OLD FIGHTER
After Anthony
Peretti retired, he moved back to the old neighborhood. It was the proper
setting for someone who wanted to live in a memory. The buildings were faded and dingy with age. Cold
winter air seeped into his little flat during the night. The radiator could not keep up. The old structure had too many wrinkles.
His internal
clock caused him to stir and open his eyes to the dim light. The regimen was
the same for as long as he could remember.
“Good morning Angie.” She didn’t
answer. He slept in a threadbare gray sweat suit. It kept him warm, and he could do his morning
exercises without changing clothes. Once he ran five miles every morning. Now
he walked in the neighborhood.
Rising from his
single bed, he stretched the muscles on his broad frame. His shoulders were a bit more stooped these
days, but his daily routine kept him in pretty good shape. The floor was hard
and cold. He eased himself down and did some push-ups and sit-ups. While he rested, he recalled the grueling gym
routine he used to do.
He stood up and
looked out the window at the brick wall of the adjacent building. If the angle was just right, he could see a
sliver of the street below. Very few
people opened their windows anymore. The sun was bright. It was a beautiful
day. He turned away from the window, and looked at the picture of Angie on the
end table. She looked so youthful, and
fit very nicely in his dream.
Entering his
small bathroom, he angled his thick shoulders through the doorway barely
clearing the doorframe. A mirror hung on the wall over the bathroom sink.
He splashed cold water on his face, and dried it off with a
stiff tattered green towel. He looked in the mirror and noticed how his once
angular features had rounded. His ears
looked like unfinished sculptures made of candle wax. Scar tissue thickened his eyebrows and
drooped at the outer edges giving him a sad countenance. His nose zigzagged down toward his lips. His
cheeks sagged, blending his once pronounced chin with the gently sloping skin
of his wide neck. This wasn’t part of
his dream.
He walked the
short distance from the bathroom to the kitchen. His apartment was very
compact. The dishes were stacked on the counter next to the sink for easy
access. He only needed one place setting because he never had guests. He put on
a pot of coffee, fried himself some eggs, and toasted some bread. With his
breakfast before him, he bowed his head, and gave thanks. He glanced at Angie’s picture again. The memories
he enjoyed, but he hated the loneliness. Anthony read for a while before
deciding to take a walk. It was early
afternoon.
He pulled on his
black woolen overcoat. His hands were a
little stiff and arthritic. Rabbit lined leather gloves felt warm against his
skin. Donning a black seaman’s watch
cap, he left his tiny dwelling, and made his way slowly down the five flights
of stairs to the street.
For a moment he
stood on the sidewalk, bathing in the contrast of warm sunshine and crisp air.
An ever-changing pallet of skin colors moved over the gray concrete accompanied
by a symphony of dialects. The city had its own atmosphere. The smells of smog, refuse, and people mixed
with the more pleasing and pungent odors of cooking garlic and onion. Occasionally he smelled perfume, strong
coffee, and spices. He enjoyed the hustle and bustle.
In his dream,
Anthony could still imagine walking with a cocky strut. In reality he ambled from side to side.
He spoke
greetings to several people he knew, but avoided those who looked like they
wanted to be left alone. Occasionally, he stopped at places where he and Angie
used to go. Memories were everywhere.
“Hey old man,
you’ve gotta pay the toll!”
The loud raspy
voice brought Anthony back to reality.
The speaker was large and muscular. He stood in front of a little corner
grocery with his pack of “wannabes”.
Anthony knew the type. He grew up
on these streets. Vultures were
everywhere, and always would be.
Doldrums of poverty and despair were their breeding ground. He continued
to walk, but turned his gaze away from the young hoodlums.
The leader
stepped into Anthony’s path. “Hey old man!
Give us your money!” The bully placed his hands against the older man’s
chest. The rest of the pack gathered
around him.
“Hey old man
didn’t you hear me?” He grabbed the
lapels of the woolen overcoat and pulled. “I’m gonna teach you some respect.”
Their faces were
close now. Anthony could smell cheap
wine. Something stirred deep inside the
old warrior, more instinct than thought. He sensed the punch coming, a looping
right hand. He tipped his head slightly
to the side. The fist of his assailant found nothing but air. The young man was overbalanced and had no
time to recoil.
Anthony responded
with unexpected speed. He drove a left
hook into the blowhard’s exposed ribs, and heard him wheeze. Reflex reloaded
his left hand, and he fired another hook to the bully’s head. He felt the jaw bone give, and watched the
younger man slump to the ground. He knew there would be no fight left in
him. In fact, he saw there was none left
in the others either. Cautiously he
waited as they all backed away, staring down in disbelief at their fallen
leader. He could hear the young man trying
to catch his breath, and see him attempt to rise from the sidewalk. As he watched, he saw the youngster’s eyes
would not focus yet. From personal experience, he knew it would take him a
while to find his legs.
Tony “The Bull”
Peretti, retired prizefighter, rubbed his gloved knuckles. He rolled his big shoulders forward,
straightened his coat, and moved away from the gawking pack. Glancing heavenward, he felt Angie’s concerned
gaze. A slight smile broke on one corner
of his lips as he recalled how Angie’s gentle nudging convinced him to leave
the ring. Almost apologetically he whispered, “The legs go first, the reflexes
slow, but the punch never leaves”.
The next work is a short poem. Poetry is usually dedicated to images far from the boxing ring. I have many versions of this next poem. I have reworked it numerous times, but I think this one gets the point across.
The Fighter
Sweat
covers his body,
forms
dark stains on
satin
trunks,
a
sheen on
red
leather gloves.
Years
of training
in
stale smelling gyms
to
fight.
He
shuffles forward,
posing,
moving,
punching.
Sweat
drips pink
over
scarred eyelids
to taut
canvas.
The
beauty of his work
lost
in its brutality.
Dennis Price
