilege.

  The Prince caught Franco’s eye. Gave a tip of his crown.

  General Franco sent him a salute back.

  The British Invasion was over. Sgt. Pepper and his Lonely Hearts Club Band hit the road. Back to Abbey Road. The sergeant left the general amid the 20,000 celebrating like it was Independence Day. Twenty thousand Yankees. Celebrating like they were the New York Yankees.

  Julie made her way to the edge of the cage while Lama Drama smoothed it over with the security guards.

  Franco hopped across the canvas on one foot to meet her. Like a pogo stick pulled by a magnet.

  Lama was already on her cell, probably settin up a promotion, Franco figured. She pointed at him as she slipped away— “Just like we planned in my office!” Franco shook his head. Smiled. Back in the day.

  Franco’s hands and forehead pressed into the fencing. Jewels was taken by the up-close look at her mauled man. Franco took note of the fencing between them. “Least it ain’t prison,” shrugged Franco as his hazels gazed into her blues for clues. Julie burst into laughter. Just like the first time he met her. The Female of Fall. His Goddess had made the fight after all. “Well, whadaya think of my big blues?”

  Julie wiped tears from hers. “I like mine better.”

  “Me too,” smiled Franco.

  That’s the last thing Franco remembered. Staring up-close into Jewels’ blues. Diving into them like they were oceans of calm. Oceans of calm that killed his adrenaline. And dropped him to the canvas. It was all over. He had hit the game winner like he was Larry Bird. With no time left. In his Larry Bird year. With no days left.

  TJ saw him on the ground. Rushed to his father’s aid. Face down and spent. Like Jordan on Father’s Day.

  TRACK 16. LIFE AFTER DEATH

  FRANCO CAME TO sometime the next day. Or the next week for all he knew. His battered head bandaged. Hooked up to fluids. Elevated at a 45-degree angle as he looked out at the 45-degree day. Sunny. Windy. Blowing away the winter once and for all. He saw The Vault. Saw the corner he stood on when he cased the place. He was back at the hospital he was born in. The prodigal son. Lying in the house of pain. Hearing House of Pain.

  TJ jumped around his chair. Hurried over. “Dad. Are you all right?”

  “Look at me. You shoulda never came up with that plan.”

  TJ’s shoulders shrunk.

  “I’m kiddin.”

  “Oh,” shrugged T. “But I guess I did almost get you killed.”

  “You saved my fuckin life.” Franco managed a one-arm hug of his boy. “And don’t ever start cursin. Terrible fuckin habit.”

  Franco and T laughed. Pangs of pain shot through Franco’s core. Ran to his head.

  “Happy birthday by the way.”

  Franco motioned to his battered self. “Livin the dream.”

  “Can I ask you something?” T began. “When you shot on The Prince at the end. You let him turn over on you, didn’t you?”

  Franco nodded. “I wasn’t gonna finish him on a ground and pound. Not enough time.”

  “What made you think your plan would work? You hate the guard.”

  Franco took a breath for the current challenge that was saying a few sentences. “When I was a kid. I used to watch Bugs Bunny. There was this episode where this little midget mobster poses as a baby in a baby carriage to rob a bank.” Franco strained to sit up a bit. “I swear ta God I haven’t thought of that episode in twenty, shit, thirty years. But there I was in The Vault. Thirty seconds to go. When I saw a goodfella in the front row. And it hit me like a bolt of lightning. Figured I’d lay on my back like a harmless baby. And pull off a heist of my own.”

  TJ shook his head. “So you’re telling me…that you beat the guy with the greatest finishing streak of all time…with a move from Bugs Bunny?”

  “That’s what I’m tellin you,” Franco said with a twinkle in his kaleidoscope eye.

  Father and son cracked up. Of all the treatment Franco received that day, their laughter was the best medicine.

  “What about you? What are you workin on over there?” Franco nodded to a notebook by T’s chair. “A rhyme?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Whadaya mean?”

  “It’s more like, a mission statement.”

  “What’s it called?”

  T twisted like when he was two and too embarrassed to tell his parents something. “The Ten College Commandments.”

  Franco mustered the delighted laugh of a parent pleased with his child. “Give it to me, Notorious TJF.”

  TJ read from his paper. “Rule Numero Uno. Mo homework n less Ill Co. Gotta call up Lance, Alp, n Blanco.”

  Franco’s busted lips broke into a smile. “Number two. Always gotta plan your next move?”

  TJ smiled, Sure. “Three. Study for the SAT. Four. Never save work for the period before.”

  “Five…” Franco fizzled out. “I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one goin to college.”

  TJ again smiled. “Always carry a backpack. I don’t care if you’re jacked. Buy one that’s whack. Six. That extra credit? Better get it. Seven. Keep your classes’ notes dated. And completely separated. Eight. Never make teach wait on you. Number Nine. Do everything assigned. And Number Ten. Mess up, do it again…or something,” ended T with a shrug.

  “Oh it’s somethin.” Franco adored his son’s big browns. Lit up like they were back in the day. When Franco was at the wheel of his brand-new blue bomber. Little T strapped in the back. The Jersey boys listening to the Jersey Boys. “My Eyes Adored You.” And the song still as true. As when T was two.

  “So how is that Future Problem Solvers goin?” wondered Franco.

  The Jersey boy looked to Dad. His eyes adored him. There Franco was. Lying in a hospital bed. Battered from head to toe. A nobody from nowhere. Who just became Champion of the World. And all he wanted to do was
talk about his boy. If something larger than life was God. Then Franco was TJ’s.

  “Good,” said TJ, holding back tears in front of Dad. As he did two weeks before.

  BONUS TRACK. THE STREETS

  THE NUGGET OF FAME and fortune was enough for Franco and his fight team to open up a multidiscipline gym. On Route 1 along that run of tough little Turnpike towns. Towns chock full of fledgling fighters. It was a day Franco never thought he’d see. Maybe Young Franco never did have Biggie’s Juicy moment. But Old Franco had fulfilled Biggie’s prophecy. He was living a Life After Death.

  And yeah, he loves living an honest life. Teaching young bucks the fight game. But what he really loves. Is sitting in his old lawn chair. On the roof of his brick-faced fight club. He loves staring out at The City. Loves watching the Freedom Tower light up the night something special. Loves that his boy works there. So he stares and he wonders. What it must’ve been like for T to go off to college. What it must be like for him to live in the big city. What it must be like for him to be young and born to run. Just like Young Franco used to be. Back in the day.

  Franco loves to sit back on that lawn chair. On a summer night with a Bud Light and reminisce about after the fight. Back in the good old days of ’08. When him and his fight team buffeted for days. At the Elks. Catered by all the places Franco ever imagined. Those good old days of ’08. Back when TJ had so much juice, he took on the toughest mahfucka in town. Forget Ray. Forget Franco. The kid took on Julie. Told her he was quitting basketball to wrestle. She flipped her wig. No way in hell am I gonna have another fighter! Are you stoopid? Only for TJ to explain to her how he’s going nowhere with basketball. How weight classes level the playing field in wrestling. How he only has to beat one or two guys for a varsity spot. How all the good colleges have wrestling and how he can use it to get a scholarship. He even showed her an article about college wrestlers doing well in the real world and talked about how he wanted to work in The City himself. TJ, in all of two minutes, turned Julie on ten years of policy. What was her response again? Oh yeah. Well, hurry up and go sign up already! Franco must’ve laughed in his lawn chair a hundred times over that one. Man. Those were some good old days.

  He also loves sitting on that lawn chair and thinking up how he can help T promote their charity. Blue-Collar Scholars. Set up to help kids of all kinds make their way outta the basement. Become better students. Better people. Not just via college. Tech and trade schools, too. Skillin insteada illin the motto for the latter. They’d joke that maybe one day one of their bright minds would go on to invent the Edison Time Machine. That way, Franco and TJ can go back and be the first recipients.

  Franco loves sitting on that lawn chair and looking into those beautiful blues that come around once in a while. With a bottle of pinaht griggeo. They love sitting there with their drinks and looking out at the Freedom Tower. Adoring their boy like it was back in the day. When they took him to the cloud maker.

  Franco loves sitting there and turning his attention to his town. His town full of history, culture, industry. Any kinda person you’ll ever see. And he loves watching those streets. The cars carting along Routes 1 and 9. Headlights headed one way. Taillights hightailing it the other. The pitched Parkway entrance one way. The turnoff to the Turnpike the other. Four Forty pushin in to Shaolin. Two Eighty-Seven behind the 7-Eleven. All in his tough little town. Woodbridge. With streets that can take you anywhere.

  Like when Franco took that trip with T. A few months after the fight. In a brand-new blue Mustang. When they hopped the Turnpike straight outta Jersey. Filled up on Philly cheesesteaks. Listened to rap, rock, and country as they crisscrossed the country. Back to the Cross Keys and the Father of Our Country. In a Woodbridge state of mind.

  HIDDEN TRACK. THE RIDE

  HOPE YOU ENJOYED the ride and would like to take a second. A review or share would help, if you have a second.

  And if you wanna keep your ear to The Streets or hit up Tom, please visit streetscreations.com.

  K guess it’s time to beat feet. Thank you. For ridin The Streets.

  THE NUTSHELL

  A mixed martial artist has one last fight. To make things right. He just wants to train. Hop an NJ Transit train. Do some work in Newark. Rep his fight team and his fans across the nation. Outlast that international sensation. Then maybe get back with his bae. Make it like back in the day. But he’s feelin the heat. On Jersey’s streets. They docked his dock job. He owes a favor to The Frog. And his teen son T’s bein bullied. His plan’s all gettin sullied. Not to mention dealing with issues of class. Race. The mirror’s reflecting face. It’s like there’s no escapin ’08. But wait. Let the haters hate. Franco’s goin for great.

  Fightin straight outta Woodbridge. Aka Hoodbridge. The Wood. The Hood. By any name, a town. Too small to be a city. Too broke to be a burb. Too rough to be rural. Just a tough little Turnpike town. Older than America yet representative of today’s America. Connecting north to south. Red to blue. Old to new. Either a perfect alchemy. Or an insane stew. In March of ’08 it was looking like the latter. One that would swallow up Franco and T both.

  All in a novel written lyrical. Nah not a miracle. Just Made in the USA. Like jazz. Stand-up. And MMA.

  LP Novel: (n.) A novel that is written lyrical. At times. In its usage of wordplay. And rhymes.

  Notes

  [←1]

  Or should it be “he?” Franco wondered. Didn’t he learn somethin about subject vs. object back in the day? Ah who the fuck knows what school would say. Anyone on the street would say, “him.” And don’t even get Franco started on lay vs. lie and that vs. who and further vs. farther.

  [←2]

  Franco would have you know that not all fat people are fucks. But in Herc’s case, he was definitely fat. And most definitely a fuck.

  [←3]

  Or “He” as Blanco’s tutor would stress.

  [←4]

  And a year later, Jay-Z would be in an Empire State of Mind.

  [←5]

  Whether it be the shot that started the Revolution. Or as little Franco knew it, the Bobby Thompson home run.