The Empty Nest

On a Friday in November, Aaron left to take a job waiting tables in Banff.

He was the last.  His two sisters were long gone.  

Now the house was empty.  

Caroline sat at the kitchen table trying to think of what was different now.   

Aaron was never an early riser so his presence in the kitchen any time before 10:00 was rare.  

Still, sitting at the table at 7:30 in the morning felt . . . different.  

She held her breath to hear the house - the ticking of the clock in the dining room, 

A barely-audible whir of the fan in the furnace, the clicking noise when it turned itself off, 

Chattering of sparrows in the mountain ash, garbage cans being rustled in a neighbour's yard, 

Occasional cracking sounds as the house reacted to the colder weather, 

The fussing of leaves as they danced around the back porch looking for a way to move on or in.  

The sounds were new as if she had moved to another home.   

She sat in silence for as long as she could.   She was so still she thought she had fainted. 

What would she do now?

Megalomania

Megalomania.   Time was, this was a rarely used word, used to describe third world despots, religious cranks, and the Hitlers of the world.  But it is a word that perhaps is in need of a revival.  It’s application seems to have grown considerably.

I’m just a country boy (I can’t believe I said that!) who happened to be a small businessman all my life.   The only major corporation I ever worked for (Texas to New York to London ownership) went broke in 1982 after a series of ill-considered decisions regarding the economy).   I wasn’t an wildly successful businessman, although I did have some successes and did manage to run my own business for 25 years.    But creating an environment in which a group of disparate people can coordinate their efforts well enough to have a sense of accomplishment and turn a profit is a very special thing.   Very special.

But sometimes, the arena gets over-crowded and out of whack.  This, to me, is one of those times.   Business has become way too big and too pushy.

I believe there are two basic types of businessmen.   The first is the genuine entrepreneur, the individual who has an idea and has the brains, the luck, and the work ethic to run with it.  These are very special people and, naturally, are fairly rare.   Actually, there are many, many would-be entrepreneurs who, for various reasons, miss out on the ‘luck’ aspect of success and flounder even though they, too, have the work ethic and the brains.   It’s no fun watching this person fail when his neighbor, for no apparent reason, succeeds.  Such is the nature of luck.  In any case, the true entrepreneur is fun to watch and his story is always interesting.  No less than a great composer or writer, they have a ‘vision’.

The second type of businessman is what I like to call the ‘functionary’.  Their job is to be custodian of the business, making sure it doesn’t fall of the rails and working to see that it attains certain goals.  Most businessmen fall into this category and while many of them are very competent and possess definite leadership qualities, they’re not entrepreneurs and they sure as hell don’t need their egos inflated with such odious descriptors as ‘community leaders’ and ‘captains of industry’.  They’re caretakers.  Most of them go to work everyday hoping the rails don’t come off the train they’re conducting.  They’re quite happy with a holding pattern.

But sometimes the market forces allow the ‘custodian’ businesses to grow in spite of their leadership.  Stock market expectations explain the goal – if you are not growing you’re dying – and see-no-evil governments refrain from imposing any curbs on business affairs.

So what we have now is a proliferation of multi-national corporations.   Their sheer size and political clout practically ensures that they can conduct their affairs with very little restraint.  What this does to any one particular community is an ongoing subject for research (If you live in an urban area and shop at a shopping centre or big box centre, you’re almost guaranteed not to be able to find one small independent store, not even a coffee shop.  What this says about the level of competition in the commercial world is discouraging to say the least) but what is MOST interesting is what it has done to those who actually run these huge operations.

Corporate execs may be functionaries at heart but today they come as close as any one group to being a modern form of royalty.  Look how they live.   They’re paid obscene salaries with almost limitless perks.  They live in enclaves and spend most of their time either travelling, at their place of business, or at their place of leisure.   They move about in limos and private jets.  Most of them have little or no knowledge of the actual community in which they live.  Their social contacts are their peers and the politicians they either own or plan to own.   Troubling questions arise.  Are we creating a new privileged class no different from Europe in the middle ages?   How do these people see themselves?

Well, it’s all plenty of stuff for op-ed dissection and graduate theses.  But let’s look at one small detail to see what it tells us.   This is one advertisement placed in the Economist for a Ph.D in economics  (If you weren’t aware, the Economist’s target market isn’t middle America).

“. . . . .  Institute has been offering a unique PhD in Finance programme to elite practitioners who aspire to higher intellectual levels and aim to redefine the investment banking and asset management industries.

Drawing its faculty from the world’s best universities and enjoying the support of a leader in industry-relevant academic research, the  . . .  Institute PhD in Finance creates an extraordinary platform for professional development and industry innovation

Following a stimulating scientific curriculum and working individually with leading specialists on research issues of particular relevance to their organizations, practitioners on the programme’s executive track learn tom leverage their experience and insights to make original contributions to the frontiers of financial knowledge and practices.

Challenging professionals to step back, reflect, and generate radical innovations, the  . . .

Institute PhD in Finance is the ultimate degree for financial executives.”

I don’t know about you but I don’t think that ad was aimed at me or anyone I know.  I’d like to examine it from a thousand different perspectives but, assuming the writer of the ad has stopped patting himself on the back for his glorious adherence to academic gobbledegook, let’s see what the ad says about the world of business.

A world of privilege, elitism, and pretension might be a start.  I know any number of academic disciplines are guilty of self-importance masquerading as intellectual ‘frontiers’, but this PhD is aimed directly at those who see themselves at the cutting edge of  . .  what? . . .  Innovation?  Market penetration?  Market rigging?  Mergers and acquisitions?   Outsourcing?   Obviously it’s aimed at a world of self-satisfied corporate types who hunger for something more, presumably as long as it is in that corporate world.

The arrogance of the ad is staggering and we wonder how closely it represents the natures of the people it was meant to attract.   If it is close, the world may be in trouble.  If it isn’t close and is, instead, the result of an excess of self-love, it would be interesting to hear the comments of those short-listed for the position. Either way, it’s a vivid example of how misguided the corporate world can be.  

Perhaps, if Citizen’s United is with us for the long-term, then the least we can do if corporations are people, is take steps to make sure they, like us, don’t live forever.   Let the next generation have its day too.

Robert Alan Davidson
June, 2014

Grace, The Goddess of Bad Luck

Joel’s business card read ‘Promoter of Quality Fisticuffs’.  At this point in his career the only word that couldn’t invite an argument was the ‘of’.   He hadn’t promoted a fight in six months, the skill levels possessed by his stable of two were barely golden glove, and the few people who chose to offer him advice said ‘get into Mixed Martial Arts. That’s where the action is.’  But Joel was a keen advocate of the ‘sweet science’ and considered MMA nothing more than brawling.   Fight promoting north of the Mason-Dixon line neither promised nor delivered much in the way of rewards.  The crowds were small, mostly grizzled veterans of an earlier age, puffy-faced anachronisms happy to congregate in some drafty auditorium, hurl time-worn insults at dead-end fighters, dredge up the ‘good old days’, and maybe smoke a cigar.

Joel came to fight promoting as a more or less default decision – a love of boxing, no training for a normal career and too slow to be a fighter himself.  He was of stocky build and could punch but realized at a young age that he was taking far more punches than he delivered - not to mention possessing a nose that cratered in a strong wind.  So he became a tireless shill for the faded fortunes of boxing, his shambling frame wandering through the bars and taverns, talking to anyone who’d listen and offering up a litany of good things to report on his small stable of boxers.  The pick of the current litter was a lanky middleweight named Darryl Beck, a light-punching dreamer quickly tagged ‘Canvas’, as in ‘Canvas Beck’.   Beck was headlining a card set for Dec 12 and Joel had wandered into the Chanticleer Bar and Grill to solicit some business, generate some interest, an exercise in futility but what else could he do?  Maybe MMA was the answer.

He approached a table of familiar regulars. ‘How-do gentlemen.  Got your tickets yet?  You gotta see ‘im!  Beck’s ready.  He’s ready.  He’s better than I’ve ever seen ‘im.’  Everyone in the bar knew Beck was an accident waiting to happen – a stylish boxer with a glass face.  In his most recent appearance, hecklers threatened to take him outside and beat the shit out of him unless he picked up the pace.  Judicious selection of even more anemic foes allowed Beck to climb the sparse rankings of middleweights so now he was second ranked on somebody’s list and no one you knew could name the first or third.

Joel’s head was bobbing up and down as he tried to gauge who might be biting on his sales pitch.   ‘Got some tickets left ringside, fellas.  You bunch should be ringside, all that knowledge.  How many you want?’

‘Joel, you remember a fighter by the name of Horace Carter?’  It was the cynical voice belonging to a crusty old-timer.    Joel shook his head.  Do I really want to hear what this prick has to say?  Walk away.  Just walk away.

‘You mean you never heard of Horace ‘Breeze’ Carter, the great white hope of England?  Hell, I’m disappointed, Joel.  I thought you were a fight man.’  Joel knew of ‘Breeze’ Carter, the nickname arising out of an early comparison to the other Carter, Reuben ‘Hurricane’.  He also knew where the conversation was going and would play along.  The friggin’ things I gotta do to make a buck.

‘What the hell you talkin’ ‘bout?  Horse Carter and all that shit.  I’m tryin’ to promote a good fight here.’    He felt like Bud Abbott.  Maybe if he laughed for the fifteenth time at what was coming, a ticket sale or two might result

‘You should hear this, my friend.  Horace was a helluva fighter – fast hands, blond hair and blue eyes.  Was heavyweight champ of England, no less.’  The man stood up and assumed a fighter’s stance.  ‘The press loved the guy.  He could even talk.  Not like Ali or Leonard, but better than Holmes.  Trouble was, he was one of the world’s great bleeders.  Pop!  Pop!  Hit the sonofabitch in the face and ‘whoosh’ the mat looks like a goddam grape-stomping pit.   When Horace fought, the fuckin’ Red Cross set out bottles at ringside, didn’t want to see all that type ‘O’ go to waste.   I tell ya, broads didn’t wear no fur coats at ringside.  Anyways, Joel, I’m thinkin’ your boy, ‘Canvas’ is Horace with a new name.  Pop!  Pop!  Canvas Beck!’

Joel only smiled, his eyes scanning the table to look for doughheads who wanted to atone for the talker’s incivility by buying a ticket.  Nothing.   ‘What the hell you mean, ‘Canvas’?  Big talker, huh?  Buy a ticket, then talk all you want.  All this bullshit ain’t bein’ fair to Darryl.  He’s got a lot of heart and you can’t ask for more in a fighter.’   A punch wouldn’t hurt, either.

Another voice.  ‘Hey, Joel, whatever happened to Stewie McFadden?  Seen ‘im lately, have ya?’

Joel blushed, smiled and walked out, leaving a chorus of laughter.

*  *  *  *

It still hurt to hear Stewie’s name.  I shoulda known then this was a stupid way to make a living.  Stewie was another of Joel’s ‘projects’, a lightweight with fast hands, a wicked uppercut, and a vicious disposition; a local boy who spent his teenage years cleaning up in the ring and beating the crap out of all and sundry out of the ring.  The kid loved to go to dances and pick fights – there was always some dumbass who saw only a skinny runt with a big mouth.

Jail time was looming pretty large for Stewie until his dad, with Joel’s help, finally corralled the boy and turned him pro.  At first, it seemed the smart thing to do.  It wasn’t long before the whole town was rooting for their ‘Stewie’.  He ran up a string of lopsided victories and soon joined the -list of up-and-coming world lightweights.  To Joel, Stewie was seduction personified; his chance to make a mark on the world of boxing, a human asset whose ugliness was below the surface.  The kid wasn’t ready for a title shot but after two, maybe three, more fights against names, he would be set for a big payday. 

Joel was a promoter in the broadest sense; he not only arranged fights but saw himself as both manager and mentor, a man who could get young men realize their potential.  That was the theory, anyway.  Advancing age and persistent disappointments took the sheen off that notion.   Now, he only regretted wasting all that psychology on so many cretins whose vile habits merely increased with each rising purse, eventually ending in total self-destruction.

Stewie was going to be different.  Sure, he was still a street bully but lots of fighters were pugnacious out of the ring – that’s where the goddam word ‘pug’ originated, wasn’t it?  But it was go slow time for Stewie.  A lot was riding on the smart selection of opponents.  He was impressing a lot of people, Stewie was, and some of those people had the same idea Joel had, which was to cleverly pick opponents for their up-and-comer, their title hopeful.  It was a dangerous game – one wrong move and five years of work went into the shitter – but the right move!  Aahh, that could make you a rich man.  Better than that, it could give you some respect.   Who was Cus D’Amato before Floyd Patterson?  Angelo Dundee before Ali?  Don King before – well, he heard the Kingmeister had some good points, too.

It was May and Joel needed to schedule a fight for September.  Stewie was getting antsy and slacking off, screwing his brains out with broads who were too dumb to know he was still a medium-size fish in a very small pond.  It was time to get back on track.  He sat down in his office, a storage room in a criminal lawyer’s office.  Providing process servers paid his rent.  The telephone, desk, and chair were his own.  The office receptionist refused to field his calls so he used an answering machine.

The list of potential opponents was a short one;  two boys out of Philadelphia, one from Newark, and another from L.A., one of those Latino hot shots who liked to fight at home where if he didn’t kill you, the crowd would.  Piss on that.  The other three didn’t want to fight Stewie.  No surprise there.   The opponent needed to be on the radar screen as a potential contender but flawed in a way Stewie could capitalize on; preferably a boxer, not a puncher; Stewie could make mincemeat out of a boxer but he wasn’t ready to be matched up with another ranked puncher.  Nobody said this would be easy.

Plus there was the mob; greedy bastards just wouldn’t let go of the fight game.  With mediocre stables, nobody gave a shit; the only guys with their hands out were the technicians – you didn’t want the ring to collapse in the middle of the fight, did you?   But Stewie was visible now; the wise guys would make Joel pay to let Stewie play in their sandbox.  Joel hoped he could squeeze in one more fight that would set he and Stewie up for a good payday – without having to piece off some gimlet-eyed lout with hands like sandbags and the disposition of starving wolverine.  

Joel’s list of manager/promoter contacts was a small one.  A dozen phone calls later, no one had offered anything worth pursuing.   That was the bad news.  The good news was he cashed a five hundred plus dollar quinella the night before.  His luck couldn’t end there, could it?

Joel went for lunch and when he returned, the phone was ringing.  Please, God, don't be a goddam’ creditor.  It was Luis Juarez from Albuquerque.   Joel met him only once and had him measured as someone he could trust.  In 1998, Luis sent up a couple of Navaho boys  to a ‘So-You-Think-You’re-Tough’ card and, outside of refusing to wear outfits to at least look like Geronimo, they did okay.  How was Joel to know Geronimo wasn’t a Navaho?  The two weren’t half-bad brawlers.  One boy might have even gone home with some money in his jeans if Joel hadn’t introduced him to birdies-in-the-bush.   In the end, Joel scrambled to set the two up with a ride home in a fruit semi headed for Mexico.  Luis said later there were no hard feelings.

‘What’s shakin’, Luis?’

‘You need a lightweight, amigo?  New Mexico is full of lightweights.  Indian or Latino, it don’t matter.  We fuckin’ specialize in lightweights, you know?’

‘You know what I’m looking for, Luis?’

‘I heard your boy needs a real fight so’s he can prove he belongs, right?  You want someone good but not too good, like everybody else, huh?’

‘That’s about it, Luis.  Fifteen hundred and 5% over 2000 fans.  Plus the grand to you.  Soon as I see him in town and under his own steam.’

‘$2500 and 25 % over 2500.   I like the way you put on a fight.  But quit fuckin’ low-ballin’ me,  I gotta good match for you.’

‘Keep talkin’.’

‘I got a new boy.  He isn’t a kid but goes by that name, Kid Ventura.  Ever heard of him?’

Joel scratched his jaw.  ‘Don’t believe I have.  Kid Ventura.  Nope, I’m sure. Who is he when he’s home?’

‘Well, here’s the skinny.  He’s from Oaxaca and moved here a year ago.  Said he couldn’t get ahead in Oaxaca.  Go figure, place’s got more pistoleros than Newark.  Anyways, he hooks up with me and I put him in one fight and, shit, he don’t look half bad.  Stylish, you know.  Makes the other guy look like Leon Spinks after a Jeopardy test.  So his record is 1 and 0 here but 11-0 if you count his fights in Oaxaca.  I checked it out and after the Oaxaca guy calls me a puta for stealin’ his fighter, says its true, 10-0 against some good fighters.  I don’t know about those ‘good’ fighters he talks about but what I saw I liked.’

‘Keep talkin’, I’m warming up.’

‘Well, you no gonna find anything in Ring or with WBC or whoever’s takin’ care of these things today.  But, I figger, your town don’t know from shit, anyway, no offense.  I make up a flashy rez-oo-may for Kid Ventura and you do what you do best, make this match sound like it’s Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran.  Entendez?’

‘No record?  How the hell am I gonna sell that?  They’re not all effin’ idiots here.  I need somethin’ to work with.  Jesus.’

‘Senor Joel, listen to me.  If you tell your town he ain’t in the records books but is 11-0 and lookin’ to take the fight world by storm, you got all the ammunition you need.  Blame the record problem on Mexico.  Goddam country can’t keep track of its police chiefs, much less a from-nowhere fighter.  Your boy gets past the Kid and he’s for sure gonna move up.  Guaran-friggin-teed.  Tell ‘em the Kid’s just now getting noticed and it’ll be a rugged test. Which it will, by the way.  I figger you can pull in 4,000, no sweat.  I’ll even send up a couple of news reports.  You still use that stupid convention centre?’

‘This guy gonna gimme problems when he gets here?  Like he weighs 165 pounds and hasn’t fought at 128 since he was herding sheep or whatever they do down there?  Like he’s got umpteen warrants for disorderly and don’t get past the border?  Like he can’t fight unless his momma’s in the crowd?’

‘Joel, Joel, Joel.  None of that stuff, I swear.  The kid wants a fight, make a few pesos and see some new norte americanos.  That’s it.’

‘You seen Stewie.  Your boy can’t beat him, can he?’

‘Your boy chews up boxers and spits them into the hot tub,  Kid Ventura’s a boxer, a purist, like Hearns only he can’t hit.  If your boy lets him fight his fight, sure, he can win.  But  . . .’

‘Okay, okay.  You tell Kid La – what the hell? To start trainin’ for a September 15 match up here.  Get him up here two weeks at least, so’s I can drum up some interest.’

‘No problemo.’

‘You’re not tagging along are you?’

‘Nah, I seen your town.  I’d miss the funeral if my mother died there.’

‘So who gets the g-note?’

‘The trainer, Pablo Costas.  He’s been with me long time now.  Soon as the tape goes on the kid, Pablo will excuse hisself and stick out his palm.  Okay?’

‘Will he take a cheque?’ 

‘Funny.  Are we okay?  $2500 and 25% over 2500.  And Pablo is a math guy too.  So don’t jerk him around on the head count, okay?  He’ll do the math after the fight.’

‘20% over 2500.  Your work is done, my friend.  Gimme a break.’

A pause.   ‘Okay, but you pay Pablo’s airfare.  Round trip.’

‘Done.   Have a nice day, Luis.’ 

‘Hasta la vista, amigo.’

         *  *  *  *

Outside the Chanticleer, Joel lit a cigarette and thought about that fight six long years ago.  As he had done a thousand times, he wondered what he might have done differently.  This, that, the other thing.   But nothing would have changed.  The minute he said ‘yes’ to Kid Ventura the die was cast. Maybe he should have known when a problem sprouted within 4 hours of hanging up the phone.  At the time, though, he could see only good things.  A Quinella win would do that.  Are you with me, Aunt Chrissie?

Joel’s Aunt Chrissie was the deep thinker in Joel’s family and told him when he was fourteen that the world was run by the goddess of bad luck, and that most people were born with a healthy measure of optimism, enough for some to do great things.  But the goddess of bad luck had an ever-growing army of – Chrissie wanted a more thoughtful description but settled for – assholes, whose job it was to confound positive people at every turn, suck out all that optimism and leave them dazed and broken in slagheaps of sawdust dreams and bile.  Aunt Chrissie’s army of assholes included all law enforcement personnel, most lawyers, all bureaucrats, all evangelists, and anyone who resorted to begging on corners.  For reasons unknown, Aunt Chrissie named the bad luck goddess ‘Grace’.  At the time Joel said, ‘Aunt Chrissie, what about ‘Hail Mary, full of grace? Any connection?’

‘Heavens no! I – I don’t think so.’  Joel’s mother, less given to radical theories, would only say, ‘Your dear aunt, my only sister, has stepped in front of too many of life’s freight trains, I fear. Love, marriage, career, health haven’t often stood, as you boxers say, in her corner.  You be nice.  And bite your tongue over that ‘Hail Mary’ comment.’  

Joel had no intention of mocking his aunt.  Take away her habit of alternately blubbering and cursing while under the influence of Bright’s Port, and she was as kind and smart as anyone he knew.   Over the years, Joel found little reason to tamper with Aunt Chrissie’s notion of Grace, the bad luck goddess. Grace had certainly worked her malevolence in his life.   To Grace’s minions, he would have added most boxers and anyone who said ‘Have I got a deal for you!’   But just now, with Stewie’s star still in its ascendancy, Joel knew his ration of optimism had not been depleted.  You’re wrong on this one, Aunt Chrissie.  

*  *  *  *

Four hours after hanging up on Luis, the phone rang.  It was his friend, Constable Marvin Klump, city police.   ‘Joel, that goddam runaway train you call a fighter is sitting across from me here at my desk.  Any guesses why?’

‘Shoot, Marvin.’  Probably the wrong thing to say.

‘Shoot is right, Joel.  I pick up the little bastard – don’t even think it, kid – I’m gonna shoot him.  A bunch of Mormons filed assault charges against him.’

‘Mormons?  What the hell does he know from Mormons?  They don’t go to dances, do they?’ 

‘Four of them showed up at his house to peddle religion.  You’d think just by looking at Stewie, they’d think better of it, but no such luck.  Stewie says he went to close the door but one of ‘em stuck his foot and said somethin’ like ‘you look like a man who loves a discussion.’   Stewie allowed that he did, so the four, all dressed in suits, start in to explainin’ the Book of – what’d you say? – Mormon.  Stewie says they talked real good but just as things were warming up one of ‘em slags the Pope.  You can guess the rest.   I’ll tell you one thing.   All four need new suits.  And shirts.’

‘ What’ll make this go away?’

‘Not much, I think.  The four boys actually said they were real impressed with Stewie’s left hook and woulda let it go but their boss, or whatever they call him – Stewie says he was an elder – said that wouldn’t do.  I guess the old boy wasn’t moved by the spirit of forgiveness.  Anyway, come up with somethin’ will ya?   I hate to drag this puke in front of a magistrate, even if he is a bona fide bastard who’s gonna mess with the wrong people one of these days.’  Marvin paused.    ‘But, he’s one of our bastards.’

‘Tell the Mormons they each get $100 bucks to buy a new suit.  Wanderin’ preachers don’t know from tailor-made.  They’ll prob’ly hit Goodwill and spend the diff on – what? – what’s a Mormon vice?  Candy, maybe.  And tell ‘em we’ll set up a scholarship fund in the name of Gene Fullmer.  Yeah, they’ll piss their pants over that.’

‘Gene who?’

‘Fullmer.  He was world middleweight champion back in the late fifties or early sixties.  Took out Bobo Olson, if I remember.  And he was Mormon.  Good thing for Stewie, Gene wasn’t knockin’ on his door.’

‘You got it, pal.  And you owe me.  I’ll consider the debt paid if you let me take your boy into a cell and teach him some manners.’

‘Feel free.  Just don’t hurt his hands.  I just lined up a good fight.’

‘Anybody I’d know?  Hey, Stewie, your boss has got some work for you’  Another pause.  ‘He says, bring ‘im on.’

‘Nobody you’d know just yet.   You will, though,’ added Joel, not knowing how prophetic he was.

The fight was two and a half months away.  Time enough for Stewie to dry out and polish his game.  The kid had the metabolism of a shrew so making weight wasn’t a problem.   The same couldn’t be said for Kid Ventura who showed up two weeks before the fight eight pounds over the limit.

‘Doan you worry, Amigo,’  said Pablo, ‘ he be there at the weigh-in.  But he needs a gorl.  You fix him up, si?   Maybe two, three?  He hot-blooded Latino.  Eskimo girls luv him for sure.’

‘Cut the crap, Pablo.  Kid needs to focus.  This fight is real important.  Real important.  And we don’t have Eskimo women here.  Indians, maybe and lots of pale blondes from Sweden and Egypt.’  Joel had anticipated this request for a girl and had Madeline Brousseau sitting by her phone.   Madeline considered the servicing of visiting boxers a noble pursuit and had been the ruin of a dozen fagged-out visitors.  Her zeal was born out of a youth spent reading trashy romance novels and she considered each fighter a mission, a mission in which she would make him the happiest man in North America, so happy that when he entered the ring it was to devote his entire being to fighting for her honour.  That so many of them were pummeled into submission seemed not to faze her.  As far as Joel was concerned, it was a situation that worked for everybody.  Madeline would have a good cry when her latest knight skedaddled out of town without so much as a kiss on the cheek but, within a week, she was ready to let down her hair for the next knight-errant to scale the wall into her boudoir,

Joel actually wasn’t too concerned if Kid Ventura failed the weigh-in.  If Stewie was ready and if Madeline did her job, none of that would matter.

The publicity was going well, even if one sportswriter seemed determined to find out why Kid Ventura came out of nowhere.

He was skeptical but supportive.  ‘You sure you know what you’re doing, Joel?’

‘Why don’t you grab a bus to Mexico and find out for yourself?’ 

With two days to go, the first six rows had gone and the rest was half taken.   It would be a good gate.   He phoned Kid’s room and talked to Madeline.   ‘Make sure there’s enough left of the Kid to go at least five rounds.’    Madeline sighed.

Late that day, one of the local TV stations said they’d send a crew and tape the fight for the following Saturday.  They’d cut Joel in for 25% of whatever advertising revenue they generated.  Joel figured that in the bonehead world of television, some suits realized a Stewie McFadden fight on Saturday afternoon might sell better than an hour-long special on pig farming in Bolivia.  If it was a good fight, Joel could spend a week or two in Hawaii, maybe even pay the receptionist to answer his phone.   Stewie and Pablo didn’t need to know.

Joel managed to line up four preliminary bouts, the longest six rounds.   All eight fighters were of the caliber of being happy to glom on to enough money to buy three cases of Moosehead.  Prelims wouldn’t be selling any tickets this night, except maybe to parole officers and lawyers for ex-wives.  Three of the stiffs were set to lie down at the first hint of pain and the fourth fight was between two émigrés from old Yugoslavia who hated each other.   ‘Could be a sleeper fight,’  crowed Joel.

‘Maybe nobody told you, Joel,’ commented one sportswriter, ‘But they all hate each other over there.  You could be buying into a riot, y’know.’

‘You wish,’ retorted Joel but he made a note to hand out some freebies to Marvin and some of his fellow officers with the suggestion it might not be a bad idea they be packing billy sticks.   Who knows who’ll show up from Mexico?  He explained.

Joel watched Kid Ventura work out and was glad to see Luis was right – the Kid was a pure boxer, stylish, but hamburger for Stewie.  Could this be the one?  He thought.  A real payday with the promise of an even bigger one?   His only problem - and it wasn’t a huge one, not for a man who thought lying, promotion, and education all meant the same thing – was making up enough bumpf about Kid Ventura to whet the appetite of a looming large crowd.  Luis’ press releases were good but more was needed.   His magnum opus of bullshit was the revelation that in 1994 in the town of Katy Jurado, Kid Ventura had once knocked out a promising gringo from Galveston only to leap out of the ring, run across the street and dispatch two notorious killer bulls at the plaza de toros.    The fable sold tickets and sent Madeline into fits of loving rapture.

As expected, Kid failed the weigh-in, but only by two pounds and after a quick consult with the boxing commission they agreed to overlook such a niggling detail.   After all, this Kid Ventura, as good as Joel was painting him, was gonna go down, likely before the fifth round.  And two of the three commission members were judges, paid judges.

Fight day dawned squally but could not dampen Joel’s spirits.  The referee was set, the judges were set, and the ring announcer was set.  Security was set.  Joel recruited Roxanne Brewster to parade the round cards.  She possessed a very flattering figure, loved to flaunt it, and only Joel knew she was both the product of a sex change and vicious enough to whip all eight guys in the prelims.   When the doors opened, Joel stood in a rented tuxedo and posed for pictures with an already animated crowd.  An hour later, attendance was announced at 6,327 and Joel waved to the hollering crowd.

The prelims went according to form, a lot of boos but a lot of laughs.  Nobody came for these bozos anyway.  The two Yugoslavs, after a rather genteel first round, exploded in the second into an impromptu exhibition of MMA featuring biting, eye gouging, crotch kneeing, nose and ear pulls, all supported by a rabid section of their fans who booed and fell to fighting among themselves when one boy was finally DQ’ed.  Marvin and his friends grabbed two of the combatants and, after rendering them unconscious with the billy sticks, threw them in a corner of the hall.   The others quickly turned their attention back to the ring.  

At this point, the crowd was near-delirious and broke into spontaneous cheering, booing, and whistling for any movement in the ring.   Roxanne thought she’d gone to heaven.  The ring announcer interpreted the clamor as proof of his motivating lungs and made a note to hold out for more money.  Madeline sat three rows back, smiled beatifically and chewed her nails.

 

The fighters made their appearance and the noise was deafening.  The Yugoslavs had done their job well.  Stewie pranced around the ring slapping his gloves together and working the crowd.   Kid Ventura, Pablo at his side, was all business and walked directly to his corner.  Pablo had his upfront money.  Everything was going according to script.  A payday, Joel sighed, a real payday.  And more to come.  He stared up at the ring,  while wellwishers slapped him on the back. The world does love a winner, he smiled. The Kid sure don’t look intimidated.  Prob’ly crowds are twice as rabid where he comes from.  Still  . . .

The introductions were made and the fighters gathered at centre ring for the referees instructions.   Stewie stared at Kid with venom.  The Kid’s eyes, Joel later recalled were dead, flat. 

The first round went as expected, pretty much.  Stewie was quick and landed at least 5 good jabs and one left hook.   But the punches were landing on Kid’s forehead and he patrolled the ring in a surprisingly imperturbable fashion.   Where was the boxer?   Stewie liked to counter but for some reason Joel couldn’t put his finger on, the opportunities never arose.  Kid was moving and jabbing and it occurred to Joel he looked more professional and ring savvy than any fighter he had ever seen.  Ten fights in Mexico? Is that you, Aunt Chrissie?

At the bell for the second round, Stewie swarmed Kid with some blindingly fast punches only to be stopped with a very short hook to the ribs.  Stewie looked surprised and retreated.   That was one hell of a punch, thought Joel.  It couldn’t have traveled more than half a foot and Stewie’s outta breath.

The crowd was sensing something wrong and had quieted – dramatically.   Stewie came back to the fight but the look in his eyes was different.  To protect his sore right side he pawed with his left and kept his right elbow at his side.  One more jab which the Kid slipped easily and replied with a hard right to Stewie’s other side.  Jeez, that’s gotta hurt, thought Joel.  Before Stewie could react to this fierce punch, Kid Ventura threw a left hook that would be re-lived in bars for years to come.  It caught Stewie on the jaw, lifted him off his feet and into a back somersault.  Stewie was out before he hit the floor.   The referee forgot to count and no one noticed.  The crowd stared mutely at the unconscious Stewie and an unemotional Kid Ventura raising his hands and walking back to his corner.  Your work is done here, Grace.  Same goes for you, Aunt Chrissie.   Joel wiped his nose on the tuxedo sleeve.

*  *  *  *

Joel stood outside the Chanticleer, remembering that night as if it was yesterday.   It was the end of Stewie McFadden, the boy lost his heart, and Joel lost decent paydays.  After a time, the city learned that Kid Ventura was really Danny Guiterrez, third-ranked lightweight in the world and soon to be world champion.   Apparently he just wanted a fight somewhere new.  No wonder no one knew who he was.  Who knew from all those Mexican fighters?  Seemed a long time ago now.    Flipping a cigarette butt onto the street, Joel pulled up his collar and headed for the next bar.   Maybe someone there would not only buy a ticket but spring for a beer.  Or maybe I should go home.

He looked up to see two kids approaching, hoodies covering their heads, hands jammed in pockets.   This can’t be good.  Could he lay out these two before they found his nose?

They blocked the sidewalk. ‘Hey buddy, can you spare a buck or two?’  Joel could see hands working in the pockets.  Knives?  Guns?  Knuckles?  Cold rows?   He hesitated.  I know that voice.

Joel bent down to look up into a black kid’s face.  ‘Leroy?  Is that you?’

Leroy’s hands stayed in his pockets but were working overtime.  The other guy, white, looked at Leroy, 

‘It’s me.  Joel.  Your manager.’   Ex-manager, actually.  Apparently, the kid would rather mug than step into the ring.  And who could blame him? Probably made more money.

Leroy lifted his head and smiled.  ‘Shit, man, what you doin’ strollin’ my business?’

Joel smiled back and opened his arms in greeting.  Leroy didn’t move but his hands came out of the pockets.  ‘Lookin’ for two good fighters to fill out the December card.  You two just might be the answer.’   The white kid snorted.  Joel didn’t recognize him.

‘Shit, man, I ain’t no good no more ‘thout some steel in my hand.  And Clarence here, you don’t want nobody standin’ in your ring pissin’ hisself wid fear and excitement, does you?’  Everyone laughed, especially Clarence.

‘I guess not.  Know anybody else?’

‘Naw, but it’s good to see you, man, you did right by me.’

‘Glad to hear it.  You coulda done somethin’ you know. You got the heart.’

‘Mebbe someday yet, huh?  Anyways, me and Clarence gotta move on.  Still ain’t had no dinner.’

‘Need a couple of bucks?’

‘Thanks, man, but we independent businessmen don’t like the dole.  We like the commercial, we earn it.’  More laughter.

Joel had an idea.   ‘Look, Leroy, I’m guessin’ that in a half hour or so one or two old guys are gonna come outta that bar.’   He pointed back to the Chanticleer.  ‘They’ll be drunk and happy to give two fine boys like you enough money for dinner – and maybe a movie.  Why doncha hang around?’

‘Mights be we do that, Mr. Joel.’

Joel patted Leroy on the shoulder and continued his walk to the next bar.  Maybe that bitch goddess of bad luck can go torment somebody else tonight.