The Art of Manliness

A short story about fighting and life

Blows to the face.

Nose cracks.

Stinging palms and cracking knuckles.

 Jabbing at a body.

Ribs cracking.

Air punched right out of the lungs.

Eyes droop.

Pursed lips slide down  toward the chin weighing the face down till the eyes can only focus on the spinning floor.

 Blood.

The crowd sees it drip with gratitude.  They scream, their faces covered with shadows, under the pointless lights.

My body is coated in a layer of dirt, soaking up the sweat that I drip with after every match.

I need to shower but I feel low and embarrassed. I’m sick of these grimy faces. I need to leave.

I am bruised and I am hungry. 

Under my broad shoulders and square jaw, I am small, looking up at the crystal tops of buildings. No matter how much I puff out my chest, flex my muscles, beat against blocks and blocks of hard flesh, I always end up in the dirt. My shoulders are falling and my legs ache. The arch of my foot screams with every step and I feel a small painful quake in my calf.

I prowl past restaurants and bakeries, which had closed hours ago. My stomach growled, yearning for some kind of substance. I find nothing to fill it.

I’ve wondered to the edge of the city, where the black masses reaching for the sky melt into dimly lit houses with pickets fences and grocery lists and minivans and ritual kisses before setting off for work, most days at least, and retirement plans to sit and wait to find yourself back in the dirt. I am still not home.

My knees give in front of some less quaint yard. The grass looks rough, patchy. It looks dry and long, especially next to the near by well manicured yards surrounding. It must have rained earlier. The dirt was damp below me as i fell. It felt nice, cool water pressing through my tee shirt.

I laid there, finding no strength to get me up, to move another block of flesh. I lie there under the dark sky. Tonight the moon hides and took the stars with him. I face the emptiness, stare into it. I'm looking for something, but I see nothing.

I think back to the fight. My desire to see blood, to see another man fall, to deliver some fatal blow to him, to beat him until he would never get up again, knowing even if I win I will have to do it again. Next time I face a man we will have to stand with our raised fists.

“Excuse me Sir! Sir!”

I open my eyes and pop my head up. The sun shines into my eyes still crusty with sleep, probably illuminating a trickle or two of dried blood still on my face. I don’t remember sleeping. My dreams must have just imitated the darkness I had look up to as I fell asleep.

The man who had awoken me stands above me, the sun glistening off his wrinkled skin, bouncing off his glasses. He stands straighter than I would expect. Most old  people slowly start to fold in half as their years weigh on them. His skin hangs loosely off of his slender skeleton. He looks at me like he’s concerned.

“Are you okay?”

As he says this he strolls over and puts his hand down, offering it to me.

“Come on, young man. Let me help you out of the dirt.” he says and I take his hand.

He looks me up and down and smiles. “Rough night?” He laughs and pats my back. “Come in. I’m about to make breakfast.”

We walk across the yard, the dewy grass tickling my ankles. I know this old man’s feet are being soaked right through his house slippers.

When we get to the porch, I see how spry he is, seeming to leap right up the stairs to grab the handle on the screen door to hold it open for me. I painstakingly lift my legs up every step. My knees crack and I wobble a bit. My legs are stiff. He nods to me as cross the threshold.

The home is perfect. All the windows are open, air rushing in and out. Sunlight touches the hardwood floor, illuminating all the streaks and different colors that the wood was naturally made with. Pictures of the old man when he was younger and some pretty redhead, always holding hands, always laughing, adorn the walls.

I hear a woman sing from somewhere around one of the corners. The voice floats and echos off the walls. The song is passionate, some kind of gospel.

The old man steps into the house behind me and says, “kitchen’s this way” and walks on, expecting me to follow.

We step into a room of linoleum and bright yellow walls, filled with more sun. There's a wooden table with just enough places set. The voice floats in, It’s an older woman, I assume the man’s wife, most likely the pretty redhead from the pictures. She’s round, full, her skin folded over comfortably  in wrinkles on her face, small lines forming as she smiles.

            He lightly touches her elbow and kisses her. “Good morning Dear.” He says as he pulls away looking sweetly into her eyes. This innocent act so intimate, I wasn’t meant to see it., but I had to look.

“Hello,there,” she says looking past her husband, finding me standing sideways, feeling gravity pull toward the floor. As she sits a bouquet of flowers on the table, she tells me , “ have a seat, dear.”

I sit down and she and her husband bustle around the kitchen. She makes coffee as he cracks eggs into a sizzling pan. Toast pops up out of the toaster. He throw bacon into a popping skillet. I watch the way they move around each other, every so often, glancing toward one another, smiling sideways. They look happy.

She sits a cup of coffee in front of me and sits down pulling her chair in front of me. She pulls out  a wet wash cloth and starts to rub my face.

“Sweetheart, what have you done to yourself. You’re a mess.” She looks at me with worried eyes.

I feel ashamed.

I don’t want to say it.

i don’t want to say what happened.

i don’t want to say i’m a boxer

i don’t want to say for a living i beat,

 i fight.

In the nice home of these nice people

i don’t want to say

 i fight.

i’m quiet.

I close my eyes as she wipes a bit of dirt from them.

            “Ready to eat?” the old man sits down the food on the table and shovels fried eggs and bacon and toast onto my plate.

            My stomach growls.

I start throwing food into my mouth. I gulp the hot coffee, scolding my throat. Some yolk drips on my shirt as i cut  and  shove the egg up into my mouth. Bits of the crunchy bacon crumble onto my lap, into the clean floor. Some slobber finds it’s way out of the corner of my mouth as i ravish this meal.

            They sit looking at me, neatly chopping they’re eggs into small bit size pieces and lift their bacon with delicate fingers, slipping the food onto their tongues.

            This is the first time I’ve eaten with anyone in a while. Again my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I’m an animal. I stop eating and want to make polite discussion but cannot come up with anything to say.

            “Uh, thanks for the food. It’s really delicious.”

            “You looked like you need some help” the old man replies.

            I looked like I needed help.

            I imagine them in the house staring at the monster outside of their window, confused as to if hes lost to death or sleep. I imagine them thinking of their son, seeing him in me, so lost he’s ended up in some elderly person’s barren garden. They were concerned.

            They notice how I’ve begun to sway with discomfort.

            “ So what do you do for a living, son?” the old man speaks to me, smiling.

            I stare at him.

            More shame.

            I have to tell them. You cannot sit at someone’s table, eat their food and then refuse to speak to them.

            I confess.

            “I’m a boxer.” I say slowly turning my head back toward my food.

            They glance back and forth at each other.

            “So is that why you’re all roughed up now?” the old man says with a laugh.

            “Yea,

 I had a match last night.” I reply.

            They shake their heads knowing smiles on their faces.

            “So how did that go?” the woman asks, sounding concerned.

            I wonder if she’s making fun of me.

I look bad, bruised and beaten. Doesn’t she know her husband found me in a pile of dirt?

            I look toward the window. Sunlight hits my face. I am warm. My stomach aches a little bit from eating so much. I am full.

            I face the old man and tell him.

I tell him.

“I won.”

Reviews

[Ufi Auttorri ~ Amy C. T..]

OK, well, with all due respect to the previous reviewer I'm taking the opposite view. I think the story itself is very good. It comes from the gut. It's like you really understand your characters; like you were able to get inside their heads, inside their emotions. I think that's what makes a writer not just a good writer but a great writer. You have to be, in a sense, who you're writing about. In my opinion, you've done that in spades. What I don't like is the sloppy editing and the way you just threw this together and then splashed it up on the page. It's like you were going out for lunch with some guy you care about a lot but then didn't take the time or effort to hit the bathroom and throw on some clean clothes. But all that aside, I still loves ya, doll face! :) Keep up the good work. We'll be hearing from you (if you ever get an editor).

[Marie]

I found this an excellent characterization. A good story, if not a great one. And not that sloppy as far as editing. These are some errors I caught:


He throw(THROWS) bacon into a popping skillet.
They sit looking at me, neatly chopping they’re(THEIR) eggs into small bit(BITE) size pieces and lift their bacon with delicate fingers,

Also you used "sits" where is would have used "sets", but that may be your personal perference.

[the Most Human Human]

I'm not an expert at writing reviews so all I have to say is, you my friend, have quite a way with words, I didn't find the story itself all too great but it was written past perfection, I dig it :)

[TLK]

I'll write you 'past perfection'.