BREAKS

[Since everyone has been asking, here is an excerpt from the novel, WHY I FIGHT, which will be published by Simon & Schuster next year. This is actually the piece that was published in 2004 by "The Tap" magazine, and will most likely be appear in a slightly different form in the book.]

During my first fight, all I thought about was the baby bird I’d killed. Flint and me fought behind a used tire shop owned by my uncle Spade’s pal, Larry. The day before, my uncle made arrangements for me to take on one of Larry’s workers, then he made the rounds to bars and garages, mentioning the fight to certain men. He made each guy feel important that he was invited. Not just anybody was allowed to bet. This was a secret, he whispered in their ears, could they keep it? That was a lie though. Larry had even invited the sheriff, since their girls played softball together.

Uncle Spade didn’t have no idea what I should do in the meantime. We wouldn’t start till the men’d finished supper at home and found a way out of the house on a Tuesday night. I thought it was weird to have it on a Tuesday. My first fight should’ve been on a weekend. But the men showed up just like my uncle said they would—pick a small enough town and the guys will show up for any kind of entertainment, especially if they can earn some cash off their pals doing it.

Uncle Spade always called it boxing, but what I did was fight. I had gloves, but it was more interesting for the people without. They liked a real knockdown show with blood and bruises. There wasn’t no ring like the matches I’d watched to learn. No ref. No rounds. No mats. No bleachers, seats or bells. It was usually a room, plain old cement floor and crates for sitting. But sometimes there wasn’t even that. Not even a room. Like that first fight held in back of Larry’s shop stacked to the ceiling with used tires. The building didn’t even have a back door. You had to walk around the side and through a high chain-link fence topped in barbed wire. A dirt area surrounded by columns of stacked-high radials felt like a black room after the sun went down. A old rusted Firebird, half-worked on, half-rusted away, sat on cement blocks by the building wall. One light bulb curved down from a metal tube arm over that car. I did exactly what my uncle told me. I worked out in the morning. I ran along the river where the sand stopped the grass. I asked a old guy if he needed help digging a hole in his yard. He handed me his shovel and told me he could only pay me five bucks. I told him I’d do it for free. Then I found a jungle gym in the park for my pull-ups and did a final beer run for Uncle Spade. With the leftover money from his twenty, I ate–two omelets with cheese and a hamburger. I also drank two chocolate shakes, three big pops and had a hot fudge sundae for dessert, then went back to the motel to lay down. Stretching out under the air conditioner, I heard a knock at the window. I sat up and listened for it again, but didn’t hear nothing. My belly was so stuffed, I didn’t want to get off the floor to see what it was. Partly too, I knew something was wrong. Sometimes you just know. I wiped the sweat off my face and sighed, then dragged myself up.

The sun bit my eyes as I opened the spring-loaded door. Heat waffled up my legs and shoulders. I made my hand into a shade and checked for people who might catch me in my underpants, but nobody was out in the heat. The dry weeds crinkled under the window. I jammed my shoe in the doorway to keep it from locking me out. My stomach twisted like when you get spun to hit a piñata. I knelt down and spread the brown weeds careful, ready to jump back. A mini brown bird lay there shaking. Its neck was crooked and its beak opened up like a yawn. A shower of prickly heat drenched me when I figured how it had slammed into the glass. It was half the size of a eight ball. Just picking it up, I thought I might pinch it in two. It peeped and wiggled. I cupped it with both hands and took it into the air conditioned room, but it shivered, or twitched.

Its feathers were thin and missing in spots where you could see raw red skin. Maybe it was young. Maybe it was learning to fly. I pressed my finger against its neck, light as I could, trying to straighten it out. It chirped sharp, so I stopped. What could I do? I didn’t know the first thing about birds. I knew they made nests. How could I help? What if I fed him a aspirin? I could grind it up. Mix it in water even. How about tying a popsicle stick to its neck? I decided to first lay it on a washcloth for comfort. With one quick motion, I flipped him into the white cloth. Bird blood speckled my palm. Red swam on the surface of his eye. My mouth watered. I thought I was going to puke, but I kept it down. I got panicked. He was going to die. I needed somebody to help, somebody who knew birds. I reached for the phone, but stopped. There was nobody. My uncle wouldn’t care. He’d probably laugh at me for being a sissy. Who would care? If only there was some kind of doctor for birds or hospital, I’d have taken him.

I wiped the blood on my underpants. It made stains like comets, dots with little tails. I pet him. The feathers weren’t soft like I figured. He wouldn’t stop shaking. The bird didn’t need to lay there hurting. He needed to die. How could I do it? Quick and painless—Electricity? No. Toilet? No. Pillow? No. I wasn’t smart enough to figure out the right answer. I carried him in the washcloth around the back of the motel, grabbing a cement block that held up the drain spout. If you don’t like something, don’t think about it. Turn it off.

Cool air hung in the low tree branches. The dirt smelled wet and rotten. I laid the washcloth down and folded the edges over. I raised the block over my head, my grip so tight that gravel crumbled off. My hands got steady and I brought block down. Head off, I reminded myself. Stay off. Stay off . . . Leaning down next to the gray block, I scraped the leaves away. When the ground was bare, I rammed my fingers in, putting my whole body into digging a deep hole. The dirt shoved under my fingernails.

It was getting late. I could barely see my hands. I lifted the block and slid the red washcloth in, then filled the hole and stomped the dirt flat. On my way back to the room to wait for Uncle Spade, I put the block back in its spot.

Why’re your hands muddy? Uncle Spade asked, walking in.

I don’t know, I said.

And why’re you naked, Wyatt? You got your first fight tonight, kiddo. Shake off those jitters. COME ON!

My head’s off.

Well, flip it on, man, and let’s get going.

I got up and went into the bathroom to wash up.

When we got to Larry’s Tires, my uncle couldn’t stop moving, talking to everybody, smoking like crazy, running his hands through his hair. I sat on a stack of tires, watching people file in, trying to figure out which one I was fighting. Crickets hid in the tires and took turns calling out to us. Flies spun around the one light bulb while I stretched. When Larry announced he’d be collecting the bets, people turned to look me over. I tried to pretend I was alone.

How you doing, Wyatt? You doing okay? my uncle asked me, a smile spreading thick across his face.

Fine.

You need to stretch. Did you stretch?

Yes.

What do you need? Water? You ready to do this? You nervous?

I need quiet.

Okay. Alright. I’ll give you that. You just make sure you’re all limber and focused. You can take this little man. I told Flint that you’re a teenager. He figures you’re nineteen. He’s been thinking he can take you easy.

Who is Flint?

The one you’re fighting. He’s got the greasy green jumpsuit on.

I need quiet.

Don’t be nervous, kiddo. You can do it. Remember, block your—

Uncle Spade. Please.

He dropped his head a second, sucking in a breath, not wanting to lose it with me. But I was about to lose it with him if he didn’t close his mouth. I felt this power with nothing in my brain–no caring, no thinking, no words–just the bird, and I had no doubt I could destroy that man across from me taping his knuckles.

Larry stepped into the circle of light, his hair shiny and long like spaghetti, but bald on top. He had money fanning out between his knuckles and waving as he talked. He explained that Flint was one of his buds and a good worker as most of them knew even if he’d started enough bar brawls to put most of the town in the hospital at one time or another. This time his fighting was being put to good use. Everybody chuckled real low. I breathed in the tire rubber and beer, holding the air in and staring at Flint. He was a full foot shorter than me and bald. A scar ran off one ear to the edge of his eye. He was staring back, pounding a fist into his palm. If I could take this guy down, my uncle’d be so happy. He’d make sure I stayed with him forever. He’d keep buying me stuff and even maybe stop to see some of the sights I wanted to see. We’d have a real good time. He’d been smilier than ever since he planned this fight. I remembered for a second how strong he made me feel, how I didn’t need to be smart or have friends or girls, if I could be the strongest, quickest one ever.

Tonight, Larry yelled, dabbing sweat off his face, Fighting Flint for your enjoyment, we got young Wyatt Reaves, who looks to me like a rambunctious one, even if this is his first fight. He’ll do his best I’m sure. . . .

The circle of guys laughed and shook their heads. That, my Uncle’d told me, is the advantage we got—they’ll mistake your being young for weakness, but you’ll pound him. Larry winked at a couple of his pals near the front who stomped out their smokes, ready to watch. Larry turned around real slow, then said, So let’s get to it here tonight. You all know the rules. And keep out of their way this time, Pete. Let ‘em go till one stays down.

Larry pulled Flint to his side. I took off my sweatshirt and stood up. My uncle set his hand on the flat of my back, guiding me to their side. The crowd backed into the shadow, making a circle. Uncle Spade’s hand pulled away and left a cool spot. And then Larry asked if we were ready. I hooked eyes with Flint, the bird floating in the air between his. We both nodded. I raised one fist to protect my chin and I waited for him to hit first. I wanted to feel it. All my skin warmed, numbed. None of the practice, the advice, the bag punches were there. It was just my skin and bone knowing what to do and needing him to start.

A small sure smile smearing his lips. He faked a right and jabbed with his left, connecting with my cheek. I let it connect. It was surprising how little it hurt at first—just a bug bite. My neck jerked back. Then the sting spread across that side of my face. He shook his fist a little. It hurt him more than me. The burn woke my skin and widened my eyes to take in all of him. And then my fists started working, my feet started dancing their dance with the little drag on the ground to keep them in the circle. My left shot into his stomach and he tried not to double over. His eyes shrunk. He punched, mad. I blocked each one, the bones of our wrists meeting at a pin point. There wasn’t a crowd or cricket, shuffle, grunt or clap. There was breathing, filling my ears. Then everything packed into the four points of my knuckles to break his nose. The soft bone bent on my fist, then snapped. My left followed—Flint, too surprised by the break to block—clipping his chin and tilting him back like he was laying in bed midair. Then he bent into a noodle and dropped, skin scraping the ground, head smacking, bouncing twice. The pain in my knuckles shot down into my wrist and crammed in there, curling up as I watched his eyes roll back, his arm raise up, twitch and fall.

The sweat in my eyes burned. I wiped them on my arm, but I couldn’t open them, so I waited—knowing it was over—for Spade to bring me my sweatshirt. Hands slapped my arms and shoulder. The air turned cool. The white washcloth shined on the back of my eyelids.

YOU DID IT, MAN! my uncle shouted in my ear. YOU FRICKEN TOOK HIM OUT! I KNEW YOU COULD, WYATT! DIDN’T I TELL YOU! DIDN’T I SAY!

His hands tightened around my biceps and he walked me to the pile of tires. He helped me sit down and told me he had to collect, he’d be back, he had to collect. I felt around with my right hand for my sweatshirt. My left wasn’t working too good. That wrist was holding in the pain. I patted my eyes until the burn stopped and then opened them to the crowd around Flint. He was still down. Larry took turns holding a towel to his head and passing out the cash. He had a lot to hand out, it looked like. My uncle was talking to the sheriff, a grin so big his moustache straightened out and made him look silly. I remembered that little smile Flint snuck me when we’d started. I didn’t like that. From then on, you could get me started just flashing me one of those. I hoped people’d do that sometimes just to get me swinging.

Crickets in the tire stacks started calling again as people disappeared out the back. Uncle Spade helped Larry carry Flint’s dangling body into the shop, then came back to count the winnings. He sat on a tire next to me that sloshed with water inside. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head with one hand, smearing the blood from my lip.

Blood on my sweatshirt. . . I grumbled.

You’re okay. I’ll get you a new one, kiddo, MY KIDDO. Jeez, you’re amazing. They never expected that from you, no idea what you got inside. They were all joking and now they’re dragging their sorry butts home with no money for lunch tomorrow. Why? Because it’s right here, in MY HAND!

How much?

I’m counting. I’m counting… and eighty-five. Hold on one second. . . .

He smoothed the bills out on his leg from a crumpled fistful. Larry came out carrying a small metal box. He smiled at me and told me I’d done good, real good and here was my hundred bucks. He swung open the box and took out one crisp bill. He told us Flint was doing fine, but he was going for some more ice, did I need any?

No, thank you, I said looking at the bill.

We are going to live the GOOD life for awhile. Yes, we are. Let’s get you some food. Steak and a chocolate shake. Howbout that? Howbout ten shakes? Ten steaks?

Uncle Spade, I think I need to go to the hospital.

My wrist was broke. I’d punched wrong. I didn’t really get what the doctor explained. Something about the angle of the punch and keeping my wrist straight the next time. He hoped there wouldn’t be a next time. Thought I got in a fight at school, on the playground, my being only thirteen and a half. A kid had cornered him by the teeter-totters and wouldn’t let him go, so he had to defend myself. That’s what Uncle Spade explained. He paid for the visit and the pain killers with some bet money. My cast too.

We’ll get that thing off, my uncle said, helping me into the Chevy. Don’t you worry. We’ll get you fighting again real soon. Now it’s steak time. You think you’re up to some beers too? Well, we’ll see.

He just couldn’t stop smiling. I was trying to smile too. I told him the drugs made me fuzzy. We ate till our bellies bit our belts. It was so good, the thick steaks, red on the inside. I took it all in so fast the shakes gave me a brain freeze. We laughed at how hard it was for me to eat with my other hand, dropping food on my jeans, Uncle Spade asking if I needed help, cutting up my steak and fries for me. That night before he fell asleep and snored from all the booze, I thanked him, thinking I was happy, real happy.