PART TWO
"Amore, tosse e fumo sono difficili da nascondere."
(Love, a cough and smoke are hard to hide.)
--- Old Italian saying.
**************************
I'd decided to look very feminine; I was wearing a pale pink peasant blouse with a low neckline and a swirly navy blue skirt. My hair was a ponytail with a powder blue scarf. On my feet were fashionable low cut black flats, the kind that showed the cleavage of your toes. I was carrying a big cloth purse printed with pink roses. My nails were polished with Windsor rose, a really popular color. I was wearing pearl button earrings and a choker of pearl pop-it beads.
It was seven thirty. I'd come early, walked. You can walk to most places on the Hill; Little Italy isn't very big. Somehow, I expected there to be decent size sign saying "Boxing" and "Rivera's Gym" on the building; there wasn't. There was only a rickety two-sided sign propped up at the curb: "Rio's Gym --- Friday Fight Night Here At Eight Thirty p.m.". The red brick building looked like it should be condemned. There was a "Peace" sign, hand painted, protesting nuclear arms on one side of the door, which was framed by a Grecian pillar facade. "Boxing" was spray painted in black on one old pillar and old, faded, peeling posters barely hung all over.
I was here because Emilio hadn't called. It had been two weeks and, thank God, my period had come. Whew! But, part of me really wanted to have his babies. It would be so, so sexy to be carrying around something live that was Emilio, inside me. I couldn't get him OUT of my mind, some things especially stuck there: the way his broad shoulders gracefully curved, that gorgeous muscular chest, his beautiful eyes, his soft, deep, Brooklyn voice!
I so didn't want to do this. I didn't want to know that Emilio wasn't interested in me anymore and I also didn't see him beat up. Still, I lifted my chin and walked up six old and crumbling cement steps with a steel pipe railing into a dark entrance way. I grabbed the handle of a warped black door and pulled. When I walked in a big, sort of sullen guy right inside the door silently collected my dollar, putting it in an old cigar box. The gym was an explosion of noise, lights and hot moist smells, male sweat, rubber, liniment, unwashed socks and underwear, disinfectant, floor polish and stale cigarettes. A double door in the back was standing wide open, but the heat was still bad. If you can image a raunchy well-used old gym full of very sweaty guys, you'll get the total picture.
It was really bright from overhead lights, cracked dark yellow paint on the walls, exposed water pipes, a huge room, with posters everywhere advertising fights, some that probably went back twenty years. There was a cork bulletin board with hand-outs of current fights and their times. Covering one wall was a mural of people and saints, complete with halos, surrounding Jesus who was blessing them all. Dark purple and metallic gold lettering in a big fancy arch was above them: "Rio's Rivera's Gym;" below that was "Training Available" in red.
Some guys were working the many punching bags, others jumping rope; some wearing head gear were sparing with each other, some lifting weights. There were two small rings with red vinyl covered ropes and one large one. The small ones had fighters busy in them; the large one was empty. I guessed that was the exhibition ring.
Strange, I got used the ugh and funk of the place fast. I tapped a little chubby guy on the shoulder who was carrying a bucket. He was in torn army green sweatpants and t shirt, a greasy tweed newsboy cap, had a round snubbed-nosed face and a unibrow, going across his forehead like a fluffy black caterpillar, ~ no beauty. "Uh, where can I find Emilio Leone?"
"Huh?," he said. It was very noisy.
"EMILIO LEONE, IS HE HERE?"
The little guy gave me a surprisingly sweet smile, showing only a few huge square teeth in his mouth. He pointed. "Over there. Who-a yah, lady?"
"His girl."
"Lucky bastard."
"Thanks." He nodded and walked on.
Mike was punching one of those little speed bags, first with his right fist, then, his left, --- pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! Sweat was rolling down his face and his hair was soaked blond tendrils along his forehead, temples and neck, big wet spots on his light blue t shirt. He stopped when he saw me, grinned. God, he's got a lot of teeth. "You ain't seein' me at my best, Maria."
I smiled back. "I think I am. You look great."
"A little messy."
"You're working out."
"Yeah, well, ya look stunning!"
I was really pleased. "Thanks."
"I'm glad ta see ya. I thought ya were mad at me."
"No, not at all." I smiled again.
"I need a break," he said. "Come on. We'll sit." He led me to some benches at the side of the room. We sat down. "Help me outa these gloves." I unlaced them. His hands were wrapped with white tape. He put the gloves down, went to fill up a water bottle from a fountain. He gulped. I could see his muscular throat working. Damn, that gave me a nice big twinge down there! He walked back, that lazy cat-like way, sat down next to me, still holding the water bottle. He set it on the floor, grabbed a towel that was folded on the bench, wiped his face and neck. I could feel the heat rolling off his body.
"Do you fight tonight?," I asked.
"Yeah, sure, against Johnny Gorham. There's only three bouts tonight. The first two only three rounds, a bantam weight bout and a middle weight bout, --- mine an' Johnny's. Each round's three minutes. The last bout, the heavyweight bout, goes ten rounds."
"So, you'll fight for nine minutes, total."
"Yeah, believe me, three rounds is long enough if it's a good fight." Emilio shrugged. "Johnny's more husky than me."
He looked down at his feet. He was wearing those thin leather black high-topped boxing shoes, high white socks and gray cotton jersey shorts. "Sometimes, more muscle don't matter as much as you think. Fast feet an' hands is often what wins a fight." He grinned again, bright blue eyes, flushed cheeks and lips. "That an' heart, an' guts, --- stayin' power. My dad was a Golden Gloves middleweight champion."
"Really?" Hesmiled. "Yeah, I hope the talent runs in me." Did you ever fight Johnny before?," I asked.
"Naw."
"So, you don't know what you'll be up against."
"Right."
He kissed my cheek. His lips were very warm and soft. He smiled again. "Folks bet a lot on the fights, usually. Especially, if the fighters are sorta well known."
"And, you are."
"Yeah, sorta." Another grin.
"You love this."
"I do. Thanks for comin'. Have ya ever seen a boxing match?"
"Never."
&nb jumped up from the benches: sp;
"I know, blood, bruises, some knockouts."
"Parta it."
"Maybe, I'll fight better since I know my girl's watchin'."
"Your girl."
He grinned. "Yeah. You're still my girl. If ya wanna be."
"I do."
He kissed me again. I held his head in my hands, kissed him back, eagerly, loving the solid male feel of him, not caring how sweaty he was. I licked my lips, the salt of him.
"Jesus, Anita!" His eyes were positively sparkling. He'd said that sort of thing before, when I practically swabbed his tonsils.
I gave him a nickel, pointed to the pop machine. "Get me a coke?"'
"Sure, Honey." It was the first time he called me that. It made me feel so great.
He handed me the coke. "Look I gotta get a shower, get changed, so's I can fight fresh." He shrugged. "These are just practice clothes. Ya can go sit at the big ring. Ya can get a seat up front, if ya go now. It'll be a little wait, but it'll be worth it."
"Sure," I said, "I always carry a book in my purse, in case, if I have to wait somewhere." (It was the bestselling sexy novel "Peyton Place". My ma would really flip her lid if she knew I was reading that.)
He laughed. "It won't be that long a wait!" He put his palms against the wall, on either side of my head, leaned toward me. "I'm really, really glad you're here."
He kissed my lips, his a little moist, so gentle. He trailed his fingers along the side of my neck, those long fingers; he had fingers like spiders. God, oh, God, I did, I did love him, damn him! I watched him walk away, turn a corner, to what I thought must be the locker room. He was so strong and beautiful and sweet, and I was going to maybe watch him get beat up at close range, right in the front row.
--- Copyright by Antoinette Beard/Sorelle Sucere 2021.
Chapter 12... Ringside is what it's called, where you get slashed with sweat and other things like blood and spit. I just sat there, in the front row, while all around me shouting, screaming, swearing, angry men, and women too, jumped up from the benches, even stood on them, booing... "You bum! You prick! Hit him! Fucking hit him! Get him! Get him! Get him! What are you waiting for, you lousy fucker? What kinda fucking shit is this?"... "Boo-boo-boo-boo-boo-boo!"... It didn't seem to me that Emilio and Johnny were holding back any punches, but what did I know? Then, it was over. People were exchanging money from betting. It was so loud in the place that I didn't even hear anybody announced as the winner. Maybe it wasn't announced. It was all a crazy and wild blur to me, and I knew I really, really didn't like boxing, ~ no, not at all! The air was fetid, heavy with sweat and smoke. I made my way back to the locker room. Nobody stopped me and I opened the door. Emilio was wearing a dark blue terrycloth robe sitting on a bench; Johnny was also wearing a dark blue robe, lying down on another bench. I could hear showers running. The walls were lined with green metal lockers. The smell of liniment in the steamy air was so strong it blocked out everything. I stood over Emilio; he smiled, crookedly, up at me. There was a cut over his left eye, bleeding. The blood mixed with sweat, which was pouring off him. He winced, touched his side. "I think my ribs are pretty bruised. His lower lip was split. But, the worst, his right eye, was puffed up and purple. That beautiful blue eye, ~ that intense color, that "Emilio Blue". He sighed, deeply. "I won," he whispered, his voice thick. "I don't understand why you do this," I said. "This?" I was a little angry. "Yes, fucking THIS! It's dumb!" "I like the sport. And, I told you, it's easy money." "EASY?" He gave me an adorable trembling smile, because of his wounded lip. "Yeah. Uh, the doc will be in in a while, to look at us fighters." The locker room door banged open and a short, bald, fat little guy in an old gray suit walked in. I could see the dirt around the edge of his collar. He couldn't have been five feet tall. He peeled off some bills, gave them to Emilio. "Winner," he said in a gravelly voice, "minus fees, ~ corner man, shower and towel, and tax, payout comes to thirty-five fifty." The little guy turned to Johnny. "You fought a good fight, but you lost, minus corner man, locker fee, shower and towel, and tax, payout comes to sixteen twenty-five." The short guy left. In a few minutes the locker room door banged open again. A tall and thin man with wire glasses and a gray crew cut dressed in a white shirt, tie and black slacks walked in, carrying a doctor's bag. He sat down next to Emilio on the bench, opened his bag, got out his sethoscope, listened to Emilio's chest and back, telling him to breathe deeply. Emilio said it hurt when he took deep breaths. The doctor put his stethoscope around the back of hs neck. "Do you want to go the the hospital?," he asked. Emilio shook his head, "Naw." The doc checked Emilio's swollen eye, put a butterfly bandaid on the cut over Emilio's other eye. "Leave that there a few minutes," he said. If it bleeds after you take you shower, put this other one on it." He handed Emilio another butterfly bandaid, patted Emilio's shoulder. "Get some rest." The doctor gave him a tired smile. He looked up at me."This your girl?" Emilio smiled. "Yeah." The doc nodded. "Nice." The doctor went to see Johnny. "You can wait outside while I shower," Emilio said. I left, went to sit on one of the benches in the, ~ uh, I guess you could call it the arena, for lack of a better name. The crowd had thinned out a lot. Just some folks standing around talking and smoking and drinking, a lot of them drinking beer, some drinking booze and cheap wine, right from the bottles. Emilio came out, looking refreshed, wearing jeans and a white t shirt, his black motorcycle jacket slung over one shoulder, and the butterfly bandaid over his eye. His right eye was swollen shut and purple. "Let's go," he said. "Not on your motorcycle!" "Naw, naw, I always walk to Rio's. My apartment's real close." "I did notice." He smiled, held the door for me. He touched his lip, gingerly. "Hurts," he said. "I can imagine." "No, ya can't. I'll feel awful tomorrow morning, all stiff and achy, like I'm a hundred, a beat up creaky, old man. Much worse than a hangover, more like a hangover and a fight in an alley where big, mean guys with hobnail boots kick the livin' crap out of ya." But, as bad as Emilio felt; he was even limping a bit, he took my arm, protectively. That touched me. "I'll walk you home," he said. "I appreciate you comin'." I stopped walking. "No, I want to go to your apartment with you." "You do?" "I do." He took my arm again. Soon we were at the door marked with the brass "10". We walked up the narrow steps, went into Mike's apartment. He flipped the light switch, threw his jacket on the easy chair, sat down on the bed, then, laid full length on it. "I'm so tired," he said. He sighed. He closed his eyes. "That's usual." I sat down on the bed too. "Do you want a cold cloth or maybe some ice for your eye?" "No." "Some asprin?" "No, I took two at the gym. Doc Moskowitz always keeps the gym supplied with medicines for us fighters. He's a good guy. Rio's is lucky to have him. Of course, they pay him pretty good. Rio has a great rep for takin' good care of the guys that workout there." "My ma says when you feel crumby you should eat something to give you strength." Emilio's eyes were still closed. "Sounds sensible." "Do you have any soup?" "Just Campbell's Chicken Noodle." "Ugh, yellow salty chicken water,but maybe I can fix it up." I went over to his food shelves. There was a few boxes of spaghetti and some cans of mixed vegetables. I broke some spaghetti noodles in half, cooked them, added them and the vegetables to the chicken noodle soup. It was good. I gave some to Emilio, ate some too. After that, Emilio fell asleep and I kicked off my shoes, pulled my legs up on the bed and fell asleep next to him. When it was after midnight, but no problem. I'd walk home, slip into the locked house by a basement window. I'd done it lots of times before.
No comments:
Post a Comment