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Wisdom in Broken Hands

Brian LoRocco

    Ray Dawson was sitting on a broken locker room bench with his hands still wrapped, breathing the sweat off his body, and listening to all the familiar post-fight noise—the obnoxious voices of other fighters, some celebrating, some excusing, some talking about who they were going to screw tonight, and his own trainer, seven years his junior, bullshitting and laughing with them. The talk, the nonsense, the laughing, all of it, still bothered him. It was not what he wanted to hear after losing. But what was the big deal? He’d been losing for a long time now. Forty one years old, Ray was, and this time he’d been beaten up by a nineteen year old from Flatbush.
    The kid from Flatbush approached him in the locker room. Typically, after a fight if you ran into the guy who got the decision it was a menial encounter, good fight, keep at, good defense, whatever. Every now and again, you ran into a punk who wasn’t satisfied by simply having his hand raised at the end of the night, a punk that thought because he beat you in a boxing match that he had some authority over you and the right to say whatever he wanted . The kid from Flatbush was that type.
    “Hey GJ,” the kid said giving him that old locker room slang—everyone in the room knew what the kid was referring to. “Good fight, grandpa.”
    Ray looked at Jonesy, his trainer, not sure why, maybe it was instinct, but in any case saw what he should have come to expect from him. Nothing. Only nothing was a lie. Jonesy was on the verge of laughter. Ray could see it in his eyes, could see him beginning to smirk. Maybe Jonesy was right, maybe seeing your friend getting into it with the kid that just beat him up was funny.
    “Come again, fella?” Ray said.
    “You heard me, GJ. I said good fight,” and then the kid turned to his own trainer, and said, “Hearing’s going, too.”
    Ray knew exactly what to say to the kid, he knew that without mistake. Jonesy once told him, “You don’t have a vent.” He said this over a Guinness, at Chelsea O’s. “That’s your whole fucking problem. Everyone has a vent, Ray. You just never developed one, or you turned yours off, and you’re fucking yourself for it, you know that? That canvas, that’s your only outlet. I’m telling you as a friend, man, there’s a lot better ways to spend your forties than getting your ass kicked. Trust me on that.”
    Ray saw the look on the kid’s face, his brows crunched in hard, his lips flailed back, and believed it was nothing but a mask; had as much substance as a scarecrow in a cornfield. But the old crow in Ray Dawson knew better. Ray said, “You’ve gone and beat up on an old man. You proud of yourself?”
    Some of the guys erupted into laughter (kid never saw that coming) and the antagonists “oooooohed.”
    “Ain’t my fault, your granddaddy crippled ass is still in the game.”
    “Ain’t my fault, you’re supposed to be the prospect, and your ass went the full four rounds, with someone you coming in and calling glass jaw.”
    Ray thought that might have put the kid over, and half expected him to rush forward, and could say he was surprised that the kid only eyed the room insecured by the sounds suddenly against him. Ray said, “I’m over here. Look at me, don’t go looking at them.”
    Once again Ray made eye contact with Jonesy, who at this point, had his forearm over his mouth. There appeared to be a moment of apology in Jonesy’s eyes, but it seemed as if that eye contact, and the feigned apology, only caused Jonesy to lose control and erupt uncontrollably.
    If for no other reason than because Jonesy was laughing at him, he thought of his advice about venting. Jonesy was right about that. Ray rarely let the steam fly, and he knew exactly why that was. He was afraid. Not of other people either. He was afraid of himself. So afraid of his own anger, buried deep as it was. He was angry at everyone. He was even angry at God. Maybe most of all at God. Ray Dawson’s problem was he had skill (if you could accept that as a problem). Once upon a time he had hand speed, good reflexes, and power. Great power. Knockout power; power in both hands; he could knock a guy out in the late rounds. The biggest problem was he had a glass jaw. They called him Ray “the glass jaw” Dawson, GJ around the gym. If you caught him in the sweet spot, he went down like an overturned crane, and no that nigga wasn’t getting back up.
    His question was always this: with a weakness so glaring, why was he given any skill at all? If his weakness so compromised his skill, why give him anything? Got no answers to that; God sure as hell never answered.
    Maybe just to fuck with you, Ray. To say here is Ray Dawson, a guy who in his twenties won seventeen amateur fights, won in the Golden Gloves, a guy who many believed had the goods to become a champion. Enter fight eighteen—he’ll never forget Manny Hernandez, Dominican from West New York, first big puncher he’d ever faced; imagine that, 17 fights and a Golden Gloves before meeting a guy with decent pop—not good, decent; landed a textbook left hook, and put Ray on his ass for the first time. With his left hand, Manny Hernandez took away not only a boxing career, but as Ray thought of it, his entire life. No, that nigga didn’t get back up.
    “I’m right here,” the kid said motioning to his face, “looking at you right in your eyes. Don’t come at me like that, or I’m una whip your ass some more. Sorry ass washed up old man.”
    Thought about getting up. Thought about going at him. He was 19 after all.
    Somebody pulled the kid away.
    After all was settled down, Jonesy came around patted him on the back, and said, “You’ll get ‘em next time?”
    “Won’t be a next time,” Ray said. “I think this is it.”
    Jonesy shrugged. “Been telling you that a long time, champ.”



    His rusted locker door creaked harshly. He wondered if there would be an empty can of tomato sauce in there (some punk did that one time, broke the lock and left it right up there, dirty as it was) but there was nothing but his belongings, his clothes, his wallet, his cell phone, and keys.
    Let’s face it, Ray was never a boxer passed the age of twenty-eight—he had a string of losses that year—and to his credit he knew he wasn’t a fighter past that age. That was when he gave up the dream. He never said it, but knew just as much in his heart. He had a delivery route, a shitty apartment, a daughter out of wedlock, who mommy kept from him, and the fragments of a life, that Jim Mc Maron in the Dispatch, once upon a time decribed as having all the makings of a champion.
    Jonesy said, “You want meet at Chelsea’s for a cold one? The guys are all going.”
    “No, Jay, not tonight. Going to get me some sleep tonight.”
    Jonesy patted him. “Keep your head up, okay?”
    “Just never worked out,” Ray muttered more to himself than to Jonesy.
    “Huh?”
    He dropped his head to his hands. Something his mother said to him a very long time ago occurred to him (it occurred to him often lately): “God gave us strengths and weaknesses. Listen to me baby Ray, and don’t you go forgetting, in life we all have our crosses to bear. It’s how well we bear them that determines who it is we are.” There was more to it, but Ray had forgotten the rest — it was good. That much he remembered, that it was good.
    Lot of broken dreams, on a highway that boasted brilliant lights, not too far in the distance, a road that looked straight, but riddled with nefarious turns, and ultimately a detour that led to obscurity.
    On top of everything else Ray was in more trouble. Serious trouble. He was overdue on a $3000 loan. The loaner wasn’t a federally insured bank either (not that an insured bank made it any safer these days); the loaner was Frankie Valdone, a man you did not want to play games with.
    “Maybe I should let this go,” Ray said, “but—”
    “What’s up?”
    “You did a good job of breaking that up back there.”
    Jonesy looked at him unexpectedly (he was used to laughing and getting away with it). He shrugged, “You know what you’re doing, Ray.”
    “You know something, Jones, all these years we’ve been doing this, I can’t help but think I’ve been nothing but a joke in your eyes. You’re a real friend.”
    Ray left with his gym bag over his shoulder, the welt beneath his eye throbbing, and a headache that hammered acutely over the temple.
    “Ray, wait, ” Jonsey called.



    He was hungry. He was hungry, and the Hungry Man’s Salisbury steak in the freezer wasn’t going to cut it. No, he was in the mood for French onion (freedom onion—as Jonesy called it; and Ray would say let it die already, it’s not funny anymore) that plus a burger. A juicy, rare cheese burger. He took the bus out of Manhattan, came through the Lincoln Tunnel and decided he would stop over in Hoboken, stop in at the Malibu, and that was what he did. He realized his shades were still in his bag. If there was one thing he hated, really hated, was when a pretty waitress came up to him and said (and they all said the same thing): “My goodness, were you in a fight?”
    It was either yeah, you should see what the other guy looks like, haha, or those fucking stairs again.
    So he took the shades out of the bag , and put ‘em on, hoping the welt that traveled down into his cheekbone wasn’t too revealing, never mind the fact that he might look like a weirdo wearing shades in a diner at midnight. But who cared? Hoboken had its share of weirdoes either way, not as many as New York, but its share nonetheless. Even though these days there were more and more of the pseudo city types that you could spot a mile away. A type that irritated him. He didn’t know why they irritated him, but they did. Most were twenty-somethings that had distinct suburban voices, young people that wanted a taste of city life, that probably worked shitty jobs, with shitty pay, jobs that required a tie, and gave them the bragging rights they sought. Most would stay in the city for no more than five years, move out and make room for the next cohort.
    “Hey, Ray,” a familiar voice said. He lowered the menu, and saw it was Greg Harris, who bartended at Carl’s.
    “Greg, how are you, bro? What are you doing here?”
    “I’m working here now, left the bar, couldn’t stand working for Carl no more. Guy’s a real prick,” he said lowering his voice.
    “Sorry to hear that.”
    “Nah, I’m doin’ fine here, and there’s no one breathing down my neck.”
    “You still in Rutgers?”
    “Yeah, one more year to go. What about you, still fighting, that why you wearing the shades?”
    “You should see the other guy.”
    “I believe it, I believe it. What can I get for you?” Greg took his order, writing it down on a flip pad, before disappearing into the back. He brought the soup and the Heineken at the same time. As he carefully placed down the soup he said, “Have you seen Heather lately?”
    Heather, he thought about her and a smile came to his face. Pretty little Heather. No, he hadn’t seen her. Not in a few weeks. She waited tables and bartended in Carl’s Bar. The last few times Ray had gone there... well, it was a bit strange. The two of them connected on some level. It was this instant connection, that he couldn’t decribe, but liked very much. She leaned over the bar and they talked the entire night. She let business pass her right by, this despite all the distractions. Somehow, he thought, they had this way of making each other feel special. It was weird.
    “Last time, I was there,” Greg said, “I thought you were gonna bring her home.”
    “She’s too young.”
    “What, she’s in her late twenties, twenty-seven, twenty eight?”
    “I’m forty-one, man.”
    “Yeah, but you look much younger, dude. Didn’t I ever tell you what my friend Don says?”
    “What does Don say?”
    “Age is just a number.”
    Ray laughed. “Just a number , huh?”
    “Yeah. Trust me, she’s smoking hot. Don’t let a few years get in the way of that.”
    As he was eating, all he could think about was Heather, about the chemistry they shared, how everyone in the bar disappeared; he thought about how shy her eyes were when they met his, and the silly things they would talk about, just to talk to each other, and how everyone noticed it afterward.
    He finished eating. What the hell, he headed to Carl’s.



    There was a large crowd of people dressed handsomely outside the bar, guys in button downs, girls in tight jeans and sexy dresses, with their hair and makeup perfect; smoking and chatting, under the overhang lamplights. Ray walked passed them hearing some of those pseudo accents, but also hearing a lot of strong Jersey accents. As he was going in he heard one loud mouth guido talking to his boys about his M5, but Ray thought he was really talking to the surrounding girls in jest. Looking for some cheap ho, to go wow you drive a Beamer. Yeah, and I also live at home.
    Ray laughed... how’d you ever go and get so bitter man?
    Inside was loud, and even though you could hear the music outside, walking in was like crossing a barrier into a different world. The music was more alive. The place was dark, but lit with different colored lights—mainly amber and red— surrounding the bar, and it wasn’t just the music but the chatter. There were a lot of smiling faces, and friendly conversation. Somehow Ray found an empty seat between two groups of twenty somethings a few girls and a few guys on both sides.
    Looking past all that was going on, he didn’t see Heather, but that was okay; he shrugged it off; it was Saturday, they were busy, and he was sure she was here. He did see Carl, who was at the tap pouring one thing or another. Carl spotted him, and gave him a cautious look. Ray saluted, and Carl had raised a one sec finger, but seemed so taken by Ray’s presence that he over poured the beer, and foam slid down the side of the glass.
    After serving the customer, Carl came his way, and shook his hand; it was a quick firm handshake. “What’s going on, Bro?” Carl said, “What brings you?”
    “Just come in for a drink. Had a fight tonight?”
    “Oh,” Carl said, and usually would ask about it, but his concern became more evident. “Listen man, I don’t know what’s goin’ on, or if your even aware of it for that matter” (Ray hoped the next part would be about Heather, but it wasn’t). “These guys have been coming in here, asking for you. Said you owe them some money. I know one of these guys, Vin, he’s a bad dude... Maybe this isn’t the safest place for you to be tonight.”
    “When was this?”
    “Past few weekends. I don’t want problems here, you know?”
    “Yeah, I’ll just take one drink, and then I’ll go.”
    Carl looked reluctant. Very reluctant. Ray didn’t know what the hell was going on in Carl’s mind, but it looked like he was making the most stringent decision of his life, deciding whether or not to drop the bomb on Japan or something. So Ray decided he would break his confusion. “I’ll take a Hennessy straight up.”
    Carl looked at him, into his eyes, looked like he wanted to say something, Ray could sense that much, but in the end just nodded, “One drink.” Carl poured it, and served it over a napkin that advertised Bacardi rum. “Here you go, Ray,” and then added: “Don’t get yourself hurt.”
    “Nawh, wouldn’t go doin’ that now.” He wanted to say something silly like got my lucky shirt on tonight, but didn‘t. “Heather around tonight?”
    That broke a smile on Carl’s face. Ray got the sense that Carl, for some reason, liked him. He wasn’t quite sure why Carl liked him, and he didn’t think Carl knew why either, but he did. “You mean your little girlfriend? Yeah she’s around.”
    “Tell her I says hi.”
    Carl tapped the bar, “Just don’t stay too long.”



    Ray sipped the Hennessy while looking around the bar casually, trying not to give up too much, trying not to look eager, but not seeing Heather anywhere. The bar was very crowded, and hot.
    Then, just like that, he spotted her. She came behind the bar on the far end holding a tray, and their eyes somehow met; despite how dark it was, despite the size of the crowd, their eyes locked. Her hair fell across her shoulders, a little longer than when he last saw her, but elegant... She flashed him her smile, that great big smile that she had, and gave him one of those sexy finger waves, where each finger moved individually. My God, he thought, smiled and waved back, that’s my girl. All of a sudden the fight that he lost, his boxing career, the money he owed, all of it became irrelevant.
    She put the tray under the bar, and began her way over to him—at least that was what he thought she was doing. As it turned out a smile would be all she would give him. To Ray’s surprise, she leaned over the bar, the same way she had done with him, and began, or from the looks of it, continued, a flirty conversation with some guy. He watched it for a while. A range of stupid thoughts went through his head. For a long time he wondered what she was trying to do. Trying to get him jealous? Simply being a cock-tease? He watched a little longer, feeling his blood getting hot— Heather leaning over the bar, laughing and smiling, even playfully smacking the guy on the shoulder at one point, leaning over the counter with the tops of her breasts prodded out from her shirt, business passing her by.
    “Well, well, well,” a voice said from behind him squeezing him by the shoulder, and turning him half way around in his seat. “If it isn’t Ray the glass jaw Dawson. I believe you have a debt that needs some settling. Unless you want make a scene, you better come with us.”
    There were two of them, both boxy men, both standoutish, and Ray thought, standoutish not in a good way. One of them wore a tan suit and a tie, the other an Adidas wind jacket. Both of them reeked of cologne.
    He rose from the stool, slinging the gym bag over his shoulder, and said to himself, Whatever it is you do Ray, don’t look at Heather... don’t look at Heather. He didn’t look at her, not at first. The guy in the Adidas jacket put his hand on the small of Ray’s back and pointed forward. Ray could see two gold rings on his fingers. The other guy, the one in the tan suit, cleared the path ahead calling, “Watch out, look out” to everyone. And then Ray betrayed himself. He glanced over at Heather, knowing she’d be watching, knowing she’d be looking on concerned. He was wrong. Heather didn’t notice. She’d been too distracted with her new friend.
    The back room was dank, and smelt of moist concrete walls, and unsettled dust. There were cases and cases of Corona, Heineken, and other beer cartons stacked high. The lights were off. No one bothered to turn them on. Only the radiance from the bar lights lit the room, casting a dim glow. There in the back was Frank Valdone, who presumably took the delivery entrance in. Frank put a cigar between his teeth, struck a match, and in an instant there was a crescent of orange flame, followed by his deliberate exhale. “So,” Frank said, “if it isn’t Ray Dawson.”
    “Just need a little more time.”
    Frank laughed. “Is that what have you have said for yourself? You need more time? You’re a month over, and you think you’re going to stand in front of me and tell me you need more time. Well, I got news for you my friend, your time is up.” He sucked on the cigar. “Somebody turn on the lights. It’s fucking dark in here.”
    Frank was a burly man, with long silver hair that had been neatly combed. He wore thin silver frames, a button down polo shirt, and obnoxiously shiny shoes. “Dawson, I’d like you to meet two good friends of mine, neither of which, I guarantee, will be to your liking by the end of the night, but nevertheless...” He took another puff of his cigar. “This is Hector. Hector who as you can see has a slight fetish for rings. “
    Hector creeped around Ray slowly, with a menacing look in his dark eyes. He raised his left fist, a ring on each finger, and shook it near Ray’s face, as if saying, “I’m going to hit you one real good.”
    “And this guy here,” Frank said, “this guy here will be a real prize fighter one day, make me some real money. Something you could have done for me, if you weren’t all glass.” Everyone laughed. “This is Lonny, 23-0, and turning pro next year. What do you think about that, Dawson?”
    “Oh,” Ray said, an idea coming to him immediately, “you’re a fighter?”
    Lonny snickered at Ray, pointed his thumb at him, and to Frank said, “Who is this clown?”
    Lonny had his dimensions, similar height and weight, and probably was in the same weight class. He was about 25 though compared to Ray’s 41. “Light heavy?” Ray asked.
    “Fuck you,” Lonny said.
    “Boys, boys, easy now, there be plenty of time for blood after we talk business. Lonny, Hector, I’d like you to meet Ray. The infamous Ray ‘the glass jaw’ Dawson.” They laughed into crude high pitched laughter—Lonny’s laugh was higher pitched, and all things considered the sound of his laugh almost made Ray laugh. “Ray is a foolish man that doesn’t know what it means to pay his debts. So Ray, tell me, are you still driving that 90-whatever, 300z?”
    “94, yes.”
    “Here’s what I want you to do. Tomorrow morning I want you to sell the title of the car to Lonny over here, in the amount of one dollar, a dollar which you will give to him as well. You understand that?”
    “Come on, Frank, I owe you $3000. The car is old, but it’s worth about 9000.” Which was true, it was worth about that much.
    “4000!” he cried unexpectedly frantic. “You owe me 4000! An extra grand for all the fucking aggravation you put me through!” His head bobbed with emphasis when he spoke, causing strands of his gelled silver hair to wisp free along his face; he blew the wisps of hair away. “So it’s either one of two things, you sell me your piece of shit car, or it’s not going to be there when you get home, and the beating you get tonight will be even worse. Choice is yours.”
    Just then one of the bar employees came through, and stopped abruptly surprised by their presence. “Who the fuck are you?” Frank asked.
    “We need two more cases of Michelob light, just be a sec.”
    “Get lost buddy, I’m doing business! Tell your customers they’ll have to wait.”
    The guy just stood there. “GO, GO GO!” Frank yelled at him, now loosing many strands of hair. Lonny and Hector made a move for him, but the guy, mumbling something, went like he was told. Frank’s eyes met Ray’s. “Two cases of Michelob light? What are people doing to themselves these days? Michelob light!” Frank said exasperated. Now Frank was perspiring badly. He dropped his cigar, took off his frames, and wiped the sweat with his forearm. With his eyes hyper extended, Frank said to himself, still in utter disbelief, “Michelob light.”
    “So let me get this straight, you telling me that I owe you $4000, and that you’re going to take my car, and this pussy is going to be the one to beat sanity into me.” He said this to Frank.
    Lonny opened his mouth and got out: “What the f-”
    Frank held up his hand to silence Lonny before he got started. He still had the silver frames in his hand, and now he held them up to the light to examine them. “Where do guys like you come from, Ray Dawson? You’re knee high in shit, and you keep pushing. Why?”
    “Two guys yeah, but not this guy, not one on one.”
     Making two clawing hand that quivered violently for a moment, Frank became exceedingly frustrated again. “I didn’t ask you about two guys!” His face was red. It had been such a reaction that Ray wondered if he was being theatrical or if he was truly capable of getting that agitated so abruptly.
    “Let me take this faggot out, Cap.” Lonny said, “Please, I had enough of his mouth.”
    “You couldn’t take me down the street pal.”
    It took every bit of restraint for this Lonny character to hold back, and Ray Dawson knew so much.
    “How ‘bout this,” Ray said, “you’re a fighter Lonny, I’m a fighter.”
    “You’re a has been that never was,” Lonny said.
    “Fine, a has been that never was, a guy with a glass jaw, that already lost one fight tonight, so how ‘bout this, you take me one on one? If you win you guys get my car, my money whatever it is I owe you. If I win, Lonny you inherit my debt. If you so sure you can beat me, you take a risk.”
    “Please Cap, let me fuck this guy up. Outside, in front of everybody.”
    Frank, put the frames back over his eyes. He was collected again. How quickly he could change was amazing, “First guy to go down loses.” Frank said. “If you lose Lon, it’s coming out of your runnings.”
    “Funny, Captain.”
    “No, Lonny, no, that isn’t funny,” Frank said. “And remember, never underestimate an old dog.” And to Ray he winked. It hadn’t occurred to Ray that maybe Frank wanted to give his new fighter a test drive before he fully invested into the kid, but Frank was a exceptionally smart man, (and no, Ray never underestimated an old dog).
    Frank sent Hector to get Carl, and when Carl came to the back, Frank explained. “Just tell me who goes down first.”
    “In front of my bar?”
    “I’ll take care of you. You know me, I’m a man of my word.”
    Ray lowered his head, switched the bag from his left shoulder to his right, and exited the bar. He looked around for Heather, but she was nowhere to be found. Once outside, in the cool air, and with the sounds going from blaring music to sounds of the chattering outdoor crowd and city noise, car horns, sirens out in the distance, Hector yelled for everyone to clear some space. A dark H3 Hummer sat double parked before a fire hydrant with the hazards flashing. There was a guy with dark glasses behind the wheel. Frank said nothing to anyone as he went. He stepped up into the Hummer, and Ray watched as it drove away.
    He took a deep breath.
    The kid took off his Adidas jacket. Started bouncing up and down while vagrantly flapping his forearms to loosen up his arms.
    In the fight game the last thing to go in an older fighter is his power. The speed may go, the reflexes may fade, but the power is there until the end. Ray Dawson’s strong point had always been his power.
    He managed to agitate the kid pretty good, and the kid was an amateur— there were strangers watching, people to impress. Ray calculated something and decided he would drop all his eggs in this basket. Providing he was a conventional fighter—right handed—the kid would throw his most natural heavy handed punch which would be the overhand right—he wouldn’t open with a left hook unless he was really crazy, because a hook would need to be set up better, and if he missed he would be horribly off balance, worse than if he missed with an overhand right. On the other hand, Ray could use a hook to counter the right hand. He knew if the kid started with a jab, the one light handed punch—in most cases— that sets up all others, and then Ray could be in trouble. It would be a real fight. It would show the kid was poised.
    But looking into his eyes, Ray saw anything but a poised fighter—instead there was a young killer desperate to make a point.
    Hector was the one who called out “Fight!”
    The kid was conventional. He came forward. Ray was watching the right shoulder. Then it happened. Just like Ray thought it would. The kid threw the right, Ray stepped in, and dropped his counter left hook across Lonny’s jaw, and as Lonny’ face, came back into position, Ray delivered an overhand right of his own, a punch that Lonny never saw coming—the punch you don’t see coming is the one that does the damage, that’s the one that your body does not have time to brace for, and incidentally was the one that put Lonny on his ass. Fight over.
    Lonny was bleeding from his face. Ray thought about his own career, though about the potential it once had....
    It was then that Ray realized the bar crowd was screaming and cheering him on. He overhead some people saying things like who is that guy, and others calling him Tyson, others calling him Mayweather. He felt like a champion. Ray looked around, and thought it was best to get out of there. He started down 9th street. Then he heard a voice, one that was very familiar, call after him.
    “Hey Ray,” the voice called, “wait.”
    It was Heather. Ray stopped, closed his eyes, thought about turning around, but didn’t. As it turned out he didn’t have to.
    “What’s up, Ray? What happened? I missed you,” she said, and hugged him. In the summer night, he smelt her citrus perfume, and when she stepped back he admired how utterly gorgeous she really was, her body, her smile, the vulnerable look in her eyes, all of it. But Ray thought about something else—something that made him think: you’ve been hit in the head one to many times tonight.
    “You missed me, little lady?”
    She simply smiled, and that shy expression that made her eyes gleam, the look that drove him absolutely wild came into her eyes. Then reality suddenly became clear, the way it does sometimes. He wasn’t her special guy— the few moments they shared were common moments she shared every night, with whatever guy happened to be there. He wasn’t sure if he was thinking straight, but to him she was like glass herself, something fragile that would break. The head shots, right? And then he remembered it. It just popped into his head, just like that. He remembered the rest of what his mother said: “The foundation should be built in our strength and not in our weakness.”
    Ray said, “You say that to everyone?”
    She simply lowered her eyes and pouted her lips.
    He ruffled her hair. She was so beautiful, and he so crazy. “Goodnight, little lady.”
    Call me the iron jaw, he thought (or shithead maybe more fitting), and smiled as he walked down 9th Street, a street he walked down many times before, a street he never walked down in his life.

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