Falling

He only makes it half way across the street when the light starts to turn. From two cars back I can see the old man perch hard against his cane and attempt to hurry. White hair hitting black pavement proves to be one of the more predictable tragedies I've witnessed. The driver in front of me gets out to help: a Long Island guido who is, himself, no spring chicken. His mama probably taught him how to treat the elderly.

I have to notice this scene as I calculate how long before it ceases being disrespectful to just pull around the accident. Time suffers some runaway inflation as you head into the 'burbs. In Brooklyn, the old man is more of a speed bump than a person needing help. If he had to try to run on legs that wouldn't carry him, then he had to fall.

I purchase my continued self-respect with interest by the time I drive away. The white hair has someone to lead him wherever helpless people go. I'm late for an appointment in the opposite direction.

The Combat Club smells like a gym. Actually, it smells like a gym covered in bleach covered in more gym. When I step in the door, the welcome smell gives way to the loud, wet foyer of leather smashing against heavybag canvas. Then there's the loud, wet sound of people hitting matted floor and finally the sight of loud, wet Tapout T-shirts worn by loud, wet people.

It was home.

My shirt is off by the time I make it to the nook we call a locker room. I consider blaming the two minutes I spent waiting for an old guy for my fifteen of being late. Instead I give the “sorry, traffic” look to my coach and do some unnecessary stripping to illustrate my hurry.

“Everything okay?” Coach's voice catches up to me.

Not even a little.

“Doctor's overreact.” My response is technically true. I've averaged one significant injury every eight months since I started training. Nearly half of them got some doctor to advise me against fighting, as if stopping was smart or possible.

The correct response is always the same: take it easy. Don't put any unnecessary pressure on the affected area. Keep my muscles strong and, when things look normal, get back to work.

I don't have to look back to tell my answer deflected nothing. Coach has a way of making his students feel the silence after an unsatisfactory performance.

“It's nothing that's going to get any worse by training.” Another technically true statement. Why would I lie?

“Alright, jump in. If you need to, take it easy.” Take it easy. Obviously. Coach has been in the game long enough to know the right answer. Hell, he may have pioneered the treatment.

“I know.”

I have zero intention of taking it easy. There's something in me that didn't want to come in, today. And the rest of me wants to hurt it.

I hit the warm-ups like there's something to win. I roar doing reps that I hit fast and hard, but I don't last long. Anger is an inefficient fuel source, burned through too quickly. Discontent: the vague feeling that something is missing, that something is wrong. That'll push a man over hills.

I have more than enough. But Discontent doesn't roar nor posture. It quietly drives forward. And as anger's noise gives way to the silent push, I spot something beyond the usual sights and smells and sounds of the Club.

Five men in ugly shirts focused on drilling, or unfocused on pretending they're not tired, are blue on black. Too few people stand out. So does a crowd. I can only ever see what's not supposed to be there. And Lord is she not supposed to be here.

A new face. An unusual face.

A pretty face.

Not unusually pretty. Objectively, the new girl probably sat right at the meaty edge of the bell curve. But unusual for here. Combat sports don't generally attract the attractive. At least not for long.

She flings her whole upper body in a hoppy way with her arms held out and tensed: the way only young women and actors think to punch. Women like her roll in maybe once every three months. Most quit when they realize fighting someone may involve touching them. The men quit more from the being touched.

In the mean time, someone will have to pull her aside and show her the basics.

“Jack.”

Fuck.

Coach calls my name, theatrically lining up with my inner monologue.

“Pull Shelly aside and show her the basics. One through six and defenses.” Coach's eyebrows perk up just a little. He always has the most efficient way to make you do what he tells you. And the man said take it easy.

“Yes, sir.” I say, because that's what you fucking say.

In most cases, telling someone to instruct is a favor. Teaching is not a good workout nor good for training. Anyone who says differently is trying to get me to cover his class on Saturday. But it is attention: the reward for fighting that's easiest to explain. And Shelly is a gold mine for that shit.

She gives me that look. That “oh, you are so good” look, before I even do anything. I get the feeling I have this job because I'm the only one not volunteering. It'd be beautiful if it was what I needed, today.

“Shelly.”

“Yes.” She responds to her name, perky as shit. Her smile screams that she's here because of a Groupon she got under the 'adventure' tab.

“I'm Jack. Let's go over the one through six.”

“Yes, sir.” She says, because she actually means it.

All skills start, appropriately enough, with one. The one. The jab. It's the range finder. It sets up kicks. Takedowns. Other punches. Everything flows from one.

“Relax, Shelly.” It's 'relax,' not 'two,' that comes after one. Perky Little Shelly is tensed up from triceps to traps like she's going to kick the shit out of the air in front of her, but good. It makes for a punch that's sloppy and exhausting.

Perky Little Shelly stops being so perky as I go through my well-rehearsed drivel on the mechanics of two. The straight cross. The most reliable power shot. The striking mainstay. The punch that visibly annoys Shelly as it stalls her from hitting things. But she silently sits through it. I'm honestly surprised. Impatience is conventionally a man's game. Then, so is fighting.

After one, relax and two comes the three, which Shelly seems as bored with as I am. The lead hook. The first power shot with the lead hand. Like everyone else in the world, Shelly drops her other hand to her chest as she throws it.

I smack her upside the unprotected part of her head. This is still in the standard order. It goes one, relax, two, three, smack.

“You've got to keep that other hand up.”

This girl I've never met before looks at me like she wants to fight me. It's just a second before Perky Little Shelly grins her way back and brings her right hand up, way too high. But I saw some violence underneath the smile. She may be more cut out for this than I gave her credit for.

“Does anyone ever get mad when you nitpick every little thing?” The question is in Perky Little Shelly's voice, but I get the feeling it was that other lady I met after the smack that was asking it.

“It's just the way we teach the syllabus, I'm afraid.” Though they do get mad. Constantly. About everything, not just fighting.

We make it all the way to six without any young woman trying to rip my heart out. She actually remains quite perky once she feels she has the hang of things. For once I don't have the heart to tell a new student she doesn't have the hang of shit.

Coach takes the center of the mat and we all fall in, because that's what you fucking do. His first order of business is to look directly at me, which is rarely good.

“Can you roll?”

Oh, thank God.

“Doctor says I am good to train.” That is so technically true I'm starting to believe it's actually true. Right now, I just need a chance to show a little of my cruelty to someone.

“Alright, you're with me.”

Fuck.

By now I'm pretty much convinced that Coach can actually hear me narrate. But its no problem. As long as something hurts on someone, I'll be satisfied.

No man in history has ever been good enough to beat his coach, regardless of age. The man who showed you most of your go-to moves is more experienced with your arsenal than you are. More importantly, he has a strength that students simply do not.

Old Man Strength, it's called. And Coach has lots of that. Its a strength that comes at the end, when every race is run and every piece of cartilage is worn to a nub. When he knows exactly how much his body can give while a younger man still thinks he'll rise to the occasion. And when instead of using his hand to keep his balance he braces his knuckles into that one spot I didn't even know was tender.

Fuck. That's my jaw.

I'll run my face right into Coach's fist, when the situation calls for it. Even though, seriously, ouch. I still have no shortage of Discontent and giving up a good position, even in a friendly practice wrestle, will make me none too perky.

Coach and I let the round end. Then the buzzer sounds the next one. And there's always one after that. The loud men in loud shirts naturally filter out as things get rough. New rounds pass until all that's left is Coach and I and something that isn't supposed to be here.

Perky Little Shelly watches from the sidelines after everyone else has said goodnight. She fixes her hair, which has been mussed and muffled. And possibly groped. I love my team but there are one or two that I wouldn't accuse of being too classy. Yet, Shelly stays on the floor until the last bell rings.

Coach lets me up, as he often does at the end of a round.

“You done?”

“For now.” Not really. Something is still off in me. It has been since the beginning of the day, and probably before that. But there's no reason to keep going here. Someone might start to think I have a problem.

Shelly stares from the sidelines. Apparently we put on a show.

“You guys are so good.” She actually fucking says it. Word for word. It's still not what I need but I'm starting to enjoy the attention. Now all that's left is to hop in the car and end on a high note.

“Fuck.” Shelly steals my line. “I missed my train.”

“There's another one in an hour,” Coach gives his standard response to anyone worried about the clock. “If you're late, I can write you a note.”

Shelly lets out a laugh with a fake tune I recognize as well as any sound in the gym. Something was very suddenly a problem now that she had to leave. I've had the same feeling with every late night I put in here.

“I'll walk her to the station.” It's not like we're in a bad neighborhood, but maybe it's being alone that has her worried.

“Thanks, Sean.”

I wave my coach off before he corrects her. Close enough. I may still have fight in me, but not over names.

I could just drive her. But it's a short walk and I tell myself I need the cool-down. I actually want some more attention now that I like the taste. Its still not what I need. I know because as we walk I get trapped in the one moment of my life where I don't have a thing to say. That moment lasts for a good stretch of sidewalk.

“You guys were talking about a doctor a lot. Something wrong?”

And the perky bitch pounces right on the reason why my words don't want to go out alone, tonight.

“Something's always wrong.” I give a nice fake laugh of my own. “It takes its toll.”

“So does everything.” Her voice is the least perky it's been, but it isn't fake.

There's more silence all the way to the train station. There's a track and a bench and a long wait and even more silence. Then there's one thing that shouldn't be there. It starts with one.

Three guys on another bench about fifty yards away are staring directly at us. It's hard to make out details in the dark, and I can tell they are staring directly at us, which means one hell of a stare.

I glance back to Shelly whose staring directly back. I think she spotted them before I did. Maybe she was looking for something when we got here. Maybe they're looking for trouble. Maybe they're looking for Shelly.

Relax.

“How about we just go back to my car? I'll drive you home.”

She nods in a lovely mix of agreement and terror.

Fuck.

I could have just driven her. And it's a long fucking walk. I try not to look back, but I can hear footsteps and voices following at a perky pace. I don't want to run, just yet. It's incredibly rare to be involved in a random violent crime in New York State.

Though, the violent crime rate rose this year for the first time in a generation.

I'm even nitpicking myself, now. I get why it bothers people.

Then comes two.

Two more guys between us and my car. One's on a cell phone. They're also coming right at us. I guess that explains the voices from behind. For whatever reason, they definitely are looking for Shelly. At least its not random. That would further mess with the statistics.

I see why she liked the idea of having me along. But I think Perky Little Shelly will be disappointed at how good I am against a large number of the potentially armed.

Three.

I hook Shelly's arm and lead her to the nearest quick turn I can take.

Then I smack myself.

The turn was into an alley that ends in a pile of garbage and a very high cyclone fence.

What purpose does this structure serve outside of a Charles Bronson movie? Fucking seriously.

Now I run, and Shelly follows. When we hit the fence I lift her up to make the climb. The sound of footsteps and voices converge at the alley entrance. And I'm finally done.

Done.

I am chasing behind a girl who thinks my name is Sean because I'm getting attention for something I can do. I'm running from a death and I don't have the first clue as to how or why its coming for me. The whole situation is just so disgustingly familiar.

I wave goodbye to Perky Little Shelly.

Discontent turns me around. I've got more than enough. In fact, I've got a long list of grievances regarding how this shit-show turned out and I am going to sound them off on every fucking face I see before I go down.

There are more than enough of them to take me down.

I perch hard against the ground, then sprint into them. Its better to try to hurry than wait for the light to turn.

Better than waiting for the cancer to get me.