Davo's Little Something

by Robert G. Barrett

  He left the music off for a while, while he sat there and studied the three books on martial arts. After a few minutes he concluded that it was no good trying to do everything at once so he decided to have a go at the boxing one first. He spread the book out on the workbench and placed a screwdriver across it to keep the pages open. The stretching exercises and the blocking and side-stepping he didn’t need at the moment—what he needed to know was how to throw a punch. Righto, here we go. Straight left.

  He popped another cassette into the ghetto blaster, put the bag mitts on, and just as the first crashing bars of Church’s acoustic guitar filled the garage with Unguarded Moment he threw his first straight left.

  It wasn’t very good, in fact it was terrible, he might as well have hit the bag with a lamington. But he kept his right hand tucked up under his chin and threw another. And another. And began walking around the bag throwing them one after another, stopping to check the book now and then till gradually he could feel the shock increasing, as it vibrated up his arm into his shoulder, and see the punching bag being driven further and further back. The punches were getting straighter, he was punching through the target and twisting his knuckles just at the right moment as the punch landed. Even above the noise of the ghetto blaster Davo could hear the sounds of the punches as they landed going from a ‘slap-slap-slap’ to a definite ‘thumpthump-thump’. He kept circling the bag slowly and methodically, throwing punch after punch, however, after about fifteen minutes of this Davo felt like his left arm was going to fall off, so he stopped, checked the book again and began throwing rights.

  The first looping great haymaker he threw almost missed the bag completely. It was ridiculous and he realised he was trying to hit like Jack Dempsey from the start, so he settled down a bit, consulted the book once more and began circling the bag again. Pivot at the waist, swing the shoulders like a gate closing, bend the right knee a little, punch through the target. Before long the rights were starting to thump in too; a little wooden perhaps and maybe a little slow, but they were definitely there. Davo was starting to feel quite pleased with himself, he was picking this up easier than he thought and the book was written by an English boxing coach and England was the home of boxing . . . so. He gave that another fifteen minutes, having a bit of a breather every now and again, then when that side of the tape finished he flipped it over and started throwing his first combinations. Straight left—short right: the old one-two.

  These too were slow and ponderous at first and there was a hesitant awkward pause between the two blows landing, but the power was there now, he could definitely feel the jarring in his shoulders and forearms increasing and gradually the gap between the two punches landing began to lessen. Also slapslap had disappeared, seemingly forever, and even above the pounding music whack-whack, bang-bang was echoing round the garage every time.

  Davo kept this up for another twenty minutes or so until in the end it seemed like his arms were going to drop off. With his last ounce of strength he slammed another left and right into the bag then slumped down on the wooden bench in a lather of sweat; exhausted, but nonetheless exhilarated at the same time. He sat there for a few moments, chest heaving, wisps of steam rising from his forehead as his breathing gradually returned to normal and decided to finish off with a few sit-ups. He removed the mitts and placed the sit-up board against the wooden bench and with his feet above his head did sixty: two sets of twenty and two of ten. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done any sit-ups and these hurt; the last few felt like his stomach and the tops of his thighs were on fire. But with that layer of fat gone from his stomach, even though it hurt, it was still easier and when he ran his hand across his abdomen already he could feel the hardness and rippling starting to form.

  The last tape finished and the click as the cassette cut out sounded like a hammer falling in the sudden silence. The now pronounced ticking of the old alarm clock made him switch his gaze to the workbench where a quick glance showed he’d been training for just on two hours; straight through two sixtyminute cassettes. He left the music off and lay there relaxing on the sit-up board with his feet still up on an angle, perspiration running down his arms and legs and his sweat-sodden hair forming a gritty, wet patch where his head rested on the floor. He couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. Two hours of hard fairly solid training, the first he’d done in . . . how many years? And hard as it was, he’d enjoyed it! Normally he was the world’s laziest whenever it came to doing any training but something kept driving him on almost like a robot. He shook his head, aggravating the slight throbbing behind his temple. He still couldn’t understand it. He was tired alright, almost to the point of exhaustion, but at the same time he felt good, better than good, he felt great, it was a sense of accomplishment. Or was it something else? Like he was well on the way to achieving some goal. He pulled the tail of his sweatshirt up and wiped some of the sweat from his face and suddenly a sinister augural smile lit across his face. If he felt this good after one session, what was he going to feel like in a month or two from now? Especially if he started training twice a day. Unbelievable.

  Davo lay there in the silence for a few more minutes then decided he’d better make a move before he cooled off too much. He stacked the sit-up board back against the wall, put the tapes back in their cases and with his tracksuit top draped across his shoulders and the martial arts books under his arm locked the garage and went back upstairs for a well-earned shower and shave. He washed his gym gear under the shower and hung it out on the balcony to dry. Standing there in the bright clear winter sunshine, out of the chilly westerly wind, Davo couldn’t believe how good he felt. His skin was tingling after the hot shower and already there were muscles starting to appear on his once overweight body that he never knew he had. The only thing slightly wrong was a bit of soreness around his shoulders so he went back into the loungeroom and rubbed them with some liniment he had in the bathroom while he listened to the radio. By then it was almost midday so he decided to have some lunch; the last of another barbecued chicken he’d bought, made into sandwiches, and a good, big pot of tea. He made a mental note that now he was right into heavy training he would get off the fish and chicken and start back on some steaks and chops with plenty of potatoes and onions. He’d taken off all the weight he needed to and now he was going to put on muscle so he’d have to have protein and a certain amount of fibre and bulk. A big jar of honey would come in handy for energy too, plus plenty of fruit and vegetables. He rubbed his hands together with glee; the more he thought about the coming weeks the more he liked it. He locked the flat and with his wallet in the back pocket of his tracksuit decided to go for a walk up to Dover Heights and back.

  After all the running and skipping, walking was a breeze, enjoyable even, even the steep climb up Military Road; and as he strode briskly along it gave him a chance to think about things. Coming back along the beach front at Bondi though he slowed down. Not out of tiredness but he remembered he was supposed to be a cripple and it wouldn’t look too convincing for a man close to being in a wheelchair to be seen striding along at a rate of knots. He took his time going up Bondi Road stopping to get a whole Scotch fillet at a butcher shop near the Post Office and a few other things from a supermarket nearby.

  Back home he sat around reading the martial arts books over a mug of coffee for an hour or so. By this time his gym gear was dry enough so he got changed and went back down to the garage; not to do any skipping but to lift a few weights and practise some more punches on the bag. He had the music up full bore while he did his weightlifting but turned it down a bit while he hit the bag so he could concentrate fully on what he was doing. He didn’t throw the punches hard but focused his attention more on getting the technique and speed together. By the end of another two-hour session Davo had it together alright and the punches were landing crisp and fast every time. He was holding back considerably but already he could feel the weights had increased the strength in his arms and shoulders and he knew the pow
er was there if he wanted it. After two tapes had run through he finished off with another sixty situps, which hurt like hell the second time, then locked the garage and went upstairs for a shower.

  After cooking a piece of the Scotch fillet with some vegetables for tea, he went into the lounge and, instead of switching on the TV, made another sixty-minute tape which he numbered and put in the kitchen ready for tomorrow. By then Davo could hardly keep his eyes open he was that tired but it was a day well-spent and he was more than pleased with himself. He made a small mug of Ovaltine, listened to the news in the kitchen for a few minutes then went to bed. By nine o’clock Davo was dead to the world.

  The next morning Davo was up at six and in the garage before seven. After nine hours of solid undisturbed sleep he felt sensational, chafing at the bit and ready to go. There was still a little soreness in his shoulders but nothing to worry about; and the throbbing behind his temples still persisted but although it annoyed him and made him wonder why it still wouldn’t go away, even after all that sleep, it was there and that was all there was to it. He dropped the tape he’d made the previous night into the cassette. Cold Chisel’s The Rising Sun started up, the skipping rope twirled and away went Davo again, but with more determination and less mistakes than the previous morning. The same with the weights. He slipped straight in to the routines, sitting there pumping away, sweat dripping off him, pursing his lips as he strained and his muscles gradually started to harden and thicken with bulging veins. The same with the bag work. Every punch was straight from the shoulder and right on target and when he’d let a couple of good ones go the heavy bag would rock violently, almost jolting itself off the meat hooks supporting it. By Wednesday he was starting to throw left hooks and uppercuts and rips to the body. Davo found it a little hard to believe that he could pick something up so quickly but he didn’t realise what determination mixed with hatred, bitterness and revenge can do to a man. Even his headaches seemed to be easing slightly.

  He spent the whole of that week right up to Sunday doing the same thing. Training in the garage morning and afternoon, long walks at lunch time and plenty of good food and early nights. The weather hadn’t been the best so he spent the weekend inside watching the football or old movies on TV. Sometimes he’d throw a video on but mostly he’d muck around with his records making different tapes to train to; the phone rang several times but he didn’t bother to answer it. The only variation to this routine was earlier in the week on Thursday when he’d decided he’d better pay Dr Connely a visit and tell him how sick he was.

  ‘Well how are you feeling Bob?’ said the smiling but concerned doctor, as Davo eased himself gingerly into the chair across from the doctor’s desk and took his sunglasses off, screwing his face up at the light as if it was almost blinding him. ‘The colour’s coming back into your face.’ Joe paused for a second and stroked his chin. ‘You look like you’ve lost a bit more weight.’

  Beneath Davo’s tracksuit top Joe couldn’t quite see where the fat was disappearing and what he thought was slight emaciation was in fact lean hard muscle.

  ‘I haven’t been eating much lately,’ replied Davo, with a disconsolate shrug of his shoulders. ‘I just . . . I dunno. I’ve just lost my appetite lately, that’s all.’

  Dr Connely shook his head as his smile faded. ‘Mate that’s no good, you’ve got to eat. If you’re going to recuperate from this you’re going to have to keep your strength up. If you feel like you can’t get a big meal down make yourself plenty of good strong soup, that’s as good as anything. I’ll give you a prescription for a good vitamin supplement too.’

  ‘I’m not actually starving myself,’ said Davo. ‘I’m just not eating as much as I used to. It’s these dizzy spells. They turn me off my food.’

  ‘Dizzy spells?’

  ‘Yeah. Sometimes I’ll be standing there, the next thing everything starts spinning and I feel like I’m gonna fall over. I get sort of—sick in the stomach too.’

  Dr Connely got up from behind his desk looking more concerned than ever. He walked round to Davo and flashed a small, thin torch into his eyes and studied them carefully for a few moments. With a slight grunt of satisfaction he put the torch back in the top pocket of his sports coat then ran his stethoscope across Davo’s back and heart, finally taking hold of his wrist while he stood there checking his watch. After a minute or so he let go and sat back down behind his desk shaking his head slightly. ‘Nothing wrong with your heart—it’s as steady as a rock. I’d swap with you any day. And I can’t see anything wrong with your eyes. If anything they’re as clear as a bell.’

  Davo looked mournfully across at Dr Connely sitting there studying him with his hands laced across his stomach, and shrugged his shoulders. He wondered how long he could keep up this subterfuge.

  Dr Connely rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘I might get that doctor at St Vincent’s to send me those X-rays of your head, just in case we missed something. I might even send you in for another CAT scan.’

  ‘I don’t get dizzy all the time,’ said Davo, a little quickly. ‘Only now and again. Do you think I might be getting too much rest. I can walk around a bit you know.’

  ‘I suppose a little exercise wouldn’t hurt you that much.’ Dr Connely still sounded worried. Davo looked and sounded alright, he just hoped there wasn’t something still seriously wrong inside his head. ‘Waverley Oval’s just across from your place, go for a bit of a walk there now and again. But if you start to get dizzy or tired sit down straight away. I want you to take it very easy. But a bit of a walk in the sun won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll give it a go and see what happens.’

  ‘Just don’t overdo it. And keep trying to eat something. Chicken soup’s good.’ Dr Connely smiled. ‘Sometimes old grandma’s cures are as good as the new drugs they bring out. The walking could improve your appetite too.’

  They sat there chatting for a few more minutes while Joe made Davo a prescription for some more digesics, a vitamin supplement and an iron tonic. Then he touched a button on his phone, his wife came in and had a few words with Davo and they both saw him to the door.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Gina quietly from behind the front counter and out of earshot of the other patients as they watched Davo through the window, limping off slowly down the street, allegedly to catch a taxi.

  Joe shook his head. ‘It’s a funny one. He looks and sounds as healthy as an ox, yet he’s off his food and getting dizzy spells.’

  ‘Tch. Isn’t that terrible.’

  ‘Yeah, poor bugger.’ Dr Connely looked at Davo’s file for a few seconds. ‘I might send him in for another CAT scan.’ He made a note of it on the card then put it back and picked up another one from several the receptionist had spread out in a line behind the counter. ‘Mrs Kaplan,’ he beamed at a very overweight, very Jewish woman in her sixties sitting there patiently waiting her turn. ‘How’s the leg coming along?’

  Outside Davo couldn’t help but chuckle slyly to himself as he limped off down the street. There was a break in the traffic when he reached the kerb and he had to forcibly restrain himself from bounding across the wide road in about three steps. And walking up Bondi Road he almost broke into a sprint on a couple of occasions he felt so good; he was going to have to watch himself in the future.

  About 6.30 the following Monday morning Davo started on the Thai kicks. These looked simple enough in the book, but he could see there was some sort of a knack to this too. After his usual thirty-minute skip he completed his weightlifting routine and did another thirty minutes of normal boxing on the bag. Then, after a series of stretching exercises, he squared off to the heavy bag for what he nicknamed ‘a bit of Bangkok folk dancing’. He realised it was not going to be much use him trying to aim great sweeping kicks at anyone’s head, he’d be too awkward and would only end up going on his arse. If he could just get them around the tops of their legs or ribs that should slow them up then he could finish them off with his fists. He had a final look at the
book spread out on the workbench, shaped up and went into action.

  The first kick he threw with his right leg was abysmal, it went all over the place and he was lucky he didn’t fall straight on his backside; not to mention the sudden, jarring pain along his shin and instep. The kick with his left leg was even worse, if that was possible. He threw a few more, shook his head in disgust and went back for another look at the book. Keep the kicking leg parallel with the floor on delivery: he was kicking up at some sort of an angle. He tried again—thump. This time his instep landed on the bag twice as hard and it didn’t go all over the place either. He did another five then five with his left leg; these were a bit sloppier than his right but a considerable improvement on the first pathetic effort. He did about thirty with each leg, rested for a few minutes then started again. After about thirty minutes he was gradually starting to get it all together. It wasn’t all that hard really. Just keep the kicking leg parallel with the ground, angle the body slightly, pivot slightly on the ball of the other foot and ‘bang’ let it go. What he was doing wasn’t all that marvellous but first up it wasn’t too bad really. He threw about another thirty kicks with each leg then had a rest; his shin and instep were a bit red and sore but by putting his tracksuit pants back on he’d prevented any grazing or torn skin. He dropped another tape into the ghetto blaster, took a breather while he consulted the book again and decided to try a few elbow shots.