Post by Dallas Bonham on Sept 30, 2013 7:03:39 GMT -5
"I hated every minute of training. I did it because I knew one day I'd be a champion. -Muhammed Ali
"What the fuck, Dallie? Get up!"
That was a good question. It was two in the afternoon and I was ten pounds heavy. I'd been "napping" since noon. Houston slammed his hand into a pyramid of empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans I'd stacked. He was a tough bastard, my brother. Yeah- Houston and Dallas. Our parents weren't very original.
"I thought you were off the sauce, man. Jesus- look at you! When was the last time you saw daylight?"
"Maybe a week," I answered drearily. I hated the sunlight. Too many dirty kids pushing each other around, screaming aloud like they were happy. Happiness was an illusion. All I wanted to do was sleep, drink and eat. The psychiatrist said I was depressed. All these pills, pills to be up, pills to calm down, pills to sleep, pills to wake up. It was a tough life, I tell ya.
"I got you a contract."
Maybe happiness wasn't an illusion after all. I lit a cigarette and sat up on my stained couch. Everyday I promised myself I'd clean the trailer Pop left me up. Every drink was the last one. Lots of broken promises.
"With who?"
"A wrestling place, man. Ah shut the fuck up, it's a start and a paycheck. Man, look at this place."
"Well I wasn't really expecting any guests," I said with a smart ass smirk as I shook out what was left of a day old Pabst and downed it. I'd had the same pair of Dickies on for two days and hadn't worn a shirt in at least three or four. Everything about me was a few days old. He was right: I was a hot mess. Nothing a shower and a handful of the White Cross pills my Indian doctor gave me wouldn't patch up. I'd be good as new.
Things hadn't been so smooth since I got out of prison. Little Mikey had thrown me some work breaking legs when people didn't pay up, but I was getting too old for that shit quickly. These kids all liked to run now. Nobody stood up and took it like a man. Honor's dead, I guess.
"We gotta get you training again, man."
I looked at my gut. It was swollen, bloated. I felt like... "Shit."
Houston stood up from the little fifty dollar kitchen set I'd bought at Big Lots. Something was stuck to his ass, an old piece of pizza, maybe.
"Hey, you got something... nevermind."
"What? Nevermind? Jesus. Do whatever you need to do to get your sloppy ass ready and meet me outside. I got a gym that's willing to let an old bum throw a few punches at a bag."
He knelt in front of me.
"Dallie, this is your shot to make a come back. A set back is the biggest chance for a come back. Prison was just a set back. You didn't mean to kill that guy."
The bar fight. I never wanted to think about it again. Everything was going my way until that night.
Houston stepped over a pile of clothes and some other shit like he was navigating a field of mines. Who knows what his hundred dollar shoes might have on the bottom of them by now.
I took to the bathroom, shuffling shit out of the way with my Irish Setter boots on my way. The shoddy light gave off a slight humming noise. Smoke billowed out of the end of my cigarette and I looked at myself in the mirror before popping a handful of amphetamines.
Did I still have it in me?
