The Contender

by Robert Lipsyte

  In late July, Aunt Pearl went to the Elversen’s summer house and left the girls in Queens with Dorothy and Wilson. The apartment seemed large and empty. Now he could sleep late on Sundays. Sometimes he slept right through the day, getting up only to eat and doze in front of the television set.

  Then Monday and dawn and the alarm clock.

  The peanut bag was easy, once he got the rhythm he could stand under it all day, making it sound like a machine gun. Henry would watch him, grinning, as if he was really doing something, but Donatelli would walk by without even looking. Alfred could hear the manager think. The bag doesn’t have any arms to hit you back with.

  “Real good speed on the bag, Alfred,” said Henry.

  “Anybody can do that,” said Alfred.

  Henry looked away.

  Left…left…hook, shift, hook, jab, right…

  “Open your mouth,” said Dr. Corey one day, shoving in a white plastic mouthpiece. “When you’re ready for your first fight, I’ll make you a custom-fitted one.”

  “Aaaargh.” Alfred gagged and spat it out. Jelly slapped his knee, and Denny laughed.

  “Again,” said Dr. Corey.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  “You’ll have to breathe through your nose.”

  “Quick, sharp breaths,” said Spoon. “In, out, in, out, that’s the way.”

  He gagged for half an hour, but then he got it, and went back to the mirror, up on the balls of his feet, quick little steps, forward on the jab, sideways for the hook, da-da-dum-dum, quick and easy.

  “Time,” called Donatelli, passing by. “Your footwork’s coming along, but this is no dancing class. Snap that jab out, harder…harder…”

  And when the workout was over and every muscle shrieked, there was nothing like standing under the shower, the hot water drowning all the ache, closing your eyes and tilting your face up into it.

  “Whaddya, drinking it, Alfred? C’mon, there are five guys out here waiting to get in.”

  He ran into Major one night as he was coming home from the gym.

  “Hey, Alfred, how you been?”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t run off, man, wait a minute. We never see you ’round the clubroom no more.”

  “Been busy.”

  “Yeah, I heard you’re working out. Say, man, you’re not still sore about that little misunderstanding we had. I was just trying you out.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, come around,” said Major.

  “Sure.”

  “I mean it. James comes by once in a—”

  “James around?” said Alfred.

  “Sometimes. I’ll let you know.”

  “Do that.”

  Willie Streeter came back to the gym, sullen and overweight. Donatelli took him to a training camp in the mountains for ten days to try to get him in shape for an out-of-town fight. The temperature in the gym sometimes reached 101 degrees and everyone started snapping at each other. One day, Pete Krakover threw a boxing shoe at Jelly.

  “Use your own trunks, fat meat.”

  Jelly looked up from the locker bench, his body slick with sweat, his mouth sucking air like a fish’s gill.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, fat meat. Use your own damn trunks.”

  “What I want with your stinking Polack trunks?”

  “You black tub a lard,” yelled Pete, rushing forward on floppy shower clogs. Jelly stood up to meet him, hands up.

  Jose and Angel danced between them, a step ahead of Bud Martin.

  “He no wear your trunks, Petey,” yelled Angel.

  “He too fat,” yelled Jose.

  “I sent ’em all out to be washed,” said Bud.

  Pete grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Jelly.”

  “The heat, man,” said Jelly, plopping back down. “You ain’t used to it. Always snows in Poland.”

  “I never been there,” said Pete. “My grandmother says it’s beautiful in the summer, green and warm.”

  “No kidding?”

  Snap it out…snap it out…snap it out…

  “Time,” called Henry. “You’re just pushing that jab, Alfred, you got to throw it.”

  “Why don’t you try?” snarled Alfred. “I’m sorry, Henry, I didn’t mean it.”

  “That’s okay,” said Henry. “Time.”

  Time, time, time, thought Alfred, flicking out the jab. I can do this in my sleep. Across the gym, Spoon and Bud were watching Angel and Jose spar in the ring. They were both turning pro soon. Jelly and Pete were waiting to go in next. He looked up at the weight chart over the scale. Six weeks, six damn weeks, gained six pounds and never punched anybody except my own face in the mirror. I’m not even an amateur yet.

  “Time,” said Henry. “What’s the matter, Alfred?”

  “Nothing’s the matter.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Time.”

  Donatelli came back on a Friday, his thin lips tight. Willie had lost his out-of-town fight. The manager spent the afternoon leaning on the ring ropes, watching Jose and Angel spar. Alfred threw out his jab mechanically, staring at the back of the square, white-topped head, willing it to turn around and look at him. The head didn’t move.

  “Hey, man, you’re looking sharp,” said Major, swaggering into mirror view.

  “Let’s go, snap it out,” said Henry.

  “Got any fights comin’ up, man?”

  “C’mon, Alfred, keep punching, left…left…”

  Alfred dropped his arms and turned around. “No, I’m just—”

  Bud Martin tapped Major on the shoulder. “That boy’s working. You can talk to him later, outside.” He jerked a thumb toward the door.

  “Okay, baby,” said Major. “Come on around, Alfred. Little party tonight. James gonna be up.”

  He swaggered across the gym, rolling his big shoulders, stopping only to rap the peanut bag on his way out.

  “You and Major tight now?” asked Henry.

  “No.”

  “Wonder what he wants.”

  “Just being friendly.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Henry. “Time.”

  He threw out his arms mechanically, left, right, left, right, but there were no shocks in his shoulders, just a dull ache along the ridge muscles of his back. Do this in my sleep, he thought.

  “Time,” said Donatelli. He shook his head. “You’re not doing anything at all today, Alfred. You’re not concentrating. Is anything the matter?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve got to work harder.”

  “Yeah.”

  Donatelli nodded and strolled away, over to the heavy bag. He put one hand on Jelly’s shoulder and one on Pete’s and all three of them laughed at something Jelly said. Come on back here, thought Alfred, come on back. Show me something, tell me I’m gonna spar someday, put on a pair of real gloves.

  “Time,” said Henry.

  “Time out,” said Alfred. He walked to his locker, peeling off the wet gym clothes. Too hot today. Too damn hot.

  He showered and dressed quickly. Henry was waiting for him at the door.

  “You want to go to the movies tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Triple feature, be fun. Jelly says if the monster don’t win tonight he’s gonna tear the movie house down.”

  “I said no.”

  “You going to the clubroom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re in training, Alfred, you better not—”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He walked quickly down the steps, the long, steep, dirty steps. He wondered if Donatelli was just too cheap to fix them. A guy could break his neck.

  The street was still hot, even with the sun sliding out of sight. Music blared out of open windows. Kids clattered up and down the gutter. Friday night. On every street corner people lounged and stared, waiting for something to happen. Cars cruised up and down. Men brought out the tables for cards and dominoes.
Go home to an empty house, eat dinner, watch television, go to sleep early like every other night. Too hot to sleep, he thought. Sleep for what? To run tomorrow and shadowbox and count out your life in sit-ups?

  He headed toward the clubroom. Wonder what James is doing these days. Never even called me back. Still mad about that burglar alarm. Straighten that out. Just drop in for a little while. See what’s happening.

  11

  MAJOR SAW HIM FIRST. “There’s the champ.”

  “Hey, champ,” said Sonny.

  “It’s my main man, Alfred,” said Major, throwing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him down into the darkened clubroom. “What’s your drink, brother?”

  “I’m in training,” said Alfred. A single red bulb shone over the spinning record player. He squinted at the shadowy figures in the room, some dancing, others sprawled on floor pillows. “Where’s James?”

  “He’ll be by. Wine?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Take a night off, man, you’re in shape. Gotta have some kicks.”

  Major’s girl, June, came out of the shadows. “You come alone, Alfred?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” she said, linking her arm in his. “Got somebody I want you to meet.”

  “Can’t stay long.”

  “Wait till you meet her.” She led him across the floor, weaving among the dancers, stepping over couples whispering and necking. She lit a match, and a dark, chubby girl with a curly, blond wig and thick, pink lipstick smiled up at Alfred.

  “This is Arlene,” said June. The match went out, and June let his arm go.

  “I’m Alfred Brooks.”

  “Hi.”

  “Dance?”

  He was surprised at how easily she came into his arms, so close that the strong, sweet smell of her perfume made him dizzy in the heat of the crowded room. The music was low, funky blues, and he swayed to it.

  “You live near here?”

  She shook her head, and the stiff hairs of the wig brushed his nose. “I’m visiting June. She’s my cousin.”

  Major came around with the wine bottle, and Arlene drank from it. Alfred pushed it away, twice, when Major pressed it against his chest. Then he came back with half an orange soaked in vodka.

  “This is good for you, man.”

  Why not, Alfred thought. He sucked on it, feeling new heat rise out of his empty stomach into his head. The party became a blur, a sweet, sticky blur. Major left the wine bottle with him, and Alfred and Arlene danced into a corner. Someone began pounding conga drums.

  Hollis swam by, and punched his arm. “Good to see ya, Alfred.”

  “Yeah. James come in?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You sure he’s coming?”

  Hollis patted a jacket pocket. “You can be sure he’s coming.”

  “Who’s James?” asked Arlene.

  “A guy I know,” said Alfred. “Let’s sit down awhile.”

  Someone began passing a cigarette around, and the way everyone dragged on it he knew it was marijuana. Alfred shook his head when Arlene put it between his lips.

  “It’ll relax you, honey,” she said, stroking the back of his neck, and he inhaled.

  The red bulb burned out, and it was pitch-dark in the clubroom. The wine bottles kept coming around, and the cigarettes. Except for soft laughter, the music covered all sound in the room. Like a nice dark movie, he thought. He took longer pulls on the bottle, and deeper drags on the cigarette to keep the warm, soft feeling in his head. Once the door opened for some newcomers, and he saw Arlene smiling up at him, her face puffy, the blond wig tipped over one eye.

  At dawn, an invisible fist slammed into his stomach, and he barely made it out to the alley. He leaned against a brick wall and tried to catch his breath. Newspaper pages fluttered along the street on a morning breeze. He saw a patch of pink sky between the buildings. For a moment he thought about the park, the good feeling of gravel underfoot and the wind streaming past his face. Then he went back down the basement steps.

  Sonny had passed out on the couch, and Hollis’ date was slumped over the mop sink. Hollis was dancing with Arlene. There was just a little bit of wine left, and they passed it around, trying to get the nighttime glow started in the dirty glare of rising daylight. Some new people came with bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, and Major blacked out the little basement window with his jacket. The party started all over again.

  “Hey, Alfred,” mumbled Major, pulling him away from Arlene. “Your man.”

  “James.”

  The round face was thin, the eyes sunken. His suit seemed too big for him.

  “Where you been, James?”

  “Lil Unca Alfid,” said James. His teeth were yellow.

  “Where you been, James?”

  “I been ’round.”

  “Never called or nothing.”

  “What for?”

  “We were partners, remember, we…” He felt dizzy, and shook his head. “James, I forgot about that burglar alarm. Honest. I didn’t mean for you to—”

  “It don’t matter now.”

  “Does. Don’t want you thinking—”

  “I know you didn’t mean nothing, you never mean nothing. You just fool enough to forget about that alarm.” He turned his back on Alfred.

  Major came over and put an arm around James’ neck. “Hollis got something for you, brother.”

  The clubroom began to tilt for Alfred, but he took a deep breath and grabbed the back of a chair. Hollis pulled a packet of white powder out of his jacket pocket. Alfred stumbled over.

  “No, James, you don’t wanna mess with that stuff, you don’t wanna—”

  “Go ’way, Unca Alfid.” James was almost snarling.

  “No good, James,” mumbled Alfred, feeling the room sway.

  James took the packet and began fumbling with it. Alfred followed him into a corner, trying to clear his head, steady himself. “You and me, James, partners.”

  “That was kid stuff,” said James as his fingers, trembling, tore at the packet.

  “Listen to me, James, please.” Alfred leaned against the tilting wall, his legs buckling, his eyes fogging.

  “What you got to say?” asked James, suddenly staring at Alfred, waiting as Alfred’s lips moved without any sound.

  He tried to clear his head, to think, to answer James’ question, but the floor came up and sent him sprawling. James looked down at him, shook his head, and went back to his white powder.

  12

  FAR, FAR AWAY, the rattlesnake was buzzing, short bursts, time to run, time to run, time, time, screamed Henry, but Jelly Belly was sitting on his head. Jose and Angel, chattering in Spanish, were jumping on his stomach. Mr. Donatelli was sitting on his legs shouting, shift your weight, shift your weight. Then they all disappeared and left him alone, lying on the linoleum kitchen floor in a pool of ice-cold sweat. The telephone was ringing. He crawled over to it and fumbled with the receiver. The phone crashed to the floor.

  “Yeah?”

  “Alfred?”

  “Aunt Pearl?”

  “You all right, Alfred? You sound so strange.”

  “All right.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Just woke up.”

  “It’s nine-thirty, Alfred.”

  “Slept late.”

  “It’s nine-thirty at night.”

  “Uh, went to sleep early. Training.”

  “That’s good. Now listen, Alfred, Mrs. Elversen’s gonna need me to stay up here till Thursday.”

  “Okay.”

  “You still there, Alfred?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now you call Dorothy in the morning, before they go to church. Tell her I’ll pick up the girls Thursday night. You got that?”

  “Thursday night.”

  “Right. There’s no answer there now, they must be at the movies. You sure you’re all right, Alfred?”

  “Fine and dandy.”

  “Now don’t forget, Alfred
.”

  “Thursday night.”

  “Right. Bye, now.”

  “Bye.”

  He stumbled into the front room and turned on the television set. He passed out before the picture appeared.

  He woke once to go to the bathroom, and a cowboy was standing on top of a speeding stagecoach, shooting Indians. He passed out again in the bathroom. When he dragged himself back, the television was humming behind a flickering test pattern. He fell into the couch.

  He awoke to organ music. There was a picture of Jesus in long white robes on the screen, and the words “Dawn Devotional” under His feet. Vaguely he remembered that he had to call Dorothy about something, but his body was fastened to the couch. His arms were too heavy to lift. The conga drums were pounding in his head. It seemed like hours before he was able to lift his head, hours more before he could move his arms and legs. Slowly he stood up. The organ music was swelling. He staggered into the kitchen. The clock on the cabinet was ticking off the last few seconds to seven o’clock. With hands as clumsy as boxing gloves, he fumbled a pot out of the stove and filled it with water. He dozed while it boiled away. The smell of the burning pot jerked him awake. He started all over again, spilling the instant coffee powder. It was nearly eight before he had the black coffee in a cup. It was hot and bitter, but it washed away the sandy cotton in his mouth.

  The telephone rang.

  “You ready, champ?”

  “What?”

  “Got us a car, Alfred. We’re going out to Coney Island, remember?”

  “Major?”

  “Yeah, man. Be in front of the house in five minutes.”

  “Don’t feel right.”

  “Ocean air, champ, best thing for you.”

  “No, I—” Major hung up.

  A wave of sickness washed up from his stomach.

  “Good morning, Kiddie Klubbers, it’s Uncle Harry—”