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Down in the Dirt v055

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Decrepit Remains
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 Decrepit Remains, the 2008 Down in the Dirt collection book
Barbara Came to Watch

Mark Scott

    They kept Syl’s girlfriend and all the other women away from his training camp in Detroit. Syl had what they euphemized as “a history” there and besides those Motor City boys hit like ninety-miles-an-hour fast balls. A man did not want less than total concentration fighting a main event in Joe Louis Stadium.
    Syl won that fight four months ago and he still felt mean from his training at the Kronk. Down in that basement, sparring all day, with hardly any air in the place will get a man in shape or dead. Emmanuel Steward, the learned gentleman, called it a “Spartan regimen.” Fighters called it the killing floor.
    It got him ready for Las Vegas, where everything was hotels, casinos, and no air for fighters to breathe on account of all the smoke. Jerry Thompson, his manager, told him this Foster fight was high-stakes, winner got a shot at Slick Tillman for the middleweight crown. He reminded Syl that the difference between being a champion and ending up a punch-drunk ex contender was only one false move now, but later would make a big difference in his life. That’s what Jerry called a fine woman, a “false move.”
    They had him train twenty miles outside town, damned desert. But don’t be surprised, they told him, if Foster’s camp sent some little vixens to break your concentration. Syl’s fight was Saturday night at Caesar’s Palace. Hotel management had sent ring-side tickets to the Friday night heavyweight fight. No vixens so far.
    During the prelims Frankie Despacio, a.k.a. “Dess-Patch,” came over to talk. Tillman, he said, wanted to defend his title before the summer was over. Guy like him, making a million per fight, odds were he’d put his kids in private school or with tutors, nannies and such. But the Tillmans had five in the public schools, and they went to all the P.T.A. meetings, the whole nine yards. The champ wanted his business for the year over before school started. In fact, Dess-Patch said, Tillman was back in the dressing room right now in case Jerry wanted to talk terms.
    “What about Foster? Syl has to win tomorrow to fight Tillman.”
    “Syl’s got his number; already beat him once, right?”
    “Yeah, but it was close.”
    Despacio waved his hand dismissively. “Come on back with me. Syl can stay and watch this next guy, maybe he’ll fight him some day.” The next fight was at junior-middleweight and the man of interest was a left-handed white dude with red hair. He had fast hands, switched over to right-handed stance after his opponent would miss with a left hook. Tricky move.
    Syl smelled Barbara’s perfume and she was partially in his lap before he turned his attention to her. “Oh, excuse me,” she said. “These rows are so crowded.” She had a tall glass of draft beer in her right hand and a ticket in the left. “This is seat seven, right?”
    Syl nodded, and as he tried to make room, Barbara caught her front foot under the chair leg and tumbled face-first into his chest, spilling the beer in his lap.
    Next she was rubbing wet napkins all over his thighs and stomach. “Oh, I am so sorry. God, your muscles are as hard as rocks.” Her blue-jean skirt, cotton undies, tank top and all they showed were causing Syl a lot more commotion at this point than the Budweiser in his lap. “Oh, jeez, I feel so stupid! My husband sent me to watch this fight just to get rid of me for a while, and now I’ve ruined your clothes.”
    “It’s all right, ma’am.” Syl smiled at Barbara. “It sure was a tall glass, though.”
    “Oh, God, you must be drenched. Look, my husband is a clothier, out on business. There are several suits in my suite; you can come up and put on a dry pair of pants. I’ll have your clothes dry-cleaned and sent to you tomorrow.”
    “That sounds like a lot of trouble for spilled beer.”
    She patted his leg. “No, come on, I insist.”

    When Syl got down to his Skivvies, Barbara said, “Wow, you’re really muscular. I thought you would be a size...I mean, are your underwear wet?”
    “It was a lot of beer with nowhere to go, ma’am.”
    “’Barbara,’ honey, please call me Barbara.” She rifled through a suitcase and handed Syl a pair of boxers with big fruits all over the design. “Here, go in the bathroom and put these on while I find a suit to fit you.”
    When Syl came out Barbara was bent over the bed, matching up the pants sizes. He could see Honolulu through her silky white panties. Barbara straightened up, looked down at his erection and said, “Oh, honey!”

    The following afternoon Barbara personally brought Syl’s suit to his room, without having performed the last part of her mission: calling Syl’s wife. Barbara could always say the line had been busy. Maybe she had misdialed. Whatever, at any rate she had done enough to get paid. Syl was such a good middleweight, and a nice guy too. He did not deserve wrath of his wife when he got home from a hard day’s night.
    After he won his fight on Saturday evening, Jerry told him, “That’s just how I want you to fight Tillman. Relaxed. See, keeping you outside of town away from women was just the right ticket. From now on maybe you’ll listen to ol’ Jerry.”



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