One thing you never want to do is upset an old Irish lady, especially one who left your Da for fighting back in Dublin. Back home Ma told me they would always fight outside, set in the golden glow of torchlight and green long grass. Passions ran hot, as they would look at their fight not as fight club but as two Celtic warriors claiming their dominance over one another. It was a way of life for Da. Ma said he always talked about how the grass was so green ‘cause of all the green blood that fell on it. And all his boys would laugh and laugh as the world would stop and listen to rambling stories that James Joyce would have blushed at. But that was way back in nineteen ninety-seven, when Ma took me away.

What was glorious to him wasn’t to Ma. A hit was a hit in her eye, and she swore no child, husband, or family of hers was going to be made off of their fists, no matter how much Da wanted me to. In some ways I think she knew I’d be like him. I wonder if that’s why she took my away from Ireland. There, they hit you like a professional. Americans, they want to hurt you. They play to the crowd these fighters, so they become animals in the ring. James is a regular in that sort of act. Always they are snarling and biting and tearing off chunks of meat.

Poor James, he sure is a regular. Been trying to knock me down for years. I’ve always knocked him down first, but lately I think I’m becoming more American. This is the fifth night in a row I had to fight him and be crowned “champion” of the night. I look around and through this still numb shroud of pain, I can make out the beaten brows and tired eyes of the usual patrons of this place. Neji, Carl, Mike, George, and Meg is here, too. How about that? There must also be half a dozen others. They’re all here like every other night. Sitting atop their makeshift trash can seats or high above in the fire escapes, starring down at us killers in the street arena caked with shit, spit, and ditched beer flasks. Exciting I’m sure for them, but now the fight is over and the Bridgeport Connecticut fight club is adjourned.

They slip their smart phones back in their pocket and their tablets back in their cases, and leave in all but five seconds, leaving behind only the gruff wails of the promoters shouting at the alleyways entrance. James is dragged away; I wonder if he knows he’ll be someone's Facebook wall photo tonight.

“Hey Mark,” John calls out! John has been the promoter and owner of this little sideshow for years. That false tenderness of his; he’s gotten so many fighters because of that smile of his. It’s how he got me. He always hangs out at the end of the alleyway, at some desk I’m pretty sure he got from someone else’s yard. He keeps a small coat rack for the fighters to hang their hats on and a bucket for their shoes. Likes to make us feel welcome I guess.

“Hello John,” I say. “You have something for me or not?”

“Ah you know me so well,” he says.

He hands me my night’s pay. It’s one hundred dollars in total.

“You fuckin’ serious?” I ask. “John, this is a fucking gift card.”

“Nobody bet tonight Mark,” he says. “What the hell you want me to do? Look I’m not having this argument with you. You want to get out? Get out. Of course you do need the money. Be honest with yourself, you love this, you’re a real boxer in that ring.”

“This whole thing is a steady salary,” I say. “This lot behind the ex 7 Eleven is not a ring, and I am not a boxer.”

I grab my cash out of his chubby fingers and look back as his black frizzy hair that stands on end. He never did like it when people touched him. I grab my coat and shoes, put them on, and stumble out of the alley. I can’t go far; at this hour you have no way of knowing when the cabs are going to come by. So I park it on a bench a block down. I wasn’t about to let John laugh at me as he counts out the money that I know he has. Besides, John has this rule about hanging around the club after the fights are done. I used to like having our club in an alley; made things seem rougher that way.

Either way I need to do something other than tap my feet like a jackhammer. I pull out my notepad from my jacket pocket, its dime store pen still clinging to its bent up spine. I need to write this idea down. It’s been festering in my head since the second fight. I want to make something greater than anything I’ve ever read. Hard task, I know, for someone who has read everything from Tolstoy to Wolfe. But I’ve had this idea for a while now, the same title repeating and repeating in my head. I have to write it down.

Okay so how did that story go, my title character Ben at the docks working hard to sustain his family while also fighting cancer. It’s too dark. This story is too dark! Okay calm down. Hold your head up Mark; I got it down on paper at least so progress there. I really should get a new pad though; this one’s staring to get a bit ratty. Either way Ben is out of my head, so on to the next one.

As I turn over a new note page some yellow headlights appear on the shadowy street. Well I’ll be damned; they’re starting early tonight. I wave him down and thank Christ he stops.

I get in and give him some of my cash.

“Hey man you look pretty beat up,” he says. “You need to go to the hospital or something?”

“No,” I say. “I need to go home.”

**********************************************************************************************

Saturdays are my forced goof off days. They’re my time for me to lick my wounds and sit down for a change. Ma stayed here she would always complain about stuff like that. Ma and I came to Bridgeport as immigrants ten years ago; at the time I was the moody sixteen-year-old with too big of a brain. Ma always talked about how she was going to buy our apartment wholesale, how we weren’t going to spend our lives renting the roof over our heads and how I was going to graduate a year early. She wasn’t even close. What with my school and her job she couldn’t keep up the rent by herself let alone pay back the bank for the initial loan. The latter happened at least, I graduated high school a year before I was supposed to.

She was working day in and day out at every construction yard in the area, trying her hardest to put me through school. “God gave you citizenship Mark, God gave me a strong back to work, and God’s going to give you a future.” She died three years later. They said she worked around too many houses and insulation. I told them that lots of general contractors worked with her and they never got sick. But she did, and I buried her by the sea where she wanted. It was such a bad time, no money for college, and if we we’re paid up for the next three months, sooner or later rent would be due. That’s when I finally took to writing. For the first two months after her death I shut myself away and wrote down every single Idea I had burning inside. Ma didn’t lie. Truth is I had more ideas for fan fiction than anything else. Reading stuff like Huck Finn and wanting to insert your own character riding down the river with Huck. I remember pacing the room imagining what my character would do in that world. Muttering to myself about Jim and what my character would say to him as the safe golden waters of the Mississippi guided us along. To escape down that river, it meant everything to me.

I loved making this stuff up I really did, but eventually I hit the final week of the third month. The rent was due, and I had nothing. Somehow I found John during that week. I was writing the day he found me; sitting by the docks was always good for clearing my head. He said really he wanted to see if I was okay, I looked too depressed he said. He sized me up and told me of a way I could make some quick cash, if I was interested of course. So I took to the fight, got my ass handed to me at first and I couldn’t hide it worth a damn. Apparently, scars, broken skin, and shattered ribs are tricky to cover up at the best of times. But, I was the performer, and I had to suck it up. In the beginning I didn’t make much. But in the end I got good enough to make the money I needed in one night. Now here I sit, seven years later in the same apartment.

I forget sometimes that my perfect view of the Atlantic is worth all the trouble for this place. From this distance not even the crowded streets, the salt damaged glass of the window, or the smog in the sky can dampen its beauty. I wish I had more time to enjoy it, but I have shit that needs to be done. Rent’s already been paid off for this month so, I’m set there. I also have to get more tape and see how bad James ripped me up. Finally, I need to take care of Ma’s things. I’ve been trying to get all her stuff sorted out for a while now; I haven’t had the time. Been bumbling through most of it anyway. Regardless I have one more box to sort through and that’ll be the end of it. So I dig inside and pull out the only thing that was there. A leather bound photo album so tattered it looked as if it would come apart if I opened it. Morbid curiosity has always gotten the best of me, so why stop it now. I open it up, and it’s like looking into a mirror. The first picture is of a strong jawed, dark haired Irishman with a crooked nose. I’d never quite seen anyone this sharp looking before. A fine cut black suit and tie, shined shoes, and capped neatly by a broad rim fedora, this man oozed class. The man was certainly older, but he was me. Aside from that class gap the resemblance between us was uncanny.

I took the photo out from under its protective film and held it in my hands. The photo itself was brittle, like freshly broken tree bark it was bent, yet rigid at the same time. Someone had tried to destroy this before I found it. The film had shown signs of light damage but I could still make out two bottom sentences underneath it. Eiric O’Hanrahan, Cotton Club Harlem March 23, 1936. I didn’t know we had family over here in America before Ma and me. I turned to the next page of the book and right before my eyes were more pictures of Eiric; this entire album was his. I tore through it and found so many different things. There were photos of his friends, drinking buddies, and family portraits, all taken at the Cotton Club. I can only assume that it was a white only Jazz club, because there were only white faces in the pictures. They probably had black performers, but it’s a shame only white people could listen to the music. Pity, I personally love jazz and so far the Cotton Club hasn’t left the best impression. One was of him shaking hands with Owney Madden and him kissing a white suited black man. I guess the Cotton Club did have black performers after all, as they both sat back stage at a jazz show with their lips perfectly intertwined.

As I put down the album, my phone blips. Tucking the box under my left arm, I see that Mimi’s sent me a new text, oh joy.

Hey Mr. Hemmingway, meet Sora and me at Brennans later.

Yeah, sure Mimi, I text back, I’ll see you guys in a few.

She just had to call now didn’t she? Eh, I need to clear my head anyway. This, no I can’t deal with this right now. So all right Mimi, I’ll grab a few drinks. Maybe this time you won’t drink yourself under the table trying to prove your more Irish than me, it’s not going to happen.

**********************************************************************************************

Brennans was one of those places that really wanted you to take it seriously as an old Irish establishment. Its new wooden architecture cast a rustic glow as the late afternoon sun pierced its way through the windows. People were still getting out of work so the bar wasn’t quite as crowded yet. Only a few wicked patrons passed out at the bar. They didn’t have jobs most of them so, I say, let them drink. Despite the fake antique bar stained by drool, the actual corner booths were well maintained. Solid oak jutting out of the wall and framed by s-curve couches. It was a distinctly American thing these couches, but it was where we always met up, and today was no different. Near the back Mimi and Sora are waiting for me. Ever since I came to Bridgeport they’ve been there for me.

“Hey Mark, over here,” Sora calls out.

Ah Sora, now that’s a descent man if ever there was one. He worked over at the mailroom as a production manger so I don’t see him around much anymore. I wish I did. Like Mimi I met him years ago when I first came to America. They were my first real friends. Sora especially. He hates his real name, I remember that much. Wants everyone to call him by his Native American name. I know for a fact the man is only one fourteenth Cherokee, but he would never hear it. For God’s sake he’s as white as his sister and just as fair-haired. His abnormally thin face framed by those thick glasses. But, I’ve always called him Sora so that’s what he will stay. Quite frankly, that’s what I want him to be, he’s perfect.

I sit down next to him and he’s still in his little postman outfit. He’s worked at that place for as long as I can remember and they still haven’t given him anything more than a manager’s pin.

“We waited for you Mr. Hemmingway,” he says.

“I hate Hemmingway.”

“So, you’ve said,” he says. “Now let me see.”

He looks at my cuts again. Brushing past my forehead without even asking he checks out every bruise and blister behind my bangs.

A few minutes later the bartender brings us our drinks personally, says something about us being his favorite customers. I get the Guinness, and they get two iced teas. Gingerly I sip at the Guinness; they didn’t put enough cream in it.

“I’m not stupid, guys,” I say. “I know what this.”

Then you shouldn’t be surprised,” Mimi says. “We’re worried about you. You have so much talent Mark and you’re throwing it away.”

“What exactly am I throwing away?”

“How about a future,” Sora says. “You’re still fighting, and for what?”

“Money,” I say.

“Your Ma’s place you mean,” Mimi says. “It was too expensive when you bought the place and it’s too expensive now.”

“I… can’t leave, I need that place,” I say. “I’m not justifying myself there, not while I found something this good.”

“What are you talking about?” Sora asks.

“No you don’t understand,” I say. “I’m working on this new story and, I have found the perfect inspiration.”

“Okay then,” Sora says. “Why do you need to fight to get it done?”

“I need money to pay for my shit while I work on it. C’mon I’m really not justifying myself there.”

“This is why we’re worried about you Mark,” Mimi says. “You’re taking on too much, you always have.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” I say. “I can’t walk away because I like it? Is that what you want me to say? Huh? Pissing me off, thanks for the drink but I have work tomorrow, and I want to get some writing done before the night is through.”

“Can you tell us what it’s about at least?” he asks.

“Only if you let go of me, now Sora!” I yank my hand away and storm out.

I walk outside and thank Christ the afternoon bus is boarding further down the block. I get on, pay my toll, and sit down. What right do they have to judge me? John, Mimi, Sora, I’m so close damn it. I’m not going to stop fighting because my friends are getting a bit squeamish. Huh, everything is moving too fast. I massage my temples and take a few deep breaths. But nothing dulls the aching in my head. At least the bus hasn’t moved yet; gives me a chance to write. Eiric, I wish I were you. I may write you as gay gangster bastard, but at least you’re more confident than me at the moment. I take out my notepad; I try to get the groundwork done at least. Eiric you really were a jammy bastard. You must’ve been paid a lot more than me. Oh, that’s right. Huh, I have to fight tomorrow, day and night. Shit.

**********************************************************************************************

Sora worries about me being cut up, so I won’t get cut up. I’ll fight like an American and kill the son of a bitch. I punch him as hard as I can, he falls down, and I pounce; any pretense of civility between us is gone. Over and over again I hit him into the gravel of the ring. He tries putting up his hands to block me. When he does, I give a couple of hook punches to his ribs and he puts his hands down. He knows he’s lost, and now he’s going to take it.

Within seconds I’m wrenched off and thrown into some dark room. Blood still boiling, and oozing out from my clenched fingers I look around to see that I’m actually in a utility room. A janitor’s closet probably belonging to one of the bars along this alley. Why John has the key to this enclosed nightmare of bleach and pine sol, I can only guess. I don’t have too much time to think about it, as John throws the door open and leans against the doorframe.

“You coulda killed that kid,” he says.

“Yeah who is that kid anyway?”

“Not important. You lost it in there. Man what happened to that grinning guy who smiled like a real boxer? I want that guy back and I want him back tonight. James is coming back.”

“Aw come on! Really? Him? You’d think he’d learn.”

“Yeah well the more he doesn’t learn the more money you make because of your rivalry, now listen to me!”

“What rivalry?” I ask. “He never speaks in case you hadn’t noticed. Last time I checked we beat on each other, and then get paid. Being a circus clown was not one of your rules John.”

“Well it is now,” John says. “Our audience loves you guys and they like you more when you’re the fun guy and James doesn’t say a word. I want the fun guy here tonight. Got it?”

I nod and he seems to calm down, rubbing the back of his neck as if that’ll blow away the awkwardness.

“Good,” he says. “Now, go home.”

I get up, pushing past all the empty bottles and brooms of the closet and push John away. I grab my coat off the rack so hard that it tears the left sleeve. I mutter some obscenity and head back to my place.

John asks too much. I can’t be happy if I’m not happy, especially tonight. How can I feel ready to fight if all I can hear is Ma’s voice in my head? I walk into the street and all I can hear is the noise. Cars honking, doors opening and closing, this cluster of white noise drowns out the once calm swish of the ocean. Where am I in all of this? Where is my place in any of this? I stumble out of the back street smelling like pavement and sweat and I go home, that’s it. Where’s the smirking face of Eiric O’Hanrahan? Why can’t I be him? Where are my friends that said they once cared so much for me? I loved rushing around this place once, but now I don’t know what I love.

**********************************************************************************************

The brilliant sun is setting over the water by the time I get home. I look up and see that I’m at the docks; I wasn’t even looking at the street. As always, I find my way from there and reach my apartment, bounding up the cobblestone steps to the third floor. When I actually get to it and open the door, Mimi and Sora are waiting. Christ.

“What do you both want?” I ask.

“We want to know what the stories about,” Sora says. “I asked if we could remember?”

Sora, you would remember this. I nod; I refuse to make eye contact.

“Well, here we are” Mimi says. “Sora let you go. So let’s see it.”

“You can’t,” I say. “It’s not done.”

“Bullshit,” she says. “Let me ask you something Mark O’Hanrahan, how does your story end?”

I say nothing.

“You don’t know do you?” she asks.

“Well no,” I say. “Like I said, I’m taking my time with it.”

You’ve yelled at us, pushed us away, and fought us all because we wanted you to be a writer. Now we ask you a very simple question like how does it end, and you throw a hissy fit. Why?”

I have had enough. “Because I don’t know how to end it!” I say. “Is that what you want to hear? I don’t know if I should fight or write. Is that what you want to hear? Is it?”

Over and over I screamed at her, until Sora stared back at me. Those big beautiful eyes staring back at me with the same hard power Ma had. I take a breath.

“Mark,” he says. “We don’t want to force you to do anything. I wanted to know if you were okay. That’s all I’ve ever waned to know.”

I let out probably the biggest sigh I have in ages.

“It’s a story about a very happy man,” I say. “He does really awful things, but he’s openly gay. And it’s set during a time when… those kinds of things didn’t really happen. I don’t know, I got the story from one of Ma’s old photo albums; guy’s name is Eiric O’Hanrahan. What do you think?”

I want to say more, but standing up I see Mimi standing like Ma, looking at me with that insufferable, there now that wasn’t so hard face. And Sora, man has one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “For yelling before, you know.”

“You’ll make it up to us later,” Mimi says.

I look at the clock and it’s time for the fight with James.

“You both stay here as long as you want,” I say. “Let me know what you think of it later.”

I grab my tattered coat and they shoot me a knowing glance.

“I have to,” I say. I wait a couple of seconds and Mimi nods, Sora looks away. I grab my coat and run out. Before I can even get five feet away from my door Sora calls out for me.

“Hey, wait up,” he says before shutting the door behind him. “I just, you know wanted to wish you luck. In the fight I mean.”

“Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”

I always hated awkward silence. Thank Christ it didn’t last long.

“Mark,” he says. “Why do you have to go back? And don’t say it’s to pay the rent. You can get a job anywhere else so I want to know right now.”

I move past him and park myself on the guardrail, while Sora leans against the wall opposite of me. He’s nice enough to let me collect my thoughts.

“You’re right Sora. Okay, I don’t need the money. I don’t need to write either. But I love it; I love it so much. I love writing and fantasizing, and beating people down into a bloody pulp and feeling like my Da. I don’t know when do we ever do things that make sense? I honestly think I like being confused. Yeah you know what? That’s it right there. I like milling around.”

“Milling?” he asks.

“Fighting,” I say.

“You would have a word for it.”

“Cause we all do it, every single one of us. I don’t think it matters who we fight.

They’re just names, faces, and rivals if we’re lucky enough. I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is the noise cause the noisier it gets, the happier I’ll be when it all dies down."

I look back at Sora; boy hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I think they’re watering a bit, but I can’t really see.

“Enough?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he stutters. “I think I get it now. All right well thanks man. You should probably get going, but lets talk later okay?”

“Sure,” I say.

Sora moves in and I respond with a hug. We stand there, arms around each other in the in overcast light of the afternoon sky. I don’t think he wants to let go. I’m not sure I want to let go. But I pat him on the back and we break apart.

“I’ll be back later Sora,” I say. “I promise.”

Sora gently straightens out my now wrinkled coat and fixes my collar; brushing his hand on my neck as he pulls away.

“I’m holding you to that,” he says.

He walks back inside, leaving me hot and blushing. Shaking that off I run down this concrete maze of a hallway and practically leap down the stairs. Now I was ready to go back to John and play the happy guy again.

**********************************************************************************************

By the time I get to the fight it’s already dark, and James is waiting for me. He doesn’t say a word only takes off his shirt, ready to go. As I step into the ring John declares that the fight won’t start until I throw the first punch. Seeing as I’m the Champion it was only fair according to him. I go to raise my fists, but I can’t help but breathe in and out. I’m actually taking a breath before a fight. I didn’t simply jump in. The world slows down to a crawl and for one blissful second there is no noise, no traffic, and no arguments. I’m free, truly free.

James throws the first punch and blackens my eye. Bastard! I wonder if Da ever had any “rivals” before. None of them like James I hope, only one of us should have to deal with him.

The world catches up with me after that. I stand back up and brandish my taped up fists. I put on the best smile I can and dive in as an Irishman, the sounds of Bridgeport racing in behind me.

© 2013 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#fiction