stalled-out equipment. Old signs. I take a dozen phone shots, just as things start to settle down overhead.
I know what it’s like in the arena now. My fifth father, Larry, used to watch old news clips of the war in Vietnam. Guys in the jungle, blown to hell, yelling, Oh my God, I’ve lost my leg! I had to ask him to turn the sound down all the time. I couldn’t take it. Help me, somebody help me! Maybe he thought if he had us as crazy and grief-stricken as he was some score would even up. Larry knew a lot about chemical compounds. Napalm. He was always trying to figure out some legal way to hide explosives in his Glad weapons but he was taken out before he realized that dream. Tommy was different. He liked a clean weapon, a pure fight, no gimmicks. Maybe Tommy was the only one who made any sense.
Now I know where I am.
I crack the door open and peer into the locker room. There are two lines of benches and the floor is soaked, empty champagne bottles strewn about and the sound of a shower going. The cameras are gone and the paparazzi have disappeared. I remember to turn my phone off. My head still hammers but I’m not bleeding anymore, so I put my bloody shirt back on. If he’s anything like Tommy was after a match, Uber will be in the shower for hours.
It’s weird that no one’s around; typically there are handlers of some sort. I guess it’s possible Uber dresses his own wounds. Some guys do, but not many. Allison did all of Tommy’s until they had a big fight and he asked me to take over, which I didn’t want to do because I knew it would hurt Allison’s feelings. She’s the one who taught me how to stitch, how to wrap, which tinctures to use. Sometimes I feel all I do is hurt her.
I’m about to slip into the main room when two men come into view and I slide back just in time. I recognize the short one in the T-shirt and jogging pants, the thin buzz cut—one of the better trainers in town. —You need a rubdown! he calls into the shower area.
—I have someone coming over to the apartment. That woman who does Thai massage, Uber calls.
—You know I’m happy to stick around, the guy in the suit yells as he adjusts his shades.
—Just make sure the bodyguards stay put for a while! Uber says.
His voice is deep and resonant and full of shower room echo.
—We should be celebrating, the suit says.
I feel nothing but rage, yet I just have to keep my mouth shut.
—Yeah, well, that’s what you guys are for. We’ll talk tomorrow, Uber says.
—I’ve never seen him like that, the suit says in a low voice to his friend.
—It’s tough when you take out your hero, you know? the trainer says just before he opens the main door at the far end of the room. As it widens I hear the paparazzi flame up, so many flashes going, I can’t really see anything except bright and dark shapes. The bodyguards push the crowd back. Slowly, the men make their way into the throng.
And before long, the room is almost quiet again, except for that lone shower thundering the concrete floor. I enter the stale air of the men’s locker room, where I met my fathers a hundred times after their matches.
Uber’s clothes are slopped over a bench. I go through his pockets. There’s an inhaler, a St. Christopher medal, and a small comb. Maybe this is the weakness of the Helmet Wearer? This anxiety that his hair is continually being crushed and deformed so he feels he needs a comb in the arena? The sign of an endlessly vain man?
The shower stops. I hear a loud sigh as if he’s decompressing. Then the sound of metal curtain rings whip along a steel rod. Wet feet slap against the painted floor. He looks awkward as he stoops to walk under an archway, a towel tied at his waist, his hair soaked. Finally he looks up and sees me standing there.
He’s wearing the bracelet.
Most of the Glow has washed off. None of my hatred. He studies me, cinches his towel tighter.
—Yeah? he says.
I’m surprised he doesn’t recognize me.
I know what it’s like in the arena now. My fifth father, Larry, used to watch old news clips of the war in Vietnam. Guys in the jungle, blown to hell, yelling, Oh my God, I’ve lost my leg! I had to ask him to turn the sound down all the time. I couldn’t take it. Help me, somebody help me! Maybe he thought if he had us as crazy and grief-stricken as he was some score would even up. Larry knew a lot about chemical compounds. Napalm. He was always trying to figure out some legal way to hide explosives in his Glad weapons but he was taken out before he realized that dream. Tommy was different. He liked a clean weapon, a pure fight, no gimmicks. Maybe Tommy was the only one who made any sense.
Now I know where I am.
I crack the door open and peer into the locker room. There are two lines of benches and the floor is soaked, empty champagne bottles strewn about and the sound of a shower going. The cameras are gone and the paparazzi have disappeared. I remember to turn my phone off. My head still hammers but I’m not bleeding anymore, so I put my bloody shirt back on. If he’s anything like Tommy was after a match, Uber will be in the shower for hours.
It’s weird that no one’s around; typically there are handlers of some sort. I guess it’s possible Uber dresses his own wounds. Some guys do, but not many. Allison did all of Tommy’s until they had a big fight and he asked me to take over, which I didn’t want to do because I knew it would hurt Allison’s feelings. She’s the one who taught me how to stitch, how to wrap, which tinctures to use. Sometimes I feel all I do is hurt her.
I’m about to slip into the main room when two men come into view and I slide back just in time. I recognize the short one in the T-shirt and jogging pants, the thin buzz cut—one of the better trainers in town. —You need a rubdown! he calls into the shower area.
—I have someone coming over to the apartment. That woman who does Thai massage, Uber calls.
—You know I’m happy to stick around, the guy in the suit yells as he adjusts his shades.
—Just make sure the bodyguards stay put for a while! Uber says.
His voice is deep and resonant and full of shower room echo.
—We should be celebrating, the suit says.
I feel nothing but rage, yet I just have to keep my mouth shut.
—Yeah, well, that’s what you guys are for. We’ll talk tomorrow, Uber says.
—I’ve never seen him like that, the suit says in a low voice to his friend.
—It’s tough when you take out your hero, you know? the trainer says just before he opens the main door at the far end of the room. As it widens I hear the paparazzi flame up, so many flashes going, I can’t really see anything except bright and dark shapes. The bodyguards push the crowd back. Slowly, the men make their way into the throng.
And before long, the room is almost quiet again, except for that lone shower thundering the concrete floor. I enter the stale air of the men’s locker room, where I met my fathers a hundred times after their matches.
Uber’s clothes are slopped over a bench. I go through his pockets. There’s an inhaler, a St. Christopher medal, and a small comb. Maybe this is the weakness of the Helmet Wearer? This anxiety that his hair is continually being crushed and deformed so he feels he needs a comb in the arena? The sign of an endlessly vain man?
The shower stops. I hear a loud sigh as if he’s decompressing. Then the sound of metal curtain rings whip along a steel rod. Wet feet slap against the painted floor. He looks awkward as he stoops to walk under an archway, a towel tied at his waist, his hair soaked. Finally he looks up and sees me standing there.
He’s wearing the bracelet.
Most of the Glow has washed off. None of my hatred. He studies me, cinches his towel tighter.
—Yeah? he says.
I’m surprised he doesn’t recognize me.
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