by Neal Pollack
"Yeah, well, you know I just want to stay in shape."
Rico laughed and patted his large belly. "Hey, guys our age are too old to fight. Me, I eat what I want and keep this here." He opened a drawer and pulled out a revolver. "This, Alex, is the fat man's equalizer. This will stop any young man. Dead in his tracks."
Pinto smiled as Rico put the gun back in a drawer and then slid his pay envelope across the desk. He thought about asking Rico if he'd heard of the smoker but then just put the envelope in his pocket. Rico was never a boxer. He never had that longing for his youth. To feel his body again and let his juices rip as he beat another man. And he knew Rico would tell him it was a bad idea. Pinto had enough dreams crushed in this life. He kept his own counsel.
"You okay, Alex, you need anything? You able to keep up your rent? You need anything, you come to me, okay, hermano?"
"I'm good, Mr. Rico. I'll see you Monday."
Friday night came and Alex felt those old butterflies in his stomach as he turned onto Cicero. He pushed open the door to the factory and saw a beat-up boxing ring with about 250 folding chairs around it. A few young men were setting up a table to sell beer and Paco smiled when he saw him.
"Hey, champ, you made it."
"Where do I get ready?"
"Right over there in the corner with the other fighters."
"There's no locker room?"
"Homes, this ain't the Coliseum. We do what we can. See that big ugly Polack over there. That's who you're fighting."
Pinto stared at the man. He had to be pushing sixty with a big gut and a face weathered from street living. He looked like a bum.
"Him?"
"Yeah, you'll tear him up."
"He looks like a homeless bum."
Paco got up close to Pinto. "Hey, the man needs money like you. Who you to judge anyone? You think you look any better? He used to be a boxer back in Poland. Almost made the Olympics in 1972."
Pinto moved back.
"So where do we change?" he said. "We use mouth guards? And how long is the fight?"
Paco laughed and said, "See, now you asking the real questions. You fight as you come. No boxing gear other than gloves. No headgear. You got a mouth guard, you use it. Your boy you fighting ain't got no teeth so I don't think he needs a mouth guard. The fight? Well, it is a little different. There are no rounds. We ring the bell and you go until one man can't fight anymore. No ref. No nothing. Just you and him in the ring. You on your own in there. Can you handle that?"
Pinto turned and said, "Yeah, I can handle that. But I want my money now."
Paco laughed, "My man, now you talking."
Paco gave Pinto two crisp hundred-dollar bills. Pinto put them in his front pocket and went to a bench to put on his gloves. There were seven older men with gloves on sitting on the benches. Their heads were down and they looked old and beaten. Pinto had to get away from them.
In the back of the factory floor he watched as a crowd of young men paid their money and took seats. Drinking beer and being noisy. The cigars were lit up and the smell of marijuana filled the air.
Pinto and his Polish opponent were called to the ring. Pinto stayed in his corner and jumped up and down, getting his legs loose. Paco got in the ring with a bullhorn and stared to yell.
"Welcome to our first smoker. In this our first fight we got Smokin' Alex Pinto going up against Punchin' Jan Pulaski. Both these men fought as pros. The line is even. Get your bets down. We jump off in two minutes."
Paco came over to Pinto and put his arm around him.
"Take him out, homes. Make us proud."
Pinto grabbed the rope and did a few squats. He watched one of the Spanish Cobras circle the ring with a video camera. The crowd was looking up at him, yelling that they had bet on him and he better win.
He leaned against the ropes and saw Jan Pulaski staring right through him. Pulaski didn't move. Just stared at him with a blank look.
The bell rang and Pinto slowly approached the center of the ring. Pulaski staggered out of his corner. Pinto thought he looked drunk. He threw a wild right that Pinto ducked and came into Pulaski's gut with a solid right. Pulaski belched and fell to the ropes.
"Kill him! Kill that old white bum!" a kid yelled from the crowd.
Pinto moved in carefully and threw a right to Pulaski's head. Then another right. And another. Pulaski took the punishment with no reaction. His mouth was bleeding but his body didn't move.
Pinto moved away and yelled though his mouth guard to Paco, "He ain't fighting."
Paco laughed and yelled, "Then make him."
Pinto stormed in and hit Pulaski with a left hook. Then a right cross. The Pole staggered and then fell to the canvas with a dead thud. He didn't move. The bell rang a few times and then Paco grabbed his hand and yelled to the crowd that Alex Pinto was the winner.
Pinto left the ring as he watched a few Spanish Cobras carry Pulaski out of the ring and sit him on a bench. Pulaski just sat there with his head down.
Paco slapped him on the back and said, "Hey, nice fight. You come next Friday, I'll give you $250."
"I'll think about it," Pinto said, then walked to the back of the factory and took off his gloves.
He left the factory quietly and walked down Cicero feeling dirty. Like he'd done something wrong. Sinful. Shameful. But as he kept walking he couldn't stop feeling good about being in the ring again and knocking a man out. Even if the man looked like an old drunk.
The next week Alex Pinto showed up on Cicero Avenue. He needed that $250. He told Paco he'd only fight if he were on first. He couldn't watch these other men flail around the ring.
That night he took out a forty-five-year-old black guy who looked like he needed to be on meds. The man threw punches like a wild man and Pinto was able to duck each one. The man was knocked out with a right to his liver.
He celebrated his second win with a ten-dollar bottle of red wine and a nice rare steak.
His third fight was against a Latin kid of about thirty. The kid looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, but he could fight. He caught Pinto with a smashing blow to the temple. Pinto had to dig down deep to fake the kid out. If he hadn't landed a right to the kid's throat that knocked him flat, he might have quit. The fight went fifteen straight minutes and Pinto ran out of gas.
The Wednesday before his fourth fight Alex Pinto was walking down North Avenue when a young kid stopped him.
"Hey, are you the boxer?"
Alex smiled at the kid. "You're too young to have ever seen me fight. Your dad told you about me?"
"Nah." The kid laughed. "I seen you on that new video. They selling it right over there. You the best of the Bum Fighters."
Alex froze and looked at the Latin man with a table set up with videos on it. He walked over to the table like he was in a dream. His legs grew heavy as he picked up a video and saw a photo on the cover of him knocking out Jan Pulaski, with the title: "The Best of Bum Boxing—See homeless bums beat each other till they bleed."
"Fifteen dollars each, pops. Some of these homeless know how to fight. The shit is funny."
Pinto walked away, his face burning. He ran home to his room and screamed into a pillow with rage. Screamed and screamed until the night came and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
He didn't leave his room. He couldn't. There would be no more. It was over for Alex Pinto. He wanted death. This shame he felt. This creepy crawling feeling that he had lived his whole life so that cowards who never got into a boxing ring could point and laugh at him. He was a failure. Nothing but an old joke. A bum who boxed other worthless bums.
"Silence, cunning, and exile …"
That's how "Irish" Walsh had said he would live after Pinto knocked him out in 1974. Back then he laughed and thought the Irishman was just being dramatic. Now he knew how that felt. Well, at least the silence and the exile.
He sat on a stool and let his rage build. He thought about his whole life. It was all a waste. To end as the butt of a joke on a st
reetcorner video box. A tag line. A broken old man. His face clenched as he stood up and punched the wall. That felt good. He did it again. Then again.
He found he lost track of time. Morning. Night. It all felt the same. He didn't eat. Sipped a little water. Had no desire or needs. They all faded away. He was in a void, an old man's purgatory. He knew he was hiding. Too shamed to be seen. The village idiot. The dopey old man who still talked about his youth like it would matter to anyone but himself. He would wake up and groan and just want to stay asleep. How would he ever face anyone at the gym?
As he circled his room in a daze, it came to him. He heard it. Clearly. Cunning would join him. It was like an angel's voice telling him what needed to be done. Then he knew. There would be only one way out.
He left his room on Friday at 7:30 p.m. He kept his head down and looked at no one. He moved quickly through the streets. He thought he heard a group of kids laughing at him on a street corner as he passed. He looked back and saw that a boy was telling a joke. But how did he know it was not a joke about Alex Pinto? It could be. He was the laughing stock of Humboldt Park. The stupid old man who boxed bums.
He went to Brick's Gym and avoided the few fighters left working out. He looked around and then pulled out a long, thin metal locksmith tool from his gym bag. He picked the lock to Mr. Rico's office. He knew Rico was gone for hours now and he didn't carry that gun on him. He closed the door and walked into the dark office and grabbed the revolver that was in the top drawer. He left the gym quietly.
When he got to the smoker, he went to a dark corner and put the gun inside his boxing glove. He moved closer to the crowd and sat on a milk crate and waited to be called into the ring. He kept his head down. Not from shame. That had left. No, he was hot. Red hot. He kept his head down. He didn't want anyone to see his smile.
This night he was going against a forty-five-year-old named Welch. But Welch would get off easy. He stood in his corner with his head down. As Paco got in the ring to announce the fight, Pinto threw off his boxing gloves and put the gun to Paco's head.
Pinto yelled, "All right, you bunch of parasites. You punks! You think I am some kind of joke? Everyone out of here. Now!"
No one in the crowd moved. They stared at Pinto and a few made moves to grab their chairs.
Pinto cocked the revolver. "Paco, I will put this bullet in your stupid head now if you don't tell them to leave. You heard that gun cock. Right? That means you got a second or two to live."
"You dead, homes."
Pinto pushed the gun into his temple. Paco shook and said in a whisper, "All right. All right! It was just a joke. Don't shoot."
"Then tell them to leave. Loud."
Paco called out, "All right! Listen up! Get out of here. Listen to this crazy old fuck. It's cool. Go home. I'll handle him. Get goin'."
The crowd started to move to the exit. A man pointed at him. Some grumbled. Alex yelled, "Call 911! Tell them the boxer, Alex Pinto, has a gun to this punk's head because Alex Pinto came to claim back his dignity which this pato tried to rob."
The gym emptied as Pinto pushed Paco away and aimed the gun at his chest.
"You think you can make a fool of me. Rob me of my good name. Make fun of me. Treat me like a bum. Strip me of my humanity. You think that is funny? Make fun of who I once was?"
Paco backed away in the ring with a weak smile and his hands up, "Hey, pops, what's your beef. I paid you for the fights. What's your problem?"
"My problem is I saw those videos you're selling. Bum Boxing. You played me for a fool. Made me a joke in my own neighborhood. Like my whole life was all a big joke to you. I ain't a bum."
Paco smiled and said, "Well, you ain't a boxer no more either, pops."
Pinto smiled back. Took a slow breath. Aimed the gun at Paco's kneecap and pulled the trigger.
Paco fell to the ground with a scream.
"Well, at least I was once a boxer. I once fought for a title. What have you ever done? Look at you. Your life is over before it began. And what did you do? Make fun of people. Sell drugs. Ruin others."
Paco kneeled on the canvas. He held his shattered knee and squirmed with pain. "Come on, papi. Don't kill me. I won't tell anyone."
Pinto stood over him. He gave him a small smile. "You want mercy, boy?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It was just a joke. I paid you. I'll get rid of them all. No more videos of you. All gone. It will be forgotten. No one will remember."
Pinto held the gun up and said, "Too late. When you were in diapers, I was out here on these streets trying to do what was right. Well, you know what? I'm tired of doin' what's right."
Pinto aimed the gun and shot Paco once in the head. Paco fell back, his torso leaning on the ropes. His eyes were still open. Pinto threw the gun on Paco's lap.
He stayed, dancing around the ring, throwing punches, seeing Bob Foster in front of him, surprised at the fury that came out of the gloves of a young Alex Pinto.
Pinto thought that he looked like a good contender against Foster. He heard the sirens down Cicero Avenue and he went to his corner to wait for the bell to ring for the next round.
PURE PRODUCTS
BY DANIEL BUCKMAN
Roscoe & Claremont
The rain streamed off the porch roof and the black sheets dissolved Chicago and they thought themselves behind a waterfall. Mike put his hand on Susan's cheek, her hair windblown against his knuckles. She held her breath and they bit each other's lips. After twelve years, it was what they did to make things feel new. And the rain kept coming, beating the leaves from the maples and the elms, turning the gutters into rivulets floating Starbucks pastry bags.
They went upstairs to lie down and the rain fell harder with the late darkness. He held his wife against him, her back warm and damp. She felt the rain through the screen, more than he did, and pushed into his chest until he moved. There had been long days of rain and they never knew the rain from the sky. If the sunlight came, it showed hard before the dusk, and made the streets steam. But there were two weeks before they would talk about the wet summer, a month before the rains ruined July with low, gray skies.
Mike Spence had told Susan he was going to be a cop over delivered Thai food. His academy class was starting in three months down on Monroe by Rico's, where they once drank vodka martinis, singing Dean Martin songs with a bartender friendly over past tips, and watching the fallouts from the police trainee runs spit and hold their sides. Who the hell could they chase, he'd laughed. No soldier would lower himself to be a cop. Now he was thirty-five, a veteran, and he hadn't won a thing. I wrote a book about me, he thought. Winners and losers. That was the risk.
"This is nothing," his wife said.
"I start in ninety days."
"I don't think it's what you want."
She sat up and drew the bedsheet around her breasts and pointed in his face. He looked out the window. A writer, he was thinking. Just because that idea moved him didn't mean it was moving. He felt crazy sometimes, even undone, like he'd been climbing hard but the ladder was up against the wrong wall. In the early darkness, her eyes searched his face.
"Why do you still get this way?" she said.
"I'm no one way anymore," he answered.
"You get these ideas," she said, "but life isn't a story. You were just talking about going to Iraq with Quakers. Last year, you were going to backpack through Cambodia. You always attach yourself to something that is not your own."
He looked at her and then at himself in the wall mirror. Her biceps were bruised from wrestling with autistic boys in her special education class. In grocery stores, people eyed her arms and stared at him while she scanned cat food and mangos through the selfcheckout. A dyke is going to hit you someday, she'd laugh. Just leave you for dead.
"You're not a character," she said.
"You don't know," he said.
"I know you're not a character."
Mike knew his wife saw a bloated cop parked in the wagon outs
ide a 7-Eleven while his partner got a coffee and eyed the Indian girl's breasts. Pooja, she'd be thinking. My husband's partner will be eyeing Pooja.
Later, in his shaded room, Mike read his work when Susan was quiet outside the door, listening. There were noises she made, noises she thought he didn't hear, the way she coughed from breathing slowly through her nose, the floor creak from her shifting weight. As a kind of game, he made his voice like slick rocks, doing Barry White, Al Green, Isaac Hayes. He tried making her laugh, breaking her cover, but she was silent. The abortion had been the price to keep his life, not hers. It was making her eyes hard. A cop, she'd said. After we did it for you to write. He forgot her coughing and read in the bulb light.
I saw these guys who looked like Todds in the loop after rush hour. I gave them last names.
Todd Miller. Todd Turner. Todd Stevens.
They were always squinting from the white heat still glinting off bus windows. Six-thirty was the earliest I ever watched one leave the First National Building, humping the sidewalk in the white heat of summer, swinging a briefcase up Dearborn Street, then longstepping amongst the women with popcorn in the Picasso's shadow. Todd's father taught him how to stay low and know how much things cost. He kept a fraction in his head and headed to the El after ten hours at Sidley and Austin, jamming down the subway stairs slick from spilled popcorn. He moved like a golden retriever and loosened his tie. Humiliation for Todd was going from wild-caught Sockeye Salmon at Whole Foods to the flash-frozen farm-raised fish Costco lets you buy if you pay the fifty dollars a year. He had to ask Jennifer to eat that, look her in those swim-team blue eyes and say things were weird at work.
