FIGHTING LESSONS

by James Jandak Wood

Herman is late. He trots along a slush-covered sidewalk tucking his neck into the collar of his surplus peacoat to keep the cold wind from slipping down his chest. A canvas gym bag slung over his shoulder slaps his back in rhythm with his gait.

Up ahead, a red brick warehouse dominates a side street of seedy bars and bawdy houses. Nailed into the brick on a slant above a pair of battered entry doors to the warehouse is a tattered, black, wooden sign with white letters which reads “Fletcher’s Fighting Gym.” A ragged, wet, Franklin Roosevelt campaign poster is tacked to one of the doors. On the poster are the words “He’s ready! Are you?”

Stepping inside the gym, Herman waits for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Dark blue and purple shadows, ghosts of daylight left outside, float in his vision. The smell of rank, unwashed bodies and salty, sweaty clothing never fails to assault his nostrils. Grunts, slaps of leather gloves on bare faces, screeches of boxing shoes scraping canvas, strike his ear drums. Herman’s father, Walter Fletcher, squats aside the center boxing ring reserved for the most promising fighters. Inside the ring, two Goliaths circle each other throwing meaty, sledgehammer punches. Walter quickly side-eyes Herman, scowls, then roars at a fighter, “Hands up goddammit.”

Herman hustles to the locker room. The smell is worse here. Wet jock straps, crusty socks, damp towels used too many times without washing — all strewn about on old wooden benches in front of rows of small, rusty lockers. He strips off his street clothes and pulls his boxing gear from his bag: beat up boxing gloves, a leather helmet, boots, baggy shorts, and a tattered gray t-shirt with “Fletcher’s Fighting Gym” in black letters sewn across the chest.

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