Fight for Your Life

The room was illuminated by the blooming dawn through the dusty window. There were unwashed hand print stains over the surface of the dewy glass showing the want for light in the small room. A bed sloughed messy next to the lonely window. A single dresser rested next to the unmade bed. The morning light had faded the lampshade that sat there time after time so much so that the true color was unreadable. This light was barely touched because even when illuminated, the bulb would only produce about as much light to show the cracks and etchings in the walls. The sunrise glare through the dust-frosted window proved to spread enough light that the lamp was obsolete at this time. The glare from the window drew my eyes to the mirror. The mirror was less of a looking glass and more of a picture frame. Its edges were decorated with childhood photos. The fuzzy black-and-white moments told the stories of a boyhood full of family and happiness. A mother with two sons beaming gallantly at the viewer. A young determined boy swinging a base-ball bat with a cocky grin on his face. And a beaming woman watching as her sons trek off to school. The deceptions of childhood faded in the past hung on every gilded edge. This was the first time he'd let anyone into his world, and I was in awe.

He was sitting when I saw him. That bench with the short left leg in the park. The one that you would sit on for some privacy from the sun, with the shadow from the large oak tree casting its mark. The summer was in full spring and you couldn't catch anyone inside. I was riding my bike through the park when I saw my friend Paul waving in the distance. Paul was a stocky guy with an even stockier ego. He walked like the grass parted at his fee...

... middle of paper ...

... in trying to help us. We had to fend for ourselves. Walking home form our vexatious summer job, we would always pass the place where men would box during the Friday Night Fights. The bright marquee always displayed the names of various men arranged to fight in a night. Well, one destined Friday afternoon, I glanced up at the sign while exchanging idle chit-chat with Betty. I was stopped dead in my tracks. The Marquee read: TONIGHT’S FIGHT: OLD FAVORITE JACK SHARKLY AND NEW COMER GRAYSON MILLS. BETS TAKEN AT FRONT COUNTER.

I grabbed Betty by the arm, pointed to the sign and said, “You busy tonight?”

By the time seven thirty rolled around, Betty and I were walking the street to the ring. As we approached the ticket counter, we paid our day’s salary to the man at the ticket desk and revived our entrance tickets. As we walked into the dingy room, I glanced around.