dingy and the corners are littered with loiterers. But
he pushes on and parks next to a three story brick building. The
sign out front advertises Weekly Rentals . There isn’t even
an official name for the place. He pays for a couple of weeks at
the front desk and grabs his key. When the first floor door opens
to reveal a queen sized bed with well- worn blankets and a chair in
the corner he shakes his head at himself for the second time that
day. He lands on top of the bed in a heap, too tired to even remove
his shoes. First thing is done, a new place to stow his shit. In
the morning he’ll have to find a new place to train.
A shrill
scream followed by a steady pounding on the wall wakes him up in
the middle of the night.
“Fucking
great!” he calls to no one and covers his head with the mildewy
pillow.
When he opens
his eyes, a few hours later, he feels disoriented. The darkened
space gives nothing away as to his location. Finally he remembers
he moved out of Trinity’s house. A decrepit weekly rental is his
new reality. He moves his hand to the table beside the bed and
switches the light on. A soft glow emanates through the space
allowing it more deception than it deserves. It doesn’t look as
harsh as it does by the light of the day.
As light
spreads through the room, a door slams with yelling between a man
and a woman. He shakes his head at the irony of everything. At
least in prison he got a decent night’s sleep on occasion. He has a
feeling the likelihood of that here is probably very slim. He drags
himself out of bed and showers in lukewarm water even as the knob
is turned as hot as it will go.
After dressing
in jeans and a t-shirt he pulls out of the lot with the only other
local gym as his destination. Once there the corrugated metal
warehouse looms before the truck. It kills him that it’s come to
this. No one is like Carlo when it comes to training for this sport
and he’s given him up to Parker.
The glass
door, tiny in the wide, windowless wall announces Westside Fight
Club. He forges on not surprised the room is already full of
movement. One wall suspends black and blue punching bags. Further
away, near the far wall, there is an array of mats with a couple of
pairs of fighters already going at it.
A dark-skinned
man, tattoos lining his arms with a black tank top leans over the
ropes surrounding a square ring in the forefront of the room. He’s
eyeing the two men grappling with each other on the mat within the
ring. Greylan walks toward the man. He turns his head a moment at
Greylan’s movement but directs his attention back to the fighters.
Greylan halts next to the man and watches as the two on the mat,
one dark haired, one blond, punch one another and struggle to gain
dominance. The dark haired man pulls the other man in a choke from
behind. Greylan expects a tap out but the blond man surprises him
and grasps the other man in a kind of headlock pulling him over his
head by his arms. The dark-haired man slaps the man on his back and
before he can move, the other man is on top of him forcing him to
tap the blond man’s arm. Both men refrain from each other for a
moment before standing. The man beside Greylan puts his fingers to
his mouth and whistles. He calls out, “Jonesy that was one gutsy
move that paid off.”
The
dark-haired man pats Jonesy on the back and shakes his hand.
Jonsey has a
wide grin on his face. He looks to the man beside Greylan and
answers, “Yeah, well I’m countin on all my moves to pay off,”
laughing.
The man beside
Greylan shakes his head and tells both men, “Go cool off. We
wouldn’t want either one of you to have a big head.”
Both men laugh
and walk off the mat grabbing gym bags on the way to a hallway in
the corner of the room. As they leave the area the man turns to
Greylan and offers his hand, “Jackson Pierce, I’m the owner of this
fine establishment. You must be Greylan Pace.”
Greylan takes
his hand in his own and nods.
Jackson
he pushes on and parks next to a three story brick building. The
sign out front advertises Weekly Rentals . There isn’t even
an official name for the place. He pays for a couple of weeks at
the front desk and grabs his key. When the first floor door opens
to reveal a queen sized bed with well- worn blankets and a chair in
the corner he shakes his head at himself for the second time that
day. He lands on top of the bed in a heap, too tired to even remove
his shoes. First thing is done, a new place to stow his shit. In
the morning he’ll have to find a new place to train.
A shrill
scream followed by a steady pounding on the wall wakes him up in
the middle of the night.
“Fucking
great!” he calls to no one and covers his head with the mildewy
pillow.
When he opens
his eyes, a few hours later, he feels disoriented. The darkened
space gives nothing away as to his location. Finally he remembers
he moved out of Trinity’s house. A decrepit weekly rental is his
new reality. He moves his hand to the table beside the bed and
switches the light on. A soft glow emanates through the space
allowing it more deception than it deserves. It doesn’t look as
harsh as it does by the light of the day.
As light
spreads through the room, a door slams with yelling between a man
and a woman. He shakes his head at the irony of everything. At
least in prison he got a decent night’s sleep on occasion. He has a
feeling the likelihood of that here is probably very slim. He drags
himself out of bed and showers in lukewarm water even as the knob
is turned as hot as it will go.
After dressing
in jeans and a t-shirt he pulls out of the lot with the only other
local gym as his destination. Once there the corrugated metal
warehouse looms before the truck. It kills him that it’s come to
this. No one is like Carlo when it comes to training for this sport
and he’s given him up to Parker.
The glass
door, tiny in the wide, windowless wall announces Westside Fight
Club. He forges on not surprised the room is already full of
movement. One wall suspends black and blue punching bags. Further
away, near the far wall, there is an array of mats with a couple of
pairs of fighters already going at it.
A dark-skinned
man, tattoos lining his arms with a black tank top leans over the
ropes surrounding a square ring in the forefront of the room. He’s
eyeing the two men grappling with each other on the mat within the
ring. Greylan walks toward the man. He turns his head a moment at
Greylan’s movement but directs his attention back to the fighters.
Greylan halts next to the man and watches as the two on the mat,
one dark haired, one blond, punch one another and struggle to gain
dominance. The dark haired man pulls the other man in a choke from
behind. Greylan expects a tap out but the blond man surprises him
and grasps the other man in a kind of headlock pulling him over his
head by his arms. The dark-haired man slaps the man on his back and
before he can move, the other man is on top of him forcing him to
tap the blond man’s arm. Both men refrain from each other for a
moment before standing. The man beside Greylan puts his fingers to
his mouth and whistles. He calls out, “Jonesy that was one gutsy
move that paid off.”
The
dark-haired man pats Jonesy on the back and shakes his hand.
Jonsey has a
wide grin on his face. He looks to the man beside Greylan and
answers, “Yeah, well I’m countin on all my moves to pay off,”
laughing.
The man beside
Greylan shakes his head and tells both men, “Go cool off. We
wouldn’t want either one of you to have a big head.”
Both men laugh
and walk off the mat grabbing gym bags on the way to a hallway in
the corner of the room. As they leave the area the man turns to
Greylan and offers his hand, “Jackson Pierce, I’m the owner of this
fine establishment. You must be Greylan Pace.”
Greylan takes
his hand in his own and nods.
Jackson
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