The Contender

by Robert Lipsyte

  He rushed in and snapped off the set just as a fat man with a false nose began pouring corn flakes into the screen.

  Alfred made more coffee. He gulped it black and boiling. Mr. Donatelli said never have more than one cup a day, if that much. Smart-meat Donatelli, knows all. I oughta call him up and get a program for hangovers. Outside, a car horn sounded short, sharp blasts. He poured a third cup of coffee. Someone pounded on the door.

  “Hollis?”

  “We’re waitin’ on you, Alfred.”

  “Look, I’m—”

  “C’mon, man, you need a break. Been workin’ too hard.”

  Alfred let Hollis lead him downstairs.

  On the street, Major waved him into the red-leather front seat of a white Cadillac convertible. Hollis climbed into the back with Sonny and a younger boy Alfred had seen around the neighborhood.

  “Who’s car is this?”

  “Mine,” said Major, jerking it away from the curb with a screech of gears. “Loaned it off a guy.”

  They cruised along the streets, past families dressed for church and winos stumbling out of alleys into the bright morning sunlight. Major lounged behind the wheel, guiding the big car with the fingertips of his right hand. His left arm dangled out, slapping the door in time to music blaring from the car radio.

  “Now this is something, ain’t it?” He grinned at Alfred.

  “Yeah.”

  Major took his hand off the wheel and plucked a pair of tinted sunglasses out of his T-shirt pocket. While he was slipping them on, the car veered toward a young couple crossing the street. They scrambled back to the sidewalk.

  “Wake up,” yelled Major, laughing, grabbing the wheel and straightening the car.

  People watched the Cadillac cruise past. Look at them wish themselves into the car, Alfred thought, phony cats with long-playing records under their arms and no machine to play them on. Just hanging around, waiting for something to happen. He leaned back into the red leather.

  The car picked up speed, swinging onto a highway. Off to the right, the Hudson River lay blue-green and quiet, glinting under the sun. Small boats churned through the water.

  “Now there’s some living,” said Hollis, leaning forward.

  “I’ll loan one of them sometime,” said Major.

  “Hear there’s some real parties on those boats,” said Hollis.

  “You ever know a black man got one of them?” asked Major.

  “No.”

  “They won’t let you park it,” said Major. “Even if you bought one, you couldn’t park it, just have to keep goin’ up and down the river. They don’t get you one way, they get you another. Right, Alfred?”

  “If you say so.”

  Major laughed. “You all right, Alfred.”

  The highway narrowed into a tunnel, and Major yelled, “Toll booth.” He stretched his left arm toward the back seat.

  “Got no change, Major,” said the younger boy, “only dollar bills.”

  “They take dollar bills,” said Major. He slowed for the toll booth, took the boy’s dollar, and paid. He pocketed the change.

  Coney Island was hot and noisy, the streets off the boardwalk choked with boys and girls, white and black, marching up and down, looking each other over. Alfred began to feel cramps in his stomach at the mingled smells of cotton candy, barbecue, fried chicken, and hot dogs. He realized that he hadn’t eaten since Friday lunch, nearly two full days ago. He heard distant screams from the thundering roller coaster. Up ahead, a huge Ferris wheel spun slowly against the blue sky.

  Major double-parked in front of an outdoor stand. “Go and get some food, Justin. Dogs, French fries, some a that sweet corn. You go help him carry it, Sonny.”

  “Carry it,” said Sonny, climbing out.

  “Mustard on the dogs, Major?” asked Justin.

  “Everything on the dogs.”

  Major leaned back in the seat, his arms behind his head. “We’ll get us some food, then go find us some pretty little foxes. You got that bottle, Hollis?”

  “Cops,” said Hollis.

  Major and Alfred turned. Two policemen were moving toward them, checking drivers’ licenses and registration papers along the row of double-parked cars.

  “Don’t need that,” said Major, starting the car.

  “You steal this car?” asked Alfred.

  “Gonna return it,” said Hollis, “we just…”

  His words were lost in the sudden roar of the engine. Major jerked the car into traffic. The policemen began to run, shouting, as Major stomped on the accelerator and pounded the horn at people crossing the street. A baby carriage rolled up in front of the car, and Major slammed on the brakes.

  “Let’s get out a here.”

  Alfred vaulted over the door, into the gutter, landing hard on his right foot. The ankle twisted under him and he went to his knees, but he got up and plunged into the crowd on the sidewalk, pushing through. Keep moving, keep moving. He ducked his head at the police whistle, and rounded a corner, slamming into a hard chest, and a hand cuffed him on the head. Keep moving, and then he was on the boardwalk, and he slowed down, the ankle beginning to throb, and he let himself be carried along in the flowing crowd. He walked until every step on his right foot sent a shaft of pain up through his ankle. He sat down on a bench.

  Thousands of people were jammed together on the beach. He could hardly see the sand. Men and women lay stretched out on blankets. Guys with good builds swaggered among the blankets and umbrellas, slowing down and sucking in their stomachs whenever they passed girls. Babies cried over the noise of transistors. He started walking again, until he found a food stand. He bought spare ribs, buttered corn, French fries, and a Pepsi-Cola. Worst things you can eat, said Donatelli. Alfred gobbled it down as fast as he could. A moment later he was hanging over the boardwalk rail, vomiting.

  “Disgusting,” said a voice behind him.

  “Poor kid.”

  “A junkie, tryin’ to beat it with food, just can’t do it, you just can’t…”

  He got away from there as fast as his ankle would let him, stumbling along with the crowd. Shoes kicked at the back of his feet whenever he slowed down. His body itched from streaming sweat. His shirt and pants were damp. He got off the boardwalk, and limped along the strange Brooklyn streets. Every time he passed a policeman he lowered his head and held his breath.

  He found a movie house along a wide avenue and went right inside without bothering to find out what was playing. The theater was cool and his stomach quieted down. He bought an ice cream cup and pressed the frosty paper container against his cheeks and temples until the fever in his face disappeared. The ice cream melted, and it went down easily and stayed down. He had another, and began to feel better.

  He watched the movie. Handsome, well-dressed white men got in and out of fancy cars with beautiful blond women. For a while, he tried to follow the picture, then gave it up. You all right, Alfred. Thanks, Major, thanks a lot. How long ago now, a month, two months? That last time Major used his fists and feet to bust me up. This time he…Don’t blame him, man, he didn’t pour all that stuff into you at the party. You did that. He didn’t put a knife in your throat and make you take a ride. You got in the car. Major was just being friendly. I’ll bet, said Henry. If they don’t get you one way, they get you another.

  He stumbled, blinking, back into the hot street. It was like walking through an invisible curtain. He walked for a long time before he found a subway station. On the platform, people moved away from him, wrinkling their noses. He noticed there was dried vomit on his sneakers.

  It was early evening before he got back to Harlem. The nationalist speakers were on their stepladders, screaming into the dying sun. “Tomorrow morning, Monday morning, you wake up, check the baby to see if the rats bit its ears off—”

  “You said it, brother.”

  “—then you go on down to meet The Man…”

  “Brooksy, hey, Brooksy, wanna talk to you. Heard you been…” He crossed the
street, not even bothering to pretend that he hadn’t heard Harold. I heard you, smart meat, now get lost. This happy little darky just ain’t interested.

  He walked aimlessly for hours. His ankle throbbed again, but he kept moving. Hungry-eyed faces filled the street corners, waiting for something to happen. Only a few hours left in the weekend, brother. If the action don’t come, it’ll be another five days before you can get back on your street corner and start waiting again.

  He suddenly realized he was on the familiar block of low apartment buildings, a store-front church, a delicatessen, a pawn shop, and on the corner, a bar. The door leading upstairs was slightly open, as usual. A dim light flickered through the dirty plate-glass window on the third floor. He stared at it for a long time. Then he went home.

  The telephone was ringing as he came through the door.

  “Where you been, Alfred?”

  “Major.”

  “Thought they got you.”

  “No, I—”

  “Listen, man, I don’t think there’s gonna be no trouble, but if anybody asks where you was today, we all was over your house playin’ cards. Got that?”

  “Playin’ cards.”

  “Right. You doin’ anything now?”

  “Yeah.” He hung up.

  He filled the bathtub with hot water, and stripped off his shoe and sock. The ankle was swollen and soft to the touch. He sat on the edge of the tub and soaked his foot. Couldn’t run tomorrow if I wanted to, he thought. As if I wanted to. Knock your brains out, bust your back, run your feet down to the bone. What for? The Man said, nothing’s promised you. We know that.

  He lay on his aunt’s bed with his clothes on, and closed his eyes. It seemed as if it was only a minute later when they opened again. A pink dawn. Running time. His ankle was a little stiff, but the swelling was gone. No pain. He started up, then lay back. Don’t need that foolishness. Ain’t gonna be a boxer anyway. Run for nothing. The birds are gonna have to get along without old Alfred.

  Ben Epstein winked at him when he came into the store. “How was your weekend, Alfred?”

  “Real fine.”

  “One long party, eh?”

  “You know.”

  The day dragged on and on. He sorted the new crates, stacked the canned goods, lugged the filthy garbage pails out back. His muscles felt sore. He went straight home after work and opened a can of pork and beans. He didn’t bother to cook it. Cold and greasy, each spoonful dropped to the pit of his stomach and lay there. The phone rang.

  “You all right, Alfred?”

  “Aunt Dorothy?”

  “Just talked to Pearl, she was surprised you didn’t call us yesterday. Not like you, Alfred.”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “All that exercising must really tire you out. Come on out to dinner tomorrow night, been so long since you been here.”

  “Well, maybe—”

  “Jeff’s here, you could talk with Jeff and—”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Dorothy, I got something else to do.”

  “You’re going to wear yourself out, all that exercising and running. Take a break and come on out. Jeff won’t be home again till Thanksgiving.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Well, you know you’re always welcome.”

  “Thanks.”

  He went into the front room and stretched out on the couch. That’s all I got to do, go listen to Jeff count up all his opportunities for advancement. Take a break. Hollis said that, too. Yeah, I’ll take a break. About this time Old Uncle Alfred would be beating at the air in front of a mirror or skipping rope. Like a fool. Good thing nobody ever looked at me much up in that gym or they’d fall over laughing.

  He turned on the television and watched it until he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Then he slept.

  Tuesday dragged along, too.

  “That must of been some weekend,” said Ben, winking.

  “Sure.”

  Late in the afternoon, while he was sweeping the storeroom, he saw Henry limp in through the front door. Alfred quietly slipped out the back door and waited until Henry left. Why can’t people just leave you alone, he thought.

  He didn’t feel like going back to the empty apartment after work. He walked. He passed the clubroom and quickened his stride. If I just could have talked James into going to a movie that Friday night. If I just could have thought of something to say at the party when he was looking at me with the junk in his hand. Some partner I am.

  He found a triple feature up on 125th Street, and went in. He had seen all the pictures on television already. So what. See them again, see them a thousand times, the new ones are the same as the old ones anyway.

  He came out into the night. There weren’t too many people on the street. Tomorrow is Wednesday, a working day. Get up, go to work, go home and sleep so you can work some more and pay for your fun on the weekend. And then it’s Monday again. Days move so slow. The stores along the avenue were already advertising back-to-school clothes. The summer went so fast. Where’d the summer go? In the park, up in the gym. He walked faster. What makes you think you won’t quit this, too, Mr. Donatelli said. Smart meat.

  He looked up. A dim light flickered through the dirty plate-glass window. How’d I get here? Habit, he thought. He started to walk past the sagging door. Maybe go up for a minute. Might as well clean out the locker.

  He took the old steps one at a time, twice stopping to catch his breath. Last time I have to go up these crummy steps. Donatelli was sitting on a folding chair, tipped back, staring out the window. He didn’t turn around.

  Slowly Alfred stuffed his sweatshirts, trunks, supporters, socks, his secondhand boxing shoes into a paper shopping bag. Maybe I can sell them back to Bud Martin for some new kid who would really use them. He felt tears in his eyes. He looked at the square head, silhouetted against the flickering neon lights. Turn around, turn around. If you don’t look now, you never going to see me again. He slammed the locker shut. The clang echoed through the room. The head didn’t turn.

  At the door, Alfred said, “Good-bye, Mr. Donatelli.”

  The head barely moved. “Good-bye. Good luck to you.”

  “Well…So long. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve got nothing to apologize to me for.”

  “Mr. Donatelli?”

  “Yes.”

  “If…if I had kept going, would I ever have got any good?”

  “Who knows?”

  “If…if I had wanted to, would I have…you know, been a contender?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Then who?” said Alfred.

  “Yourself. Anyone can be taught how to fight. A contender, that you have to do yourself.”

  “If I wasn’t giving it up, would I ever have got a chance to spar?”

  “Probably.”

  “To have a real fight someday?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Would you know then?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Only maybe?” The head didn’t move. “When would you know?”

  “When you got hurt in the ring for the first time, really hurt. Then I would know.”

  “Would you…” He let the shopping bag drop. “Will you tell me then? When you know?”

  “I won’t have to, Alfred. You’ll know, too.”

  13

  LEFT…LEFT…SNAP it out…drive in…mix it up…don’t let ’im get away, Alfred…press…

  Angel kept slipping Alfred’s jab. He cocked his head at the last possible instant and grinned as Alfred’s gloved fist shot harmlessly over his shoulder. And each time Alfred missed, Angel belted him in the stomach. There was no pain, only anger that drove his teeth deeper into the mouthpiece. The air exploded out of his nostrils and sweat ran into his eyes. He closed his eyes and swung wildly, and Angel, laughing, belted the side of his headguard.

  “Time,” called Henry.

  “You’re not workin’ your c
ombinations,” said Bud, pulling out the mouthpiece. “You been throwin’ one punch at a time and that’s no good.”

  “But, I—”

  “Time,” called Henry, and Bud shoved the mouthpiece back in.

  Jab-jab-hook…jab-hook-right…jab…hook to the body…cross to the chin…body…head…jab…jab…jab…

  August, gasping for breath, melted into September. It was cooler in the park at dawn now. But it was hot in the gym, always hot in the gym, the leather headguard squeezing his temples, the metal protective cup pinching his thighs. The 16-ounce sparring gloves felt like lead pillows. Angel slipped the jab, and Denny slipped the jab, while Henry screamed and Bud yelled, and sometimes Donatelli watched and sometimes he didn’t.

  When Alfred remembered his dreams the next morning, they were always the same: A fly was sitting on the tip of his nose, and every time he reached to brush it away he saw he had no hands.

  “Ten seconds left,” called Henry.

  Angel’s face, framed in the headguard, bobbed up, mocking him. Last chance for today, thought Alfred. Now. He snapped out a left jab, straight at the moving head, just as he had for weeks. And Angel, as he had for weeks, cocked his head and let it shoot by, never bothering to watch Alfred’s shuffling feet. Angel didn’t see the right until it was almost too late. When he jerked his head away from the right, a left hook slammed into his face.

  Angel’s head snapped backwards, his face twisted with surprise. His gloves automatically flew up to his face. Alfred dropped his right shoulder, took a quick step forward on his right foot, and slammed a short right uppercut into Angel’s belly.

  Alfred plunged forward, the months of shadowboxing taking over now, left…left…right to the face…hook…and Angel was reeling against the ropes, a drop of blood oozing from his nose.

  “Time,” called Bud. Jelly clapped. Pete leaned over the ropes and slapped his shoulder.

  “You’re thinking,” said Donatelli. “Not bad.”

  Not bad, thought Alfred, spitting the mouthpiece into Henry’s hand. That’s like a medal from anyone else.

  Jose began unlacing Angel’s gloves. “Alfred really catch you one, ay?”