Who knows when the ebb
starts, that start to the be-bop king hell king slide down, the question of
when the struggle for the top, for being top dog, for being top dog among you
and yours, turns from kid (well young man anyway) great blue-pink cloud puff
nights to sober star-filled wonders about immorality, your place in the sun,
whether it will happen and whether you have enough wherewithal to stand the
gaff, the grift, or just the drift toward the infinite. More importantly when
the “this and that” of life, the ordinary muck, always present, always damn
present from the cradle, takes over.
Let’s put it like this, okay.
That minute when you call an armed truce (no, a thousand times no don’t say
surrender, please, be like Bob Marley, stand up, stand up, stand up for your
rights, don’t give up the fight), to that thing that in 1960 got you running
the streets, got you running into Park Street and massive scorn, or some hard
stir time courtesy of Uncle Sam, or crushed beneath the May Day red tide. (Ya,
Bob had it right, don’t give up the fight.) When you didn’t retire exactly but just
kind of ran out of opponents who were ready to beat you down on their way up and of sparring
partners, rubber tube around the middle just like you, who decided to take up gardening or whatever
third-rate guys do when they move on, move uptown as you always said. But one
last call calls. And this…
White truce flags neatly
placed in right pocket. Well placed in that right hand pocket in order,
right-handed man, pocket ready to call a, uh, strategic retreat from this day’s errands at the drop of that
handkerchief, an orderly retreat but a retreat, one of many, nevertheless. Then
folded aging arms showing the first signs of wear-down, unfolded. One more
time, one more war-weary dastardly fight against the feckless oil-driven times.
This time a mismatch, a
mismatch based a little on that rubber
tire around the middle, a little greyness in the hair , a little white in the
beard, a little ache here and a pain
there, once brushed off , and forward in day but now, weeks ache, and months
pains. The bigger opponent, mighty muscled, sleek, stealthy, lots of money
backing him, the “smart” money, no question. But he had contracted for this one
fight, take whatever comes and then, and then the joys of retreat and taking
out those white flags again and normalcy.
The first round begins. He
holds his own, a little wobbly, a little rubber tire around the middle wobbly,
but moving in and out to avoid the bigger man’s fearsome blows. Hell the guy is
not even winded. Damn it’s like a phalanx of something driving him to the
ground, or about six corner boys from his youth, his sullen youth when six guys
decided that he was, what? Mush? A fag?
Stupid? Second round he runs into a
series of upper-cuts that drive him to the floor. He stagger on his knees and
then up on the eight count. Another
barrage. Back up again on nine. Close.
Then another. He wobbles, knees akimbo, if that is possible and after this
mauling it probably is. Face down, stay
down. A distant muted echo hits his brain, his egg- scrambled brain, don’t give
up the fight. Nah, tomorrow is another day. Hell, there are always other days.
If not me then some young hungry guy, some barrio guy, some ghetto guy, hell,
maybe both. His brain says… Out. He ran
right out of time, Christ.
Awake later, seven minutes,
hours, eons later he takes out the proud white flags now red with his own
blood. He clutches them in his weary hands. His handler, his woebegone handler,
some ancient guy picked up on the cheap, a guy who looked pretty weather-beaten
but what are you going to do when you make a match with no up-front dough, no
real dough, and just a few fans who remember you from the old glory days, the
days when, no kidding, you could have been a contender. This old guy, met, or guys like him, met long
ago said going into the damn fight and I quote, he said struggle, struggle. Yah,
it’s easy for you to say, buddy. You
didn’t have to go two rounds with the guy. Jesus he never worked up a sweat.
Give me those damn white flags, jesus. And I want my option rematch just like
the contract says. Jesus.
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