Post by Dallas Bonham on Oct 6, 2013 9:41:13 GMT -5
I woke up in the middle of the night. The bed was soaked like a fat lady in August and my stomach was all twisted.
"What the fuck," I asked myself as I hurried to the toilet of my trailer. The Chicken Alfredo Belle, Houston's wife, had made for dinner looked a lot like modern art to me. I smirked as I wiped the juices from my goatee and laughed to myself. "Oughta sell it."
The moon sat heavy in the night sky, illuminating the field around my trailer for miles. As I opened the Pabst Blue can it cracked through the silence. What a refreshing sound. It was comforting to me like old hymns were to some people. Zippo lighters, matches and beer tops being popped. These were my Sunday morning hymns. A reminder of a time long gone. A time where everything was much simpler.
I had potential. That's what they told me. Now all I had was a shitty stomach and a seething pit of rage. I hated humanity. I had the world by the balls and now I sat in front of a dinky trailer drinking a dinkier beer.
"What a life."
I thought of her and what our life could have been like. I always thought of her.
"I got you a match, man," Houston beamed across the ropes at me after a particularly hard sparring session. He was never a tough guy so he was eating it up. Getting into the ring and letting me beat him like he owed me money made him feel like he could take on the world. His shitty little positive attitude was starting to rub off on me. I hadn't thought about driving my piece of shit car into a ditch in about a week.
"Oh, that's wonderful. With who?"
"Two guys. Vincent Hale, who's undefeated, and Marco Valintine. He's a pretty boy partier. Hale's a vet coming back after a few years off."
"Great, two sweaty guys in tights and me rolling around on canvas. Exaclty what I've always dreamed of."
"Shut up, kid," One Eyed Bill called out from the corner. I alternately loved and hated the man. "Get back in there and get to work."
We'd been going at it for four hours already. Suplexes, DDTs, submission moves. Over and over. "Practice makes perfect," One Eye was fond of saying. I still hadn't figured out which eye was bum. Every now and then he'd catch me looking and start a flurry of curse words. It was great seeing the old bastard all riled up.
"No can do, Bill. We gotta get him to Kimosabe for his first interview, man."
"Kimosabe?"
"Yeah, man. That's his name."
It pissed me off. All of it. I never seemed to know what was going on with my own life anymore. Everyone else called the shots. It had been like this longer than I could remember.
"I don't do interviews."
"Nah man, it's all part of the game. You have to as part of your contract. Every time you got a fight you do some interviews, man."
Without thinking about it I reached out and popped Houston once in the ribs. Nothing that would kill him, but enough that he'd get my point.
"I think Bill's right, bro. We need more ring time."
"Fuck off," Houston called as he held his ribs and made his way out of the ring.
Kimosabe. Unreal. All of this was happening so fast I could hardly think. In prison I had someone telling me what to do all the time, yeah, sure. But, they also had a script. It was like playing a part. I always knew where I was going and who was coming along and thatTuesday was fucking spaghetti. Now I'm sitting in some fucking Starbucks with an Asian exchange student as he snapped pictures of me like some homemade porno and Houston sipped on a latte.
What the fuck happened to my life.
"Mr. Dallas, this your first match. You train hard this week. Are you ready?"
I stared at the coffee stirrer, moving the cream and sugar that rose to the top of the cup around.
"Yeah."
"Mr. Dallas, your opponent Marco Valintine. What do you think?"
"I think he's an asshole."
Houston threw his hands up and sighed.
"C'mon Dallie, you know what the score is here. Do you want to live in that run down trailer the rest of your life or do you want to make something out of yourself? You're not going to box anymore. That's a given. Shoot the moon and try this wrestling shit. It's a good living if you play the game."
Play the game. That was the best advice my brother, the success, had to give me.
"Mr. Dallas, what about Mr. Hale? Very honorable!"
"He's an asshole, too."
Blackout. I'd had enough. Kimosabe snapped one last picture and it was of me coming across the table at him. I wrapped my hands around his tiny little throat, squeezing until I felt the his muscles tighten and the skin swell with blood.
"You want to know what I think, Kimosabe? I think you're an asshole."
A whimper escaped Kimosabe's lips and I came to. I looked into his brown eyes and saw fear.
"I-I'm sorry," I said as I dropped him back into his chair. Houston was already on crowd control, telling the baristas and patrons that it was all part of the interview. I brushed Kimosabe off and apologized again before walking out the door and a few miles back to my trailer. I needed to clear my head.
The camera was like Poe's tell-tale heart. No matter where in my trailer I went, I could not hide from it. It was always there.
Eventually I picked it up and turned it on, lighting a cigarette and cracking a beer before sitting down in front of it.
"Vincent Hale, Marco Valintine- I don't know you. I really don't want to, either. All that matters is that you know what you're doing when you step in the ring with me next week. Pull up a chair because I have a story to tell."
I inhaled deeply and let the smoke roll out of my nostrils like the stacks of a great engine. Thick, heavy smoke that fogged the lens of the camera and hid me from its never-ending, burning eye..
"I was twenty three years old when I went to prison. Before that I was a golden gloves champion. Twenty three years old and undefeated in twenty three fights. No one could stop me. I moved like lightning and struck like a god damned pick up truck. Everything was going right in my life- I had a big house, beautiful fiancé, and a promising career. I'd even signed on with IBF. Two million dollar sign on bonus. Can you believe that? This redneck here had two million dollars."
"Violence was me. I was violence. People loved my bouts because it was always a knock down, blood filled mess. I went in that ring aiming to kill the man."
A wet spot was forming on my pants from the beer. I'd forgotten about it until the pant leg was saturated and icing my leg. I took a sip.
"Violence was what made me and violence was what destroyed me. The night of my last amateur bout a group of friends went to a local bar. Skeeters. I'd been there a million and one times. They actually had a cot in the back just for me. Everyone knew I liked to get lit up like a crackhouse on the Fourth of July after a fight."
I looked out the window and thought about all the good times I'd had at Skeeters. Hell one time I was leaving and had my door open in the car. Instead of closing it I just drove into a parked car. Go figure the cops didn't appreciate it. But, I had all the money in the world. Couple thousand later and everyone was on my side again.
"So this night," I took a sip of the beer and sucked it through my teeth, "this night was different. As it always is in stories like these. Everything went silent after I hit the kid from Boston. He was in town to see the Red Sox play the Braves. Trying to be an out of state tough guy, harassing the waitresses all night. I was going to stay out of it, but he smashed a beer bottle and cut Houston with it. Two shots- boom, boom. He bled from his eyes. You ever seen someone bleed from their eyes?"
"He was dead before he hit the ground. Next thing I know I'm in handcuffs and at a bond hearing and then in prison. Ten fucking years gone in one swing."
I rubbed my first prison tattoo- a rooster on my ribcage. The chulo who did it really dug it in causing the lines to bump out slightly. He was still ripe about me beating him at seven card.
"Hale, Valintine… what do you know about taking a life? Have you felt a man take his dying breath at your hand? Probably not. That's why I implore you to stay out of the ring. Bow out respectfully. You can enjoy the rest of your lives. Meet a nice girl, have some grandkids, sit on the porch drinking sweet tea. But if you come in the ring know that once this starts I can't control what the monster within does. I'm at his mercy just the same as the two of you will be. And he wants blood. It's the only thing that will satisfy the thirst."
"This is my redemption, boys."
I'd said all there was to say. I cut the camera off and lay in bed replaying the images of that night in my head over and over and over for the remainder of the night. My stomach was knotted up like an umbilical cord and I felt ill. Whatever was coming was going to be ugly.
"What the fuck," I asked myself as I hurried to the toilet of my trailer. The Chicken Alfredo Belle, Houston's wife, had made for dinner looked a lot like modern art to me. I smirked as I wiped the juices from my goatee and laughed to myself. "Oughta sell it."
The moon sat heavy in the night sky, illuminating the field around my trailer for miles. As I opened the Pabst Blue can it cracked through the silence. What a refreshing sound. It was comforting to me like old hymns were to some people. Zippo lighters, matches and beer tops being popped. These were my Sunday morning hymns. A reminder of a time long gone. A time where everything was much simpler.
I had potential. That's what they told me. Now all I had was a shitty stomach and a seething pit of rage. I hated humanity. I had the world by the balls and now I sat in front of a dinky trailer drinking a dinkier beer.
"What a life."
I thought of her and what our life could have been like. I always thought of her.
The next day
"Oh, that's wonderful. With who?"
"Two guys. Vincent Hale, who's undefeated, and Marco Valintine. He's a pretty boy partier. Hale's a vet coming back after a few years off."
"Great, two sweaty guys in tights and me rolling around on canvas. Exaclty what I've always dreamed of."
"Shut up, kid," One Eyed Bill called out from the corner. I alternately loved and hated the man. "Get back in there and get to work."
We'd been going at it for four hours already. Suplexes, DDTs, submission moves. Over and over. "Practice makes perfect," One Eye was fond of saying. I still hadn't figured out which eye was bum. Every now and then he'd catch me looking and start a flurry of curse words. It was great seeing the old bastard all riled up.
"No can do, Bill. We gotta get him to Kimosabe for his first interview, man."
"Kimosabe?"
"Yeah, man. That's his name."
It pissed me off. All of it. I never seemed to know what was going on with my own life anymore. Everyone else called the shots. It had been like this longer than I could remember.
"I don't do interviews."
"Nah man, it's all part of the game. You have to as part of your contract. Every time you got a fight you do some interviews, man."
Without thinking about it I reached out and popped Houston once in the ribs. Nothing that would kill him, but enough that he'd get my point.
"I think Bill's right, bro. We need more ring time."
"Fuck off," Houston called as he held his ribs and made his way out of the ring.
Kimosabe. Unreal. All of this was happening so fast I could hardly think. In prison I had someone telling me what to do all the time, yeah, sure. But, they also had a script. It was like playing a part. I always knew where I was going and who was coming along and thatTuesday was fucking spaghetti. Now I'm sitting in some fucking Starbucks with an Asian exchange student as he snapped pictures of me like some homemade porno and Houston sipped on a latte.
What the fuck happened to my life.
"Mr. Dallas, this your first match. You train hard this week. Are you ready?"
I stared at the coffee stirrer, moving the cream and sugar that rose to the top of the cup around.
"Yeah."
"Mr. Dallas, your opponent Marco Valintine. What do you think?"
"I think he's an asshole."
Houston threw his hands up and sighed.
"C'mon Dallie, you know what the score is here. Do you want to live in that run down trailer the rest of your life or do you want to make something out of yourself? You're not going to box anymore. That's a given. Shoot the moon and try this wrestling shit. It's a good living if you play the game."
Play the game. That was the best advice my brother, the success, had to give me.
"Mr. Dallas, what about Mr. Hale? Very honorable!"
"He's an asshole, too."
Blackout. I'd had enough. Kimosabe snapped one last picture and it was of me coming across the table at him. I wrapped my hands around his tiny little throat, squeezing until I felt the his muscles tighten and the skin swell with blood.
"You want to know what I think, Kimosabe? I think you're an asshole."
A whimper escaped Kimosabe's lips and I came to. I looked into his brown eyes and saw fear.
"I-I'm sorry," I said as I dropped him back into his chair. Houston was already on crowd control, telling the baristas and patrons that it was all part of the interview. I brushed Kimosabe off and apologized again before walking out the door and a few miles back to my trailer. I needed to clear my head.
That night
Eventually I picked it up and turned it on, lighting a cigarette and cracking a beer before sitting down in front of it.
"Vincent Hale, Marco Valintine- I don't know you. I really don't want to, either. All that matters is that you know what you're doing when you step in the ring with me next week. Pull up a chair because I have a story to tell."
I inhaled deeply and let the smoke roll out of my nostrils like the stacks of a great engine. Thick, heavy smoke that fogged the lens of the camera and hid me from its never-ending, burning eye..
"I was twenty three years old when I went to prison. Before that I was a golden gloves champion. Twenty three years old and undefeated in twenty three fights. No one could stop me. I moved like lightning and struck like a god damned pick up truck. Everything was going right in my life- I had a big house, beautiful fiancé, and a promising career. I'd even signed on with IBF. Two million dollar sign on bonus. Can you believe that? This redneck here had two million dollars."
"Violence was me. I was violence. People loved my bouts because it was always a knock down, blood filled mess. I went in that ring aiming to kill the man."
A wet spot was forming on my pants from the beer. I'd forgotten about it until the pant leg was saturated and icing my leg. I took a sip.
"Violence was what made me and violence was what destroyed me. The night of my last amateur bout a group of friends went to a local bar. Skeeters. I'd been there a million and one times. They actually had a cot in the back just for me. Everyone knew I liked to get lit up like a crackhouse on the Fourth of July after a fight."
I looked out the window and thought about all the good times I'd had at Skeeters. Hell one time I was leaving and had my door open in the car. Instead of closing it I just drove into a parked car. Go figure the cops didn't appreciate it. But, I had all the money in the world. Couple thousand later and everyone was on my side again.
"So this night," I took a sip of the beer and sucked it through my teeth, "this night was different. As it always is in stories like these. Everything went silent after I hit the kid from Boston. He was in town to see the Red Sox play the Braves. Trying to be an out of state tough guy, harassing the waitresses all night. I was going to stay out of it, but he smashed a beer bottle and cut Houston with it. Two shots- boom, boom. He bled from his eyes. You ever seen someone bleed from their eyes?"
"He was dead before he hit the ground. Next thing I know I'm in handcuffs and at a bond hearing and then in prison. Ten fucking years gone in one swing."
I rubbed my first prison tattoo- a rooster on my ribcage. The chulo who did it really dug it in causing the lines to bump out slightly. He was still ripe about me beating him at seven card.
"Hale, Valintine… what do you know about taking a life? Have you felt a man take his dying breath at your hand? Probably not. That's why I implore you to stay out of the ring. Bow out respectfully. You can enjoy the rest of your lives. Meet a nice girl, have some grandkids, sit on the porch drinking sweet tea. But if you come in the ring know that once this starts I can't control what the monster within does. I'm at his mercy just the same as the two of you will be. And he wants blood. It's the only thing that will satisfy the thirst."
"This is my redemption, boys."
I'd said all there was to say. I cut the camera off and lay in bed replaying the images of that night in my head over and over and over for the remainder of the night. My stomach was knotted up like an umbilical cord and I felt ill. Whatever was coming was going to be ugly.
