A Ticket to Somewhere

In the dream the first thing he would see was the girl in the silver bikini.

This girl would be strutting around the ring in those stiletto-heel silver boots and that silver bikini: a tall girl with streaming blond hair, holding the ROUND SIX card high in the smoky air.

And after the girl would come Abe Cotter, looming balloon-like above him, dabbing his lip with a huge Q-tip, chattering on about fighting smart.  And across the ring he would see Mickey Loggins already on his feet, pounding his gloves together, practicing his bad stare.

Euphoria-----

Because in the dream it was his night and he knew it.  He was Eddie Leblanc, he was young and he was connected, and this was his place, his moment.  And then he was in the ring circling to Mickey’s left and Mickey would move in, just as Eddie had always known he would, and Eddie would catch him with a perfect counterpunch.  And he would watch Mickey fall: fall ever so slowly, legs crossed at that crazy angle, eyes open---fall the way dead men fall.

And then the euphoria was gone like the air rushing out of a balloon and the strangeness would set in.  He would watch Mickey lying there for a long moment, watch as he struggled to his feet and reached toward Eddie, long arms clutching at him, zombie-like---and he could hear Mickey’s voice above the boos as they rose in their chirping chorus: TAKE ME OUT, WHITE BOY, JUST DO IT—and the girl in the Bikini strutting her stuff, ROUND SEVEN, ROUND EIGHT, and over Mickey’s shoulder he would see the fat, distended face of the man in the first row, the brown butterfly mark over his right brow, the man’s eyes seemingly ready to explode—and at last, from a long way off like under water, the bell, the referee holding Mickey’s hand high.

And Abe’s slap stinging his cheek.

YOU’RE  NO FIGHTER, EDDIE LEBLANC!  I GIVE YOU ONE PIECE OF ADVICE, GET LOST!  DON’T YOU GO HOME TONIGHT, EDDIE!

And the chirping chorus of boos rising, picking up speed, spinning around into a dark vortex of bad bars and bad juke music until he found himself alone on a silent street.  He seemed to walk forever down that dark street toward a little shotgun house, and with every step he took that little house seemed to move further away, eluding him---until he was running, straining to catch up, already sure of what he would find there.

And opened the door to see instead his beautiful Aunt Denise.

She was sitting in his father’s recliner, the only piece of furniture left standing in the room.  A lone ceiling bulb revealed chairs and couches overturned, tables splintered, lamps smashed.