The Brawler by Héctor Hernández

That last blow turned my head inside out and scrambled my brains. I didn’t have a fucking clue where the hell I was, but instinct kicked in and I started bobbing and weaving—a moving target would be hard to hit. I figured I could buy some time until my head cleared. But I was so wrong. Or maybe I was right, and it was this asshole who didn’t get that a moving target was supposed to be hard to hit because the bastard clobbered me with another whopper—this one to the side of my head—making me see double, triple even.

I was no stranger to bar brawls. My first one had been in San Francisco when I turned twenty-one. I’d driven over from Sac to a queer bar in the Tenderloin with my two best buds, Pete and Derek. I wanted to make my first legal drink one to remember, and what better way to remember than to get drunk and kick some queer ass. I’ve been brawling ever since and have always come out on top, but this fight felt different. This one felt like I was gonna get my own ass handed to me.

Another wallop. This one square in my face. I didn’t see stars. I saw Hell’s fiery inferno. I was pretty sure my nose was busted—again. Another wallop. To my gut. I wanted to puke, but my stomach was empty. Then another wallop and another. I was being slaughtered. This guy isn’t just fighting. He’s actually trying to kill me. God, what did I do to him? I couldn’t remember, but whatever I’d done, it had set off this animal and he wasn’t gonna stop.

I swung back, but my arms dragged through air thick as molasses. My hands were swollen to the size of cantaloupes. My legs were lead, so I couldn’t even step away from the blows that rained down on me. I was a damned punching bag for this guy, and I couldn’t take anymore.

One final wallop to my ear that left it ringing made up my mind. I was gonna hold up my hands and surrender to this guy, beg him to stop—maybe even drop to my knees and beg. But the guy must’ve decided I’d had enough and stopped his avalanche of blows. He tossed his chin in the air with a cocky thrust and spread his arms wide as if to say, “Had enough, tough guy? Or do you want some more?”

But I didn’t want anymore. A lifetime ago I’d have met his challenge and shouted, “Bring it on, Elton John!” but I didn’t have any swagger left in me. That bastard had beaten it all out.

Through a mixture of blood and sweat which stung my eyes and blurred my vision, I saw that guy turn around and walk away. It was finally over. I’d gotten my ass kicked—I couldn’t lie about that—but at least I was still standing. I could hold my head up high among my buddies knowing that that other guy hadn’t brought me down. Pete and Derek didn’t need to know I was just about to drop to my knees and beg like an old lady for that guy to stop. They didn’t need to know that, and they damned well weren’t gonna know it—ever. As far as they were concerned, I had stood my ground solid as a mighty oak.

I looked for my buddies in the crowd, but I couldn’t see worth shit. Then I spotted someone walking toward me. For one terrifying moment I thought that animal was coming back to finish me off, and I loosed my bladder—couldn’t help it—pissed out my fear like a convict on the gallows when he feels the rough fibers of the rope cinch tight around his neck. That piss ran warm down my leg. I wanted to run, but my feet were firmly rooted. I forgot. I was a mighty oak.

When the guy got closer, I was relieved to see he wasn’t the animal that had just pounded me. This guy was much smaller and older. Maybe he was someone from the crowd that had gathered, some bystander who was gonna help me find Pete and Derek. He was saying something, but I couldn’t make sense of it through the roar of whistles and catcalls being hurled at me from the taunting crowd. He motioned and pointed at something behind me. Was he pointing at Pete and Derek? I thought that might be it, but then a window of understanding opened just a crack, enough for me to realize this guy—a total stranger—wouldn’t know Pete and Derek.

I turned and saw what he was pointing at. Someone had brought out a . . . what? Funny, I couldn’t think of the word. It sat heavy on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t get my jellied brain to push it out. It didn’t matter, though. It was a beautiful sight whether I knew the word for it or not.

I was dead on my feet, and now I had a chance to sit and take a load off, clear the cobwebs that were thick in my head. I just needed a minute to catch my breath, and then I’d find Pete and Derek, and the three of us would hightail it out of this miserable joint and go somewhere else where I could drink until I was numb.

***

The ref shook his head as he watched the fighter stagger to his corner and drop onto the stool like a slab of bruised beef. This aging palooka had taken a helluva beating, no doubt about that. The Brawler had been a contender—ten years ago—and this was supposed to be his big comeback. I could stop the fight now, but jeez, I’d hate to screw up his chances. Better to wait. I’ll see how he does in the second round.

Héctor Hernández

Image by kalhh from Pixabay A whirly green screen, dizzy.