Love You to a Pulp

by CS DeWildt

  “Thirsty?” Neil moved back from the spigot and allowed the dog access to the rusty water. The dog lapped at the stream with a passion that made Neil thirsty again. Neil pushed the dog away and drank. When he was done the dog took its place at the spigot, lapping greedily until Daddy called out. The dog looked toward the headless voice and then looked at Neil as if questioning its own ears. Neil twisted shut the spigot, leaving a slow drip for the dog to come back to. Neil scratched the dog’s neck, found a swollen tick behind the left ear and pulled it off. He squeezed the tick like some toothed berry, its hard skeleton popping easily under the swollen pressure. Neil dropped the tick and put a palm to the moldy side of the building, leaving a bloody reminder of his existence in life lines and whorls and arches. He left the dog to work on the weeping pipe.

  Neil rounded the corner and saw Daddy talking with the old man who ran the station. They were in disagreement about payment.

  “I’m good for it,” Daddy said. “Be back in a few hours.”

  “Heard that’n before,” the man said.

  “Not from me,” Neil's daddy said. “Look, here comes my boy. You think I’d lie to you in front of my boy?”

  “Mister, I don’t know what ye’d do. But I know you pumped my gas and ain’t got the scratch to pay me.”

  “Call the law and you’re keeping me from getting the money. Let me go and I’ll be back to pay. Look, I got a half bottle of whiskey in the car. Take it. I’ll be back for it.”

  The old man snorted as if to laugh, but began to hack and cough before spitting out a brown ball of phlegm. “How big a bottle?”

  “Fifth of Maker’s.”

  The man looked at Neil, looked at his daddy. “All right, but I’m drinkin’ the bottle and you pay me by sundown or it’s the law.”

  “Fair enough,” Neil’s daddy said. He reached into the driver’s window and tossed the bottle to the old man who caught it, uncapped it, and took a long pull.

  ***

  The old farm was just off to the left before the road began to dissolve into a dirt two-track in the raw wood. Miles in, hidden from everything, cars began to line the two-track, half on the road and half run up into the edge of the forest, thirty or so cars and trucks lined up in the dirt. Behind the falling, abandoned rock homestead a large group of men gathered. More than 100 eyes found the Olds and the air was abuzz with a mush of southern speak, men talking like they were nursing a mouthful of coins. The air smelled of smoke and whiskey.

  “Need a minute?” Daddy asked.

  “No.”

  Daddy grabbed the black canvas bag from the back seat and set it between himself and Neil. Neil unzipped it, pulled out the bone white tape. He peeled up an edge to get it started and handed it to Daddy. Daddy pulled a long piece of tape from the roll. Neil held out his right hand and Daddy applied the tape while the boy fished through the bag of petroleum jelly, bandages, instant ice packs, and suture. He blew the dust from his red plastic mouth guard. When his daddy finished with the right hand, Neil gave him his left.

  Daddy took out a black marker and wrote “THE” on the taped right hand and “BULL” on his left.

  The circular arrangement of the men at the old homestead was not of their own design. Neil approached, leading Daddy, and the herd of men parted revealing the sectioned cattle gates. The metal gates were tied end-to-end with thick twine and arranged in a circle about thirty feet across. At the far end of the circle stood a boy, maybe a bit older than Neil, a lot bigger for sure. Neil looked at his own taped fists.

  “How about Calf Boy?” someone yelled, as if completing Neil’s thoughts. There was laughter.

  “Laugh it up, hyenas,” Daddy said as he removed the boy’s shirt from his shoulders. Neil pulled his lean frame through the bars of the gate. There was little fanfare, a few claps and whistles, but they were for the event, not the contenders. The boy across the circle bounced and stared at Neil. Neil met his gaze, held it. A small pregnant girl, dirty and thin but for her bulge, entered the space and stood center ring, blocking the fighters’ view of one another. She held up a white board with the odds scribbled in red. Neil was the underdog at thirteen to one. Daddy always put a hundred dollars on Neil, underdog or no. Neil looked at the girl, probably his age. Half of her face was fire scarred and purple. Neil imagined her face held to a griddle or hot plate, or maybe she was caught up in a lab explosion. The girl turned in the ring and held the odds board high. Neil looked at her face as it rotated before him, one side dirty and beautiful, the other burned, shining, and clean. She was partially bald and one ear was shriveled to a tiny lump of blackened cauliflower flesh. She exited the ring and the opponent was no longer staring Neil down, but talking to the lone man in his corner, the kid’s daddy. The referee entered. He was little and old, brown and twisted like bacon laid out to cool.

  Neil’s daddy stood behind the gate, towel in one hand, water bottle in the other. “What you gonna do, Neily?”

  “Get inside.”

  “When?”

  “Soon as I can.”

  “Then?”

  “Counter whatever he throws.”

  “What’ll that do?”

  “Make him afraid to hit me.”

  “Right. Where’s he weak?”

  Neil studied his opponent. The boy was like a man with an adolescent’s head. His face was red with acne. He was well muscled and his torso was decorated with green, home-inked tattoos. Praying hands lay across his chest; tombstones and significant dates were placed randomly, faces of fallen kin folk, and on his neck, a baby’s face and two words: MAMA’S BOY.

  “Nowhere.”

  “Ha. Everybody’s weak somewheres. Find it and keep on it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t worry about the odds. They don’t know nothin’. He’s riding on his size. They think he’s hard, but they don’t know hard. He don’t know hard. Yer goin’ to teach him hard. Hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I’m hard. He’s not.”

  “Good boy, Neily. Keep on him.”

  A fat man in overalls and no shirt struck the top bar of the metal gate with an eighteen-inch section of rebar. The sound was muted, thick.

  “Get off the fence you dumb bastards!” the man yelled. Three drunken men looked at him, vultures perched on the metal. The words took and they backed from the gate. The man struck the metal again sending the tinny vibrations in all directions. He nodded, satisfied with the sound of the makeshift bell.

  “Fight!”

  Neil lowered his chin and moved forward, staring past his own raised fists. He measured his opponent’s reach and was ready for the jabs. Inside was Neil’s place, always inside. He would suffocate the ink-trimmed man-child.

  The kid’s punches were crisp and snapped Neil’s head back. Neil pressed through the sting and kept on him. Another two quick jabs, pain, no noise anywhere. Neil continued to close the space. Two more jabs and a cross had the crowd counting their winnings.

  “C’mon Neily! Charge him! Charge him!” Dad said.

  Neil didn’t hear the words, but they landed somewhere in his subconscious and he did what was ordered with a combination of muscle memory and experience. He knocked away a jab, kept his feet moving and began throwing body shots in a left-right flurry. The tattooed boy hunkered down and brought his arms to his side to protect the ribs. Neil twisted his hard knuckles into the boy’s arms at the end of each strike, trying to drill through the bone. He continued slugging at the body until the rhythm was nearly predictable and the man-child’s arms began to drop when Neil pressed ahead, not when he punched. Neil worked the body through another flurry and added a well-placed right uppercut. The kid stumbled back bringing hollers and cheers from the men around the ring—money aside, a good fight trumped all. The kid’s eyes went glassy for just a second. Neil pressed his advantage, but his opponent came back, strong chinned and angry. A short exchange and a clinch until the ref pushed them apart and commanded they continue.
The tattooed boy smiled at Neil, a show that he wasn’t hurt, a sign he had been. Neil went back to work, driving inside the kid’s reach advantage, taking the jabs, then pressing inside. He continued to pound the body, took a couple quick body shots. Neil threw the uppercut several more times but couldn’t land it cleanly, blows grazing the muscled shoulders or finding only empty space. He never stopped stalking. He took the mean headshots and pressed on, landing hard shots of his own. The kid covered up his ribs. Neil threw a left hook that grazed the kid’s chin. The kid stepped back, planted his feet, and shot a straight right into Neil’s solar plexus, right where the ribs opened up at the zyphoid process. The wind rushed out of Neil’s body, leaving a burning pit. Neil stepped back, slipped in the dirt. He stumbled back, gasping. The tattooed boy stepped forward, pressed ahead.

  “Get him! He’s hurt!” someone said through the garbled rush of voices. Neil’s eyes focused beyond the boy. He saw the boy’s smiling father. He saw the smile forming words: “Kill him! Kill him!”

  The mass of tattoos became his focus again and the kid’s right arm was cocked back at his side. Neil allowed the fist to release and leaned back, felt the wind of the powerful hook as the bell ended the round.

  Neil went to Daddy. He found air, breathed deep and came back to life. Neil tilted his head back and Dad poured water into his open, panting hole. He resisted the desire to take in the water. He swished it between his cheeks, felt the contrast between his cool mouth and his sweating body. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, barely reaching the scene through the trees, but the muggy heat would not relent. Neil spat in the dirt.

  “Good round, Neily. Keep that pressure on! Did he hurt you?”

  “Just took my wind. I slipped.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “He shows his right hook big time.”

  “Good boy. Now you make him pay for that. Keep working the body. That left feel good?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what to do then?”

  “Yes.”

  The bellman struck the gate with his rebar. Dad slapped his shoulder and Neil pressed ahead.

  “Yer dead little boy,” the tattooed kid said through his mouth guard.

  Neil answered the threat with a burst of right hands. The last one caught the boy’s floating ribs and Neil felt the crack, saw the wince, heard the squeal. Neil continued working the spot until he was caught with a solid hook that made him see the flashing white promise of sleep. He answered the punch with his own powerful right cross to the chin and went back to the ribs before the kid’s head could face him again. The kid began to circle; Neil stepped with him, cutting off the escape. The kid changed direction and Neil followed, slicing the ring further. He pressed on. The kid stepped forward and landed a few body shots. Neil threw a straight right and found empty space. The kid countered with a clean left to Neil’s temple. The flash returned; Neil’s legs gave. He went down to the dirt.

  “…3…4…5,” the ref counted. Neil felt the hot dirt on his cheek. The men surrounding the ring were going ape shit crazy. Neil saw the tattooed kid at his corner, two of him. The kid’s father was slapping his back, raising his arm.

  “C’mon Neily! Get up!”

  “7…8” the ref shouted. Neil swayed as the world settled, six physical dimensions coalescing to three. The ref blocked his path, took his hands. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look at me, boy,” the ref ordered. Neil did it. He forced his swollen lids open and stared into the ref’s face.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

  The ref nodded. He returned to a neutral space between the pugilists.

  “Fight!”

  Neil charged, determined, The Bull. He would never stop crowding the man-child. The kid met him, sensing an advantage. He launched a power shot that Neil dodged easily. Neil countered with a hard straight right that cracked the kid’s incisors. Another caved the kid’s nose. Neil almost laughed at the incredulous, gaping hole in front of him, until the red blood began to flow. The boy opened his mouth, unable to breathe otherwise, broken teeth, nerves exposed to the hot air. His eyes watered and his chin hung loose below the hole. Neil watched the blood stream from the nose and drip off the chin, the drops slapping home in the dirt. Neil felt the anger begin to creep in. He took it, charged. Neil launched wild body shots, tucked his chin. He tightened his core. The straight right to the body came again and landed in the same spot it had in the first round. Neil kept his air, but stumbled back. The kid’s fist was already cocked at his side as he stepped forward, bloody and angry.

  Neil slid his left foot back into a southpaw stance and drew out the earth’s power through his leg. The kid’s father yelled. “Watch the left!” The kid’s right fist remained low. He moved closer, shaking the hammer, ready to unload, his right side completely unguarded.

  Neil measured the distance and dug into the dirt with his feet. The energy flowed up his legs, through the twist of his hips, through his shoulder, his arm. The fist landed hard underneath the kid’s open chin, slamming his teeth together and biting through his tongue as Neil drove the punch through the boy. He imagined the kid’s face giving in, collapsing. Neil could feel the soft and hard tissues, hot and moist. He drove through brain matter and lifted the kid from the planet as his fist met the inside of the skull. The kid fell hard to the dirt, a cloud of dusty defeat mushroomed up from his body, stinging men’s eyes and caking the sweat to their faces. The man-child did not get up by his own power.

  The payouts were made. Neil’s daddy cleared close to three grand from the purse and the bet. He put his arm around Neil and held him tight and close as they walked back to the Olds. Hard, stinging, congratulatory hands landed on Neil’s back. “The Bull” became a mantra.

  “Thank you,” Neil said. “Thank you.” Neil looked among the men for the burned, swollen-bellied girl. She was not there, only the sounds of victory and despair.

  Daddy drove through the dark. It was quiet except for the cool air rushing over the car and the rumble of the engine. Neil’s body was tight and sore. His face was swollen. His head throbbed. His hand caught fire every time he moved his fingers. He held up the fist, catching glimpses of the red flesh as moonlight cut through the trees. He massaged the knuckles and his finger found something hard, something foreign. Neil worked the object with his finger, doing nothing but pushing it deeper, losing it in a new flow of shining black blood.

  “You done good,” Daddy said without looking from the road.

  “I know,” Neil said.

  His daddy looked at him. “Good,” he said. “Your face hurt?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Well, it’s killing me.”

  The laugh shook his torso and Neil winced. He leaned against the car door and felt the cool glass on his hot, tender face. He closed his eyes.

  Neil thought about the thirsty dog from the gas station. He wondered what would become of it. He saw himself and the dog in the back of the Olds. The dog loved him; this boy who pried swollen red ticks from his flesh and dropped them out the window into the night. After a time, he could ignore the pain. He slept.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Neil woke confused, as if he was seeing the interior of his car for the first time, as if it was the first time he’d woken up in it. The rubber cement can was spilled on the crotch of his pants.

  “Oh, oh.” Neil was dazed and spoke flatly, unable to find the right emotion to apply to his words. He pulled at the brown plastic glue jar and finally freed it from his pants, trailing a long yellowed mass of rubbery glue. Neil threw the container to the floor and pulled at the remaining scab of glue. “Jesus Christ,” he said, still without anger or humor or much of anything behind it. His mind wandered over the world until he remembered what he was doing there on the side of the road, and then he was back, chasing after the thoughts he’d left alone for the night. He hadn’t believed Hoon completely. He believed the Jenkins girl was holed up with him, and Neil had made it a poi
nt to wait all night until he had proof of that. But after a couple hours he got bored. The rest was blurry.

  Neil looked at the house, visible through the wispy trees, no activity. The seventy-eight Camaro was gone and he’d missed it. Hoon, the babies, Helen Jenkins, maybe all of them were packed into that car and gone to God knew where, right past Neil, passed out with his sniffer in a jar of toxic fumes. Neil picked at the last of the dried rubber remains, leaving a large, dark spot that looked like he’d pissed himself. He looked inside the jar, found it empty, and threw it into the back seat.

  “No more,” he said. He thought about that. “No more until I’m done with this.” Neil got out of the car, made his way back to the house, not through the trees again, but up the gravel drive, the sunshine offsetting the chill of the air. The blackbirds perched atop the small house watched him with suspicious eyes, wondered if he was worth taking flight over, thinking can this creature fly? Neil walked the perimeter again, the windows still covered, the bathroom now as well. Neil replayed the scene from the night before in the daylight. He should have pressed his way in, should have found out for sure who was there and who wasn’t. Probably shouldn’t have cracked Hoon in the face, but what was done was done. He was about to turn and leave when he heard the sound effect zips and zings of some old cartoon. He followed them around the house and stopped at one of the covered windows. He listened for a moment to the sounds, clearly cartoons, a Scooby Doo number that for a moment took him back to the house he was raised in, huffing gasoline as the cartoons played on the TV. Neil rapped the window hard, looked behind him and rapped again. He tried the window, slid it open. Neil took a quick look over his shoulder and hoisted himself inside.

  Neil’s eyes adjusted and he nearly missed the feet just off to the side of him. Hoon was hanging by his neck from a rafter. His face and neck were purple above the noose. Neil looked closer and saw the scratches above and below the rope. Hoon had tried to claw himself free. On the floor, below the dead man’s feet was the bottle of pills, surely a small portion of Jenkins’ missing narcotics. Though swelled with death, the boy looked as if he’d taken a recent beating in addition to the one Neil gave him. That and the scratches pretty clearly mapped out the dance steps that led to Hoon hanging there. Whoever wanted to make it look like a suicide didn’t care too much for details. Neil took a final look at Hoon’s purple face before he slipped back out the window.