Hazardous Waste Ch. 03

It shook me. I rolled over and tried to rise, but the yells from my crew to take the count restrained me. I knelt on one knee, ready to rise, and waited, while the referee stood above me, counting the seconds loudly. At the ninth I rose, and Red, facing me, realized that his blow was an inch short of the spot guaranteed to knock me out. But a knock on my ass wasn't a knock-out, and he missed a sure victory by an inch.

The round went its full three minutes. Me, finally respectful of my opponent, and Red lethargic and sleepy-eyed as ever. As the round neared its close, Red, warned of it by sight of his people crouching outside the ring checking their watches and ready to leap through the ropes, worked me around to his corner. And when the horn blew, he quickly sat down on his stool, while I had to walk all the way across the ring to my corner. It was a little thing, but it's the sum of little things that add up. I hadda walk that many more steps, give up extra energy, and lose part of the minute of rest. At the beginning of every round Red shuffled out from his corner, forcing me to come the greater distance. The end of every round found the fight back at Red's corner so that he might sit quickly.

Another two rounds went by; Red hoarded his energy like an old miser, and I pissed mine away. My attempt to force a faster pace made Red uncomfortable, for plenty of my blows hit home. Yet Red stuck to his stubborn slowness, despite the crying of the hot-heads for him to kick ass. Again, in the sixth round, I got careless and Red's right hit me. I fell, and again I took the count. Nine seconds of it.

My pink cherry boy condition was history by the seventh round, and I resigned myself to a hard fight. Red was an old fuck, but a better old fuck than I ever expected before the fight, an old fuck who never lost his head, who was remarkably able at defence, whose blows felt like blows from clubs, and who kept a knockout in either glove, handy. Nevertheless, Red dared not go the whole hog. As he sat in his corner, looking at me, I expect the thought came to him that the sum of his wisdom and my youth would make a champion heavyweight of someone. But that was the trouble. I would never become a world champion. I lacked the wisdom and the desire for it. I didn't give a shit. Boxing is better than busting your ass toiling. And I liked the gifts I got. But it wasn't everything to me. And Red was past his prime.

Red took every advantage possible. He never missed a chance to clinch and fuck with me, and making most of the clinches, his shoulder did its work on my ribs.

In the thinking of pugalists a shoulder does as much work as a punch, and is better at saving energy. In the clinches Red rested his weight on me and was slow to remove it. This made Ball tear us apart a lot. I could not refrain from using my huge arms and muscles, and when Red rushed into a clinch, shoulder against ribs, and with head resting under my left arm, I almost always swung my right behind my back and into Red's face. It was a clever stroke, much admired by the audience, but it was not dangerous, and was, therefore, just wasted effort and energy. But I was tireless and unaware of limitations, and Red endured.

I delivered a fierce right to his body, which made it appear Red was getting an old fashioned ass-whipping, but the old men in the stands appreciated the deft touch of Red's left glove to my biceps just before the impact of my blow. It was true, the blow landed each time I launched one, but each time Red robbed it of its power by that glove touch on the biceps. Each touch took a toll of the punch.

In the ninth round, three times within a minute, Red's right hooked its twisted way to my jaw; and three times my body, heavy as it was, fell to the mat. Each time I took the nine seconds allowed me and rose to my feet, shaken and jarred, but still strong. I had lost much of my speed, and wasted less effort. I fought grimly; but drew upon my chief asset, which was my age. I could fuck all night. I could keep it up all night. Red had experience on his side. As his vitality dimmed and his vigor abated, he fell back on cunning, and with wisdom born of the long fights, and with a stingy application of energy.

He knew never to make an excessive movement, and he knew how to seduce an opponent into throwing strength away. By feint of foot and hand and body he made me leap back, ducking, or countering. Red rested, but he never allowed me rest. It was the strategy of old age.

Early in the tenth round Red stopped my rushes with straight lefts to the face, and I, grown wary, responded by drawing the left, then by ducking it and delivering my right in a swinging hook to the side of Red's head. It was too high up to be effective enough; but when first it landed, Red knew the old, familiar descent of the black veil of unconsciousness across his mind. For the instant, or for the slightest fraction of an instant, rather, he stopped dead in the water. In the one moment he saw me ducking out of his field of vision and the background of white, watching faces; in the next moment he again saw me and the background of faces. It was as if he had slept for a time and just opened his eyes again, and yet the interval of unconsciousness was so short there was no time for him to fall. The audience saw him stumble and his knees bend, and then saw him recover and tuck his chin deeper into the shelter of his left shoulder.

I hit Red several times and kept him partially dazed, and then Red worked out a plan, which was also a counter. Feinting with his left he took a half-step backward, at the same time upper cutting with the whole strength of his right. So accurate was it timed that it hit my face in the full, downward sweep of the duck, and I lifted in the air and curled backward, hitting the mat on my head and shoulders. Red did it twice, then turned loose and hammered me to the ropes. I got no chance to rest or to set myself, but smashed blow in upon blow till the house rose to its feet and the air filled with an unbroken roar of applause. Red was kicking my ass.

But my strength and endurance were up to it, and I stayed on my feet. A knock-out seemed certain, and the guard captain, appalled at my punishment, approached the ringside to stop it. The horn blew the end of the round and I staggered to my corner, assuring the guard captain I was okay. To prove it, I did a few push-ups on the mat, and the guard captain gave in. Red, leaning back in his corner and breathing hard, frowned. If the fight had been stopped, the referee, would have made Red the decision and the victory would have been his. Instead I rested in my corner.

'Youth will be served'. I imagine this saying flashed into Red's mind as he remembered the first time he heard it, the night when he put an old king of the hill away long ago. The prince who brought him a drink after the fight and patted him on the shoulder used those words.' Youth will be served!' The prince was right. And on that night in the long ago Red had been Youth. On this occasion Youth sat in the opposite corner and was me. As for Red, he fought for half an hour and was an old man. Had he fought like me, he would not have lasted fifteen minutes. But the point was he couldn't recuperate. Those old arteries and tired heart would not enable him to gather strength in the time between rounds. Old bastards in their thirties cant fuck all night, and he started with depleted strength to begin with. His legs were heavy and beginning to cramp. It was hard for an old man to go into a fight with empty balls.

When the eleventh round opened, I rushed, with a show of freshness I did not really possess. Red knew it for what it was, bull shit as old as the game itself. He clinched to save himself, then, going free, allowed me to get set. This was what Red wanted. He feinted with his left, drew the answering duck and swung an upward hook, then made the half-step backward, delivered an upper cut full to my face and dropped me to the mat. After that he never let me rest, taking punishment himself, but hurting me far more, knocking me to the ropes, hooking and driving all manner of blows into me, tearing away from his clinches or punching me out of attempted clinches, and always catching me with one uplifting glove and with the other, smashing me into the ropes where I could not fall.

The house went wild, and it was his house, nearly every voice yelling: "Get im, Red!" "Get 'im! Get 'im!" "You got 'im, Red! You've got 'im!" It was to be a whirlwind finish, it was what the audience came to see. And Red, who for half an hour had conserved his strength, now expended it prodigally in the one great effort he knew he had left in him. It was his last chance, now or never. His strength was going fast, and his hope was that before the last of it left him he would beat me down for the count. But he soon realized I was too young and too strong to be knocked out. Enough stamina and endurance were mine. I had it in me...barely.

I stumbled and staggered, and Red's legs cramped. Still he steeled himself to strike fierce blows, every one of which added hurt to me and him. Though now he received practically no punishment, he weakened as I did. His blows hit home, but they were impotent, and each blow was the result of a severe effort of will. His legs turned to lead, and they dragged under him; while my backers, cheered by this symptom, yelled encouragement to me.

Red found a burst of effort and threw two blows at me: a left, a trifle too high, to the solar plexus, and a right cross to my jaw. They were light blows, yet I was so weak and dazed I went down anyway. The referee stood over me, shouting the count in my ear. If I didn't rise before he got to ten, that was it for me.

The crowd sat in silence. Red rested on wobbly legs. Dizziness was upon him, and before his eyes the sea of faces sagged and swayed, while to his ears, came the count of the referee. Yet he looked upon the fight as his. It was impossible that a man so punished as me could rise.

But I rose and stood, no one more surprised than me. At the count of four I rolled over on my face and groped blindly for the ropes. By the count of seven I had pulled myself to one knee, where I rested, my head loose on my shoulders. As the referee called "Nine!" I stood, in proper stance, my left arm wrapped about my face, my right wrapped about my stomach. Thus were my vital points guarded, while I lurched forward toward Red in the hope of a clinch and gaining more time.

The moment I stood, Red was upon me, but the two blows he delivered were absorbed by my arms. The next moment I was in a clinch and holding on desperately while the referee worked to pull us apart. Red helped to get himself free. He knew how quickly youngsters recover, and he knew I was his if he could prevent it. One stiff punch was enough to finish me. I believed I was his. I thought he owned me, had out-fought me, and out-pointed me. I fell out of the clinch, and wobbled between defeat and survival. One good blow would do it.

And Red went for it, but it was not heavy enough nor swift enough. I swayed, but did not fall. I staggered back to the ropes and held on. Red staggered after me, and, hit me again. But his energy had fled and abandoned him. All that was left was what he knew about fighting, and it was useless from exhaustion. The blow aimed for my jaw hit my shoulder. Red willed the blow higher, but his tired muscles failed him. And, from the impact of the blow, Red reeled back and nearly fell. He tried again. This time his punch missed altogether, and, from absolute weakness, he fell against me and clinched, holding on to me to save himself from sinking to the floor.

His load was shot. He was gone. Even in the clinch he felt my superior strength. When the referee pushed us apart, there, before his eyes, he saw me getting my shit together again. My strength endured. My punches, weak and futile at first, were enough and accurate enough. Red's tired eyes saw my gloved fist working at his jaw, and he wanted to guard it with his arm. He saw the danger, willed the act; but his arm was too heavy. It seemed made of lead. It would not rise, and he tried to lift it with his soul. Then my glove hit home. Red felt a sharp snap, and, at the same instant, the veil of darkness fell over him.

Red was back in his corner when he came around. The crowd was yelling. One of his men pressed a wet sponge against the base of Red's brain, while another man sprayed cold water over his face and chest. His gloves were off. Then I stepped to the center of the ring and accepted my victory. Red watched it all while his people cleaned him up. He later told me he thought back to the moment when he had me swaying and on the brink of defeat. He needed help through the ropes but resisted it, got through the ropes, and dropped to the ground, following behind his pals as they opened space for him to leave the arena for the yard.

Someone shouted at him. "Why didn't yuh kick his ass?"

"Go to hell!" Red replied, and walked on toward Q Wing.

I sat on my stool till the arena emptied and the guard captain came to the ring.

"Come along with me," he said.

I followed. We left the arena and went outside but not towards Q Wing. We went to a trailer parked behind a barn. He unlocked the trailer door, opened it, and said," I'll be back for you around noon tomorrow." I went inside and heard him shut and lock the door behind me.

The trailer was old. Built in the late forties, I supposed. The floor was covered with linoleum, the walls were covered with thin wood veneer panels, there was a bedroom at the far end, a small bathroom and a closet across the hall from it in the middle, a kitchenette, and a dinette-living room. A woman sat on the sofa smoking a cigarette. Never seen her before.

Continued.