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He felt sick, and he knew it wasn’t going away until that money was in his hand. He could hear the shouting from the match outside the bathroom, the one already in progress.
Stanley knew what he needed to do. He’d spent years trying to win boxing matches, how hard could it be to lose one?
The bruises from an uppercut or two would eventually fade (probably well before the bruising to his ego and pride) but at least it would be better than the hunger pangs that swirled with the nausea, right?
(It’d be better than the echoes of Filbrick’s voice saying ‘You’ll never be anything’ clanging around in that empty noggin of his, as he slept with the smell of body odor and the Stanleymobile’s old ripped leather settling into everything he wore and owned, right?
It had to be better than the feeling he got when he glanced at that photo of Ford and himself by the dashboard and at the empty seat next to him.
It was absolutely better than looking at the view of the pier from the boxing ring and
knowing
that it would be so easy to just keep driving one of these days)
But honestly, would the nausea setting up camp in the pit of his stomach really leave when it was next to the consolation prize of a warm meal and a place to spend the night?
Just lose the fight, Stetson , they’d told him. And make it look convincing. We got a hefty price on Jones and the only way you’ll see a cut of that is if you take the fall.
Stan wasn’t sure why he was even conflicted about this. Losing this fight would be the easiest thing he’s ever done, let alone for $50 — he’d seen the other guy. 6 feet and 5 inches of pure muscle. Even if there wasn’t a meal on the line, he wasn’t sure he could take him.
But the thought still left a sick feeling behind.
There was a knock on the door and a head poked in. “Come on Stetson, it’s showtime” and the phrasing conjured imagery of a circus and of freak shows and of the Jersey Devil and of Ford-
“Sure. Be right out,” Stan said. He was ready to be a loser. It’s what he did best.
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The lights shouldn’t have been that bright, but they were, and the migraine stewing behind his eyes was killing him.
He watched Jones in the other corner, coach by his side, a friend massaging his shoulders
(— but you don’t got no one and you don’t deserve no one, and now you’re going to get your ass kicked on purpose by this guy, and he’ll get to win surrounded by people in his corner — )
The bell dinged and he stepped forward, ready to lose and hoping it looked convincing enough. He had the broadness in his shoulders enough to look like a challenge, but he was rusty, out of practice.
( you gotta keep at it, Stan, it’s the only way you’ll ever improve enough for the professional fights , a voice from the past told him reassuringly, a voice that didn’t hate him yet — he never was good at listening, though, and look where he was now)
Lifting his gloves was a formality, one he almost didn’t want to bother taking.
Let this guy beat me to a pulp , he thought. Let him pulverize my stupid fucking face (maybe it’ll look less like Ford’s and I won’t feel homesick whenever i look in my mirror, melodramatic as that sounds). Hell, why stop there. Let him break my fingers that Ford was jealous of. Let him bust up my legs so I can’t get away from the cops. Fuck it, let him just kill me, right here, in front of this stupid fucking crowd. And then they could bury me with the fifty dollars.)
The punch to the jaw snapped him out of his thoughts, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to bring his gloves back up defensively. The second undercut and the following left hook was just as much of a shock, but still, he made no move to stop them.
It wasn’t until he caught the eye of a few onlookers and an angry warning glare from the guys who had bet on Jones, the ones who approached him before the match to begin with, that he realized he needed to lift his gloves, to look like this wasn’t the fixed match it was.
Don’t be so obvious, knucklehead, aren’t you supposed to be a good liar? Make it convincing! the voice in his head said.
So, Stan punched, and he felt something satisfying, something he hadn’t felt in a long time, when it connected.
So he punched again.
And he punched again.
It wasn’t before long that he lost complete sight of what he’d had his eyes on. Of what the prize at stake was. At what he was punching. He just knew that it felt great to keep on hitting.
Maybe a part of him wished he was punching Filbrick, his father’s stupid hidden face, and all of his stupid expectations, and the unreachable millions on an ever-moving horizon.
Maybe he wished he was punching Ford. The stupid project, the stupid school, the stupid idea of stupid adventures at sea, and the look of a brother closing the curtains from the second-floor window.
But he knew who he really wanted to punch.
As he accepted the trophy and lifted his glove, and stood victorious next to Jones, who was doted on by everyone in his corner, Stan watched the glaring faces in the crowd, watched the men who had approached him earlier make a shooting-gun gesture at him and saunter outside.
But it didn’t matter.
He could run. He could leave this state too. And if he didn’t get away in time? If they killed him? Well, then they killed him.
But he would feel that worry later. He would be afraid another time.
For now, Stan stood in the center of the ring, and let the cheers of the crowd drown out the growling of his stomach.