4 October 1974
Mules
Nat arrived at the gym about ten thirty in the morning. The little man was nowhere to be seen. Jack was in the ring, sparring with some guy who looked too old to be there. They didn’t look up, probably didn’t dare, so Nat just watched.
He leaned gingerly on a heavy bag, which swayed over and leaned against the dirty gym wall. And he watched Jack’s footwork. And the way he held his hands, so that wherever the old guy tried to jab he just got Jack’s gloves instead.
He watched for maybe five minutes, aching with admiration. The old guy never laid a glove on him.
When the old guy wore down and got tired, he made a mistake. And Nat saw it. Saw it before the guy even finished paying for it, which Nat thought was a good sign. He actually spotted what the guy did wrong. Where he left his opening.
Jack’s right plowed through it like a freight train. Nat heard the two solid blows from across the room. The impact of Jack’s gloved fist. And the older man’s back hitting the mat.
“OK, Time! Go clean up, Fred. I went easy on you.”
“Don’t patronize me, you son of a bitch.” Said with no genuine rancor as far as Nat could tell.
Jack offered a bent arm down to help the guy to his feet. Then he ducked through the ropes and headed in Nat’s direction, removing his gloves as he walked. He had known Nat was there all along, Nat realized. He was just doing things one at a time.
He was wearing trunks only, no shirt. Nat glanced at the definition of his chest muscles. And his abs. Like a washboard, each section distinct and angular, as if he had been carved from clay. Nat knew he wanted that for himself. Wanted that body. That way of carrying himself in the world. Wanted Jack’s life, if such a thing had been possible.
“Told you come back in a week. Wasn’t that more like four or five days?” He caught sight of Nat’s face and whistled softly. “Man. Did you get the shit kicked out of you or what?” He grabbed hold of Nat’s chin. Turned his face sideways for a better look. “No wonder you wanna learn to fight. You should never let nobody do some shit like that to you.”
“What if it’s a cop?”
“Oh. Well, that does get a little dicey, then. Doesn’t it? Hey. Isn’t this a school day?”
“I guess so.”
“Come to think, wasn’t it a school day last time you were here?”
“I guess.”
“You just don’t bother with school?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Well. I guess I’m no truant officer. Where’re your gloves, kid?”
“Don’t have ’em.”
“You didn’t bring ’em?”
“Don’t have ’em. Period. At all.”
“They get ripped off or something?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Man. Those sweet gloves. They were really primo. That sucks, kid.”
“Yeah. It really does. I don’t have a bag any more, either.” A long pause. “How much you think a pair of gloves like that costs?”
“More than you got, I bet. How much you got?”
“Nothing.” He had been living with a revoked allowance for nearly a year.
“Then I’d say they cost more than you got.”
“You got any work I could do around here?”
Jack laughed, a snort that sent a rush of air between his nearly closed lips. “Like what?”
“Like someone to clean up or something? Mop the sweat off the floor?”
“That’s Little Manny’s job. Nope. Sorry, kid. Can’t help you with the gloves.” Jack sighed. Worked his jaw as if chewing something tough between his molars. “Tell you what, though. You may not take them home. Ever. I don’t ever want to see any glove of mine walk out that door. But if you wanna practice here … you can take down a pair of them.” He pointed with a flip of his chin to the far wall, where half a dozen pairs of old gloves hung on hooks.
Nathan walked over to check them out.
He tried to find a pair that were in better condition than the others. But they were all the same. All horrible. Nathan guessed they must be twenty years old at least. Most of the brown color had been worn or scraped off the contact surfaces. Then they had been wrapped in duct tape to keep them from flying apart where the stitching had come unsewn at their seams.
He took down a pair at random, literally unable to see how any pair was better than any other.
“I know, I know.” Jack’s voice from just behind his right shoulder. “It’s like having your Ferrari stole and then having to ride a mule. But if you wanna practice …”
“I do.”
He pulled on the gloves. Held out his hands so Jack could lace them for him.
Nat stepped up to the heavy bag and gave it one good clean shot with his right. Pain exploded through his body. His jolted gut. The muscles all through his rib cage, his abdomen. The shock of the blow even made his head hurt.
He held still a minute, eyes pressed closed, forehead resting against the bag. Still holding it in both gloved fists.
He felt Jack’s hand on his shoulder.
“Maybe in a couple days. When you get to feeling better.”
“I feel fine.”
He straightened up and hit the bag again.
And again. And again. And again. And again.
Jack was watching. So he could do anything.