The Real Thing

by J. J. Murray

  He’s not getting off that easily. “When did he leave?”

  “I told you. I do not speak of him. Next question.”

  I think of the hairy man in the picture. “Did he serve in Vietnam?”

  Silence.

  “Did he die there?”

  “No. That is all I will talk about him. What does he have to do with me?”

  It could mean a lot from the attitude he’s giving me. “His absence doesn’t motivate you in any way?”

  “No.”

  I will definitely have to research his father. Right now, though, I need to calm Dante down before he breaks that ball. “You’re a wonderful father, Dante. I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  Silence.

  “I mean, you’re DJ’s older brother, friend, confidant, trainer…. It’s a rare thing.”

  “It is the right thing.”

  That will be in any story I write about this man. “I agree. Do you get to spend as much time with him as you want?”

  “I see him often enough.”

  “No, I mean when he’s away. He spends the school year with Evelyn, right?”

  “I have an apartment in Syracuse. I see him often.”

  Two houses, okay, cottages, and an apartment. Dante isn’t hurting for money. “Do you see him as often as you’d like?”

  “No. I am working on that.”

  Dante is a psychologist’s dream. He seems to be trying to reunite his current family because something tore his old family apart. I decide to change the subject again. “Why boxing?”

  “Che?”

  I don’t mean to confuse him, but I find I’m most effective if I use no transition—or logic, sometimes—when I’m interviewing people. This method often catches people off guard, and they say things without thinking. “Of all the sports in the world, why did you choose boxing?”

  Dante’s eyes light up. “I was skinny.” He moves over to the opposite couch. “I was the smallest boy at school. There was this bravaccio named Franco. He chased me like dogs chase cars.”

  Very cool quote. “So you jogged to school.”

  “I ran to school. I was small, but I was rapido. Franco was obeso. He could only run so far. At school, though, it was not so easy. Very narrow hallways.”

  “So…you started boxing to stand up to Franco?”

  “At first.” He smiles. “I hit him only once in his stomaco. He left me alone. This was before Gleason’s Gym.”

  Which begs the question…“When did you start training at Gleason’s?”

  “I just showed up one day after school. I was thirteen. Two miles to school, four miles to Gleason’s, three miles home, nine miles a day I run.”

  Geez, that’s over…two thousand miles a year! “You must have been exhausted!”

  “I do not get tired.”

  I believe it. “Why Gleason’s?”

  “Gleason’s is the best. Jake LaMotta, Rocky Graziano, Floyd Patterson, Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Roy Jones, Pernell Whitaker, Carmen Basilio, Arturo Gatti—they all trained there. They were the best. I wanted to be the best.”

  Gleason’s was also where Clint Eastwood trained Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby, a “best” picture. “Didn’t you help out with Give a Kid a Dream?” Give a Kid a Dream is a program aimed at giving disadvantaged kids a chance to box.

  “Yeah. I miss that. I should go back and help them train. Gleason’s gave me a chance, so I should give back. There is a new generation of tough Brooklyn kids out there that could be champions. They are already running the streets. I’d like to make sure that running counts for something.”

  This man is rare, and these aren’t just empty words. He is already one of the biggest contributors to the program, even though he hasn’t stepped foot in Gleason’s in ten years. I believe Dante will go back, not just say he will go back. I star these quotes for my longer piece. “Why aren’t you training at Gleason’s now?”

  “I am not a champion.”

  In other words, he’s embarrassed to show his face there. “Plenty of former champions train there.”

  “I do not like that word ‘former.’ It diminishes me. Once a champion, always a champion.”

  “But a champion without a nickname,” I say. “Why do you think it took so long for you to get a nickname? I mean, you were the reigning champ for nearly six years.”

  “My fans, they tried. They called me the Carroll Gardens Brawler. It did not stick.”

  “Gardens…brawler. Kind of incompatible.” If he were from Red Hook, just one neighborhood over, he could be the Left Hook from Red Hook. I wonder if anyone ever thought to call him Dante Inferno Lattanza. He’s certainly fiery enough. “Um, how frustrated were you that it took so long in your attempt to unify the title?”

  “It was an outrage,” he says, his face getting red. “They always had some excuse. They wanted more money, they wanted a different ring, they did not like the referee, they wanted to use different gloves, they would rather fight in Las Vegas or Atlantic City, they had injuries. They were afraid of me in my prime. They were not true champions.”

  “At least you tried,” I say. “You are one of the few who tried. How did you know…When did you know you were any good at boxing?”

  “I still do not think I am that good,” he says.

  Vain one minute and humble the next.

  “I am not like those champions,” he continues. “I am, as you said, not as skilled. Sangue e budelle. Blood and guts. I have always been this. When I was little, I asked to fight the biggest fighters. They laughed at me but gave me a chance. I went home bloody, but no one ever knocked me down. No one. No one ever will.”

  I can’t dispute that. “What was your greatest moment?”

  “Holding Dante Junior for the first time,” he says immediately.

  I will use this quote, too. “I meant…”

  “I know what you meant. Is not all about boxing with me. Boxing put money in my pocket to put food on the table, have a place to live. Is a job. Occupazione. Is all about writing for you?”

  Well…yeah. For the most part. I can’t tell him that, though. “No. I get to travel, meet interesting people, and learn about life.” Pop crayfish out of fish carcasses, get popped in the face…

  He leans forward. “What was your greatest moment, Christiana?”

  Ah. He’s probing me now. I decide to be coy. “I haven’t had it yet.”

  “A wise answer. DJ says you are saggia.”

  “What do you think?”

  He moves over to my couch and sits at the other end. “I think you are sneaky. You are flirting with me, yes?”

  The fire is hot, but his words are hotter. “A little.”

  “Bugiardo terribile. You are a terrible liar.”

  “Maybe.” I moisten my lips. “You, um, keep getting closer to me. Have you been flirting with me?”

  “Sì.”

  I shouldn’t have worn these sweats. I’m, um, sweating. “Why? I thought you were fighting for love.”

  “I am.”

  Doesn’t he see the obvious contradiction? “Yet you flirt with me.”

  “I have a good reason to flirt,” he says. “I did not flirt with giornalisti in the past and they wrote lies about me. I flirt with you so you will tell the truth. Agreed? Is this why you flirt with me? To get me to tell you all my pensieri segreti, my secret thoughts?”

  For some reason, I think this Brooklyn boy is working me instead of the other way around. “Maybe.”

  “Ah. Saggia.”

  “And maybe I’m flirting because…you…”

  Stop right there, Miss Artis.

  You do not want to go here.

  This man is still in love with his ex.

  He is pericoloso, sì, but you have more sense than this.

  You cannot get involved.

  Oh, sure, this is a romantic spot, he’s just a few feet from you, he’s looking sexy, you’re sweating….

  “Because I what?”

  Don
’t answer.

  Be saggia.

  This has happened to you before.

  Several hot celebs have come on to you like this, one while his sleaze of a girlfriend was sitting right there. He probably wanted a threesome.

  You can do this, Christiana.

  Don’t give in to those eyes.

  He moves closer, less than an arm’s length away.

  But he’s hot, and I’m hot for him. He isn’t married, right? She’s not around. We’re alone. We’re consenting adults. Red vacated the house just so this would happen, didn’t he? Go with the damn flow!

  I sigh, shut up the journalist in me, and put down my notebook.

  “No more questions?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m finished.”

  “I’m not,” he says, scooting even closer. “You did not answer my question.”

  “Because I shouldn’t answer your question, Dante,” I say. “Really. It’s non importa.”

  “My question or your answer?”

  Shoot. “My answer. It won’t mean anything.”

  He slides next to me, our legs touching. “Try me.”

  Can he feel my sweat? “Okay. For what it’s worth, Dante, I find you…you’re…you.”

  This has to be the dumbest thing I have ever said.

  Dante laughs. “You cannot speak? Ha!”

  Deep breath. “What I meant to say is…” He’s nudging me with his leg. I like it. It is a sexy leg, and he has another one just like it. “What I mean to say is that I like you.”

  He sits back and squints. “You like me?”

  “Yes,” I say more confidently. “I like you.”

  He frowns. “Do you normally like who you interview?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “I hardly like anyone I interview.”

  He turns away and crosses his arms. “And yet you do this for a living?”

  I know it makes no sense. “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” He nods. “Why don’t you like the people you interview?”

  A fair question. “Because they’re usually fake.”

  “Ah.” He turns to me smiling. “So I am not fake.”

  “No,” I say. “Like I said, you’re you.” Ah. Now my other quote makes sense.

  He nods. “Hmm.” He squints at me again. It is so cute! “This is not some new trick to learn all my secrets?”

  Damn, he’s sharp! I take a deeper breath, because I’m getting deeper into this man. “No. I came to write a story about you, and…I, um, like I said…I like you.”

  “What do you like about me?”

  The tips of my fingers are sweating. They usually don’t sweat like this unless I’m finishing an awesome story. “You’re…you.” Quit repeating that, Christiana! “I mean, you don’t change. You’re not fake. So many of the people I interview put on a show for me. You don’t.”

  He nods. “Oh, but I am stubborn, yes? How can you like that?”

  I laugh. “I’m pretty stubborn, too.”

  He squeezes my leg. “I have noticed.” He reaches by me and takes my paper and pen. “Now I interview you.”

  “What?”

  “Che. When you do not understand, say ‘che.’”

  I blink. “Che?”

  “Bene.” He licks the top of my pen.

  I feel a bit moist.

  “First question: What is your favorite color?”

  He’s so cute. “Green.”

  “Ah. Verde. The color of money.”

  I shake my head. “The color of life.”

  “Oh. Better.” He writes it down on a blank sheet! “How tall are you?”

  “Five seven.”

  He squints. “I thought we were the same height.”

  I smile. “You slouch.”

  “True.” He writes it down. “Your weight?”

  “What?”

  “Say ‘che.’”

  “Che?”

  He smiles. “I want to know your weight. I held you in the water, but water makes you weigh less. I’m thinking maybe…one thirty, one thirty-five.”

  In my dreams. “You’re right.”

  “Bene.” He writes it down. “What is your degree?”

  So formal! “I have a BA in journalism from Columbia.”

  “Impressionante. Impressive. You are very athletic. What sports did you play?”

  I want to play some sports right now, and they don’t involve his hands on that tennis ball or his tongue on the tip of my pen. “Um, none really. I trained with my granddaddy. I work out when I can.” Which is practically never.

  “You are very fit.”

  “Grazie.”

  He stares at me. “How old are you?”

  “Guess.”

  “Stand up.”

  I do.

  He looks me up and down and all around, even instructing me to turn around once. “You may sit.”

  I sit.

  “You are twenty-five.”

  I hate to burst his bubble. “I’m thirty-five.”

  “No,” he says. “I have already written it down. I cannot change what I have written.” His eyes become slits. “No more than you can change what you have written.”

  Whoa. He got me good.

  “You are now twenty-five. You do not wear a ring.” He pauses. “This either means you are not married or you have taken off your ring to flirt with me.”

  “I’m not married,” I say quickly.

  “Bene. Are you seeing anyone?”

  Just the man in front of me. “No.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Close to being married?”

  “No.”

  He sighs. “What do you have against marriage?”

  So direct! “Nothing. Really. It just hasn’t worked out that way for me.” Geez, I am so unquotable. A journalist should never do an interview.

  “What was the name of your last boyfriend?”

  I think a little and catch glimpses of a guy, but…“I can’t remember. Howard something.”

  “It has been that long?”

  It’s been so long I’m not sure what a penis looks like up close. “Yes.”

  “But you are bellissima, so erotica.”

  He’s messing with all my erotica zones right now. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Oh. So your career is most important.”

  Dante would make an outstanding journalist. He’s already catching me in little contradictions. “I’ve been at it for almost fourteen years, so right now it is.”

  “Hmm.” He studies the notebook. “Where is your mama?”

  Nice transition. “Heaven.”

  “Tristissimo. Your father?”

  I know I opened the door for this, but…“I don’t want to discuss this.”

  He sits back. “Oh, but you expect me to. I like you, too. I want to get to know you.”

  He says it so matter-of-factly. “You…like me?”

  “You are likable. Now tell me about your father.”

  A pain shoots into my chest. “Only if you go first.”

  “Ah,” he says, like the psychologist that I used to see when I was little. “So much resistenza.”

  Resistenza? It was more like futility because I didn’t see the point. I had drawn a stick-figure picture of a scarecrow around Halloween, and my teacher had rushed my drawing to the principal the second I finished it. The principal then called me into his office and asked me, “Who’s this?” I told him it was a scarecrow, adding, “It is Halloween, you know.” He pointed at one of the scarecrow’s hands. “And what’s this in his hand?” I told him it was the scarecrow’s magic wand. “It’s not a man holding a knife?” he asked. I shook my head. The principal then sent me to a shrink so I could deal with my “repressed issues.” I was five, happy and thriving with Granddaddy, and because of a badly drawn scarecrow, I had to listen to that asshole psychologist say “Ah” fifty times in half an hour, twice a week, for three months. I didn’t think I had any issues. I just couldn’t draw
very well! “Are you sure it’s not your…father…holding a knife?” I shook my head until my neck hurt.

  But I don’t want to think about any of that right now.

  “My father,” Dante says. “Also not for story.”

  “Fine.”

  “My father never came home. He did not die in Vietnam, but he never came home. Mama waited for him. That is all I know.”

  That’s it? “You never wanted to find him?”

  “No.” He leans forward. “He is not where he is supposed to be. I do not need to find him. Now you.”

  I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about the other scarecrow in my life. How can I answer this without begging another question? “My father is in heaven, too.”

  He looks down. “Both your parents are dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did they die?”

  I put this behind me so long ago, and now this man is bringing it all back. “Look, I’d rather not say, Dante. Please. Change the subject.” I ball my hands into fists.

  He puts his right hand on top of my fists. “How old were you?”

  I can’t breathe, my heart is thudding, and I have to get out of here. “I was…I was two.”

  He brings his other hand to my fists. “You do not remember them?”

  “No, I don’t!” I shout. I jump to my feet and run outside to the outcropping under the stars into the cold and I’m holding myself and weeping and rocking and I’m all alone again and I’m two years old and there’s no one to hold me—

  Dante’s hands reach around me, holding my stomach gently. “Mi dispiace. I should not have asked.”

  I turn into him and put my head on his shoulder. “I don’t remember them at all, Dante.”

  “Shh, shh. It is all right.”

  He holds me for several minutes while I calm down, whispering, “Shh, shh, bella, it is all right.”

  I wipe my face on my sleeve. “I only had pictures.” I tore up and threw away those pictures one very bad day when I was twelve. “And I didn’t know how they died until I did a research paper on them in high school.”

  Which is a very long time not to know.

  “Granddaddy told me not to research them. He said it would only give me pain, but I had to, you know? I went to the library and found a single article buried in the back pages of the Times.”

  My legs buckle, but Dante holds me up.

  “The headline read, MURDER SUICIDE IN RED HOOK. My daddy killed my mama.”