The Weird and Wonderful Bonhams pt. 2

[Dallas Bonham]

By perseverance the snail reached the ark.
Charles Spurgeon

I was out of shape. Mind you, I realized how bad it really was while climbing up the stairs to the gym, not actually inside of it. This wasn't going to be much fun. To be honest, though, the White Cross had me zooming. I wouldn't say I was excited to train, but I wasn't thinking about diving down the stairs either. Maybe I wouldn't have to cry today. Just kidding, I cry everyday. All considered it was shaping up to be a pretty good day.

"There's gotta be like… a million. No, fuck that! A million and one stairs," I wheezed to my brother.

"Jesus, look at you. And what the fuck are you on? You're grinding your teeth."

Bad habits die hard. The amphetamines always made me grind my teeth. Some people picked the skin off their faces. Could always be worse, I suppose. The gym was a shithole on top of an even bigger shithole. A few bags that looked like they were going to fall from the exposed rafters, a ring whose ropes were almost touching the ground and a weight bench with assorted dumbbells and free weights. What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

"C'mon, Houston."

"Dallie, there's an opportunity to make big money here, man. You have to get back into shape, though. This is the only gym in town that would have you! People around here haven't forgotten who you are man."

A rickety looking old man came out from behind a small door that read "OFFICE". He had a bowling shirt on and walked with a waddle, his bulbous belly hanging over his pants. No fucking way this guy could deal with the mess I was.

"Hello, Dallas. Your brother told me all about you. I'm One Eyed Bill and this is my gym."

He seemed totally normal. I mean, aside from being a fat pig.

"Why do they call you that," I asked like a kid.

"Because I got one eye, dumbass. Jesus, this guy is going to be a special case."

Houston laughed nervously at the whole exchange. I began to wonder what his angle was here. He wasn't exactly ambulance chaser sleazy, but there was always a card up that boy's sleeve. One Eyed Bill motioned me over to a wall full of framed pictures. The pictures were all of a young wrestler: holding various titles, flying through the air, hitting someone with a chair. There was a slight resemblance.

"Wrestling is a lot different from boxing. In boxing, let's say, you can't "accidentally" push your opponents eye out."

I wondered all kinds of things. Which eye was fake? How did it feel? Was it stationery?

"There's some trunks over there," One Eye pointed to a bench that held a pair of boxing shorts. The bench's paint was chipping and you could see cracks in the wood. It looked about like I felt. The thought of lacing up my boots again sent a wave of panic through my gut. Did I still have the killer instinct?

I had tried to bury it in prison. Tried like hell. AA meetings, counseling, group therapy. Anything to get rid of the monster inside. Who wants to be the asshole?

"I don't know, Bill."

"Kid, you got chops. That never leaves. Today we just dip your feet back in the water."

"Ok," I reluctantly agreed.

"And you," Bill called to Houston, "You're going to spar with him. Put some trunks on and let's get in the ring."

Houston looked mighty surprised. I can't say I wasn't looking forward to busting his ass.

Someone busted through the door suddenly. A small, fat Asian man with a camera more expensive than my trailer around his neck. He wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt. Everything about him was much too crisp to be here with the likes of me and ol' One Eye.

"Hi!"

"Who the fuck is this," I asked no one in particular.

"OH, I hired you an interviewer."

This was getting better every second.

"A fucking interviewer? For what?"

"These wrestling guys, they do a lot of interviews, man. Pumps the crowds up or something. I don't know."

"Whatever, get your fucking trunks on."

Over the next few hours One Eyed Bill worked me out like a two dollar whore. I hurt in places God never intended us to feel. We did bear crawls, puked in trash cans, sparred, puked in more trash cans and I think Houston even puked in the interviewer's briefcase. The whole time the interviewer was mumbling to himself in some Asian language and snapping photos. All I heard was "click, click, click".

What a cluster fuck.