Mickey was
six years my senior. He had a basketball hoop in front of his house, an
otherwise dismal place. I would come over, sheepishly, cookies in-hand, hopeful
I would earn my keep if I bore gifts. A sleeve of flower shaped, fudge filled
cookies would be my entrance to his company. Mickey told me that I didn’t need
to come over with cookies and that if people only wanted to be my friend
because of what I had to offer, they were, in fact, no friend at all. He always
stood by that theory. He never made me feel like a pest or unwanted in any way,
but we always ate the cookies, me sitting on the curb, him shooting baskets.
Mickey taught
me how to box when I was seven years old. He said with a smart mouth like mine
I’d be using my right hook as often as any Golden-glover.
“Ok, you
little smartass, let’s see if you’ve got anything to back up that mouth! Move
your feet! Get your hands up!”
He’d swat at me until I took a legit swing at him.
“There she is! That’s what I want to see!”
He’d laugh,
with a broad, genuine smile, proud of himself, and, me. He was a regular kid,
filled with joy, until the fender of his father’s white Impala turned the
corner. Time would freeze for him in front of my very eyes. I didn’t understand
the abrupt daily death of my sage trainer but it was palpable. I couldn’t
comprehend the cruelty that lived in his house but I watched it arrive,
everyday at 5:30.
Mickey was
a great athlete, never good enough for his father, but the kids in town
worshiped him. There were rumors among the kids that his father would show up
at his baseball games drunk and beat him in the parking lot after the game, win
or lose. His spirit never seemed to break, unlike his bones.
One
mischief night, the brain trust, consisting of Walter, Edward and I, decided to
ring doorbells, soap windows and string toilet paper from trees. We were an
original and creative group. After toilet papering Mrs. Silverfarbs’ house and
ringing the doorbell, we ran. We jumped through the bushes that lined my house,
which, by the way, was directly across from Mrs. Silverfarb’s house. Walter,
overly confident in his physical abilities, jumped headfirst. Hopeful of a
graceful, MacGyver type roll, only to get stuck, head first in the thicket. He
screamed and flailed. Edward and I laughed so hard we were rendered helpless.
We tried to assist him but we were unsuccessful at extracting him before Mickey
came out and saw what we had done.
As it turns
out Mrs. Silverfarb spent 8 months a year in Boca and would not have seen our
handy work until mid-May. Mickey said he was disappointed, that we should be
nicer to the old bags. In exchange for his silence we had to agree to shovel
all of the old ladies driveways for the whole winter, for free. We did and he
supervised every snowstorm.
Several
years after my extensive training in pugilism, I had an actual fight, not my first,
but my first with an audience. I was in my front yard, pre-fight, playing
whiffle ball. I had just hit a line drive over Mrs. Pulaski’s hedges. I made my
way to second base as my sparring partner pulled up on his bike: a boy, two
years my senior.
“Earthquake! Earthquake!”
Initially, I ignored his uninspired taunts.
“You gonna cry, fat ass?”
“Do I look like I’m gonna cry, loser?”
“You calling me a loser, fat ass?”
“You are the only loser I see.”
“Fuck you.”
Ah, the “f”
word, only broken out for special occasions. At that young age it still came
with a hefty punishment. I knew we were going to fight. It was far from my
first altercation and I knew how to expedite the process.
“Faggot.”
I would be
lying if I didn’t admit the enjoyment I experienced the moment I knew I had
gotten under someone’s skin to the brink of madness, a skill perfected early on
at the expense of the nuns. I also knew that calling a boy a faggot was
fighting words. He dropped his bike to the ground and came at me. Our brief
exchange had caught the eye of Edward’s dad, who sat on his front porch, beer
in hand. An instant later, every kid in the neighborhood stood as spectators.
“You want to fight, fat ass?”
“Well, I don’t want to dance, faggot.”
He took a step at me. Mickey intervened.
“Whoa. You can’t hit a girl. You’re twice her size. You wanna fight?
Fight me.”
That wasn’t
going to happen. Mickey was a tough kid and we all knew he had the capacity for
violence. Brian, my opponent, took another step closer.
“What’s the matter? You can’t fight your own battles, fat ass?”
“Don’t pay
any attention to him. I think you should be able to hit girls, especially one
as ugly as you.”
Brian was
enraged. He came at me like an animal, near tears from embarrassment and fury.
I took the first swing, just as I had been instructed to. “Don’t wait to get
hit, Erin.” Words to live by. My fist connected with his jaw and laid him out
flat. I straddled him and beat him with every ounce of fat ass ferocity I
possessed. Bleeding and hysterical, Brian tried to escape my wrath
unsuccessfully. My mother saved his life.
“What the hell is going on? Erin! Stop! Look what you are doing!”
“He called her a fat ass. Well, then she called him a faggot.”
My mother’s
jaw dropped in shock. I shrugged. I knew I couldn’t count on Walter for muscle
but he was loyal, even if a bit too honest. The information changed things a
bit for my mother, I could tell. Her hesitation in yanking me off Brian
solidified my confidence that I wouldn’t get in as much trouble for fighting,
this time.
“Ok,
everyone go back to what you were doing. Fight’s over. Maybe next time you’ll
think before you call someone a fat ass.”
Brian got
on his bike and never came to my yard again. My mother was angry. She turned to
Edward’s dad, still on his front porch, ringside.
“Ed, why didn’t you break it up?"
“He called her a fat ass! She was winning!”
My mother
shook her head in disgust as she dragged me into the house to face my
punishment. The crowd had dispersed except for Mickey. He stood in the street
in front of my house, bursting with pride. We made eye contact. His jaw set, he
nodded at me and mouthed “good girl”.
I never
became the “boxer” Mickey would have liked, but I did know to defend myself, by
just hauling off and cracking someone. No grace or finesse, as he would of
preferred, but effective nonetheless.
Several
years ago my father called to say that Mickey had called him. Fran had not seen
or heard from Mickey in at least 15 years and he had moved twice. Mickey
tracked him down through Edward’s parents. He was in need a few hundred
dollars. He said he had been in trouble with drugs and a bad crowd and was going
to use the money to “right a wrong”. Fran said he either gave Mickey $500.00 to
straighten out, or paid $500.00 to never hear from him again.
Mickey
used the money her borrowed to take his estranged wife and little girl to a
carnival. He bought them dinner and took his daughter on rides. They had their
picture taken on the back of a camel.
Mickey
dropped his family at home, rented a room at a local hotel and hung himself.
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