Southpaw (2 page)

“You act like you don’t
have a real job and get paid real money.”

“Just keep cutting,” I
tell her as she pulls the scissors back and cuts through the tape. It releases,
and I clench and open my hand a few times before throwing my sweatshirt over my
head. Just as I’m popping my head through the hole, Olivia appears in front of
me.

“That wasn’t much of a
fight,” she says. Her deep sapphire eyes blink, drawing attention to the dark
lashes that open and shut like a doll. She’s got high cheekbones, something my
mom always commented about girls my brothers brought home. ‘She’s got good
color and high bones’ she would say. The gauge was whether or not they were
good enough for magazines. I think Olivia’s over-qualified. My eyes travel down
to her torso, and I’m disappointed to see her shirt is rolled down, covering
her tight stomach. Her straight blonde hair rests on her chest, begging to be
moved with a sweep of my hand so I can get a better look.

“Beyer wasn’t much
competition,” I reply with a straight face, pulling my hood down. Olivia’s
unflinching in her gaze. My effect is usually different on women, and I’m oddly
disappointed and pleased at the same time with her resolve.

“I guess not. You fight
here a lot?” she asks, her eyes intent on mine and seemingly ignorant to the
fact that she has a boyfriend. One I knocked out I might add.

“Every Tuesday.”

“That’s too bad,” she
says, pausing for a moment as if she’s contemplating whether or not I’m worth
her time.

Believe me, I’m worth
her time.

“I was hoping you
weren’t another one of
those
guys,” she adds.

“You mean an undefeated
fighter that just knocked out his competition in ten seconds?” I ask, noticing
a small dusting of freckles beneath her eyes. I’ve never been with a girl with
freckles, or at least one I remember. Olivia is definitely making me want to
change that notch on my belt.

“Yeah that.” She winks
at me before she turns on her black heels and disappears up the stairs.

***

“How’s your hand?” Piper asks as we step
outside into a cool draft of the early June night. The streets of downtown Madison
are pretty dead around eleven on a weekday. It’s nothing like Saturday nights
on State Street in the fall when students drink themselves into stupors after a
Badger football victory. Or on Halloween when red devils and slutty French
maids litter the streets like Mardi Gras, flashing and guzzling shots like
rescued survivors after a week-long nightmare in the Sahara Desert. I guess I
shouldn’t complain though. I brought one of those devils home once. Or maybe it
was an angel. I don’t remember.

I’ve come to savor the
relative silence of the seven block walk home with Piper. We pass the neon Bud
Light and Miller signs, the yellow haze reflecting on the windows of bars. Then
we pass the black awnings of Chasers and the muffled bass of Madhatter. There’s
no place like home.

“Why do you even ask
anymore? You know you’re going to get the same reply ‘I’m fine,’” I answer
Piper’s question about my hand. We stop and wait for the white glow of the man
on the crosswalk light.

“It’s a habit. I think
it’s natural to ask someone how his hand is doing after he just knocks some guy
out with it.” She shoves her hands in her pockets and huddles her body inward.

“Do you want my
jacket?” I don’t comment on the fact that she’s wearing shorts even though the
day was unseasonably cool. She rags on me for trying to take care of her. She’s
like the kid sister I never wanted and the daughter my mom never had.

“Why do you even ask that
anymore? You know I’m going to say no.”

“Habit.”

We both laugh.

“So, you still thinking
about Olivia?” she asks as the white illuminated man on the crosswalk light
appears.

“I want to say yes, but
I have a feeling that if I do, you’ll punch me.”

She hits me anyway
mid-stride, but I don’t tell her that I barely felt it.

“Damn it. Why did you
make me do that?” she asks, shaking out her hand. “You know what Dr. Denise
said about women. You need to stop treating them like pieces of meat. Olivia’s
not the girl to be going after. She’s Beyer’s girlfriend. You don’t want to get
messed up with that crazy. You already knocked him out. You don’t want to take
his girlfriend, too.”

“She smiled
at me
when I knocked him out.” I point to my chest. “Me. Not him. She smiled at me
and then
acted
as if she was concerned about him. What do you know about
her anyway? How’d you know she’s Beyer’s girlfriend?”

She shrugs. “When are
we going to stop walking this path every Tuesday night? It feels like a walk of
shame, except I didn’t sleep with some frat guy who thinks he’s God’s gift to
women.”

“It feels that dirty to
you?” I ask. A guy in a hotdog costume with a headlamp whizzes past on a bike.
Neither of us even double-takes; we’re immune to the Madison oddities found on
every corner. “Here I was thinking I kind of liked it and couldn’t see myself
doing anything else on a Tuesday night.”

“Well, let’s put it
this way. The first time I saw you, I didn’t anticipate doing this for the next
ten weeks. In fact, I never wanted to see another fight again. But here I am,
ten deep and no signs of stopping. This isn’t what I signed up for when I
decided to be your roommate,” Piper replies.

I look over at the girl
walking beside me, her blonde hair bouncing with each step. I know if it wasn’t
dark, I would see her accusing eyes trying to guilt me into stopping. “Hey, you
didn’t have to move in. We all make our own choices.”

“It wasn’t my fault my
apartment was infested with bed bugs, and I had to vacate immediately.”

“You could have gotten another
apartment.”

“You needed a
roommate.”

“I’m considering
retracting my offer,” I warn as we close in on the last couple of blocks.

“It’s too late. You’re
stuck with me now,” she laughs. “Don’t think for one second you’re going to get
rid of me before I can fix you.”

“Good luck, Pipes. You
know that fixers are usually the broken ones.”

“You know, you’re lucky
that we’re even friends. You hit on me the night I took care of you after that
nasty cut. You’re lucky I stuck around.”

I bite my tongue
because I know she’s right. I’m pretty damn lucky to have a roommate and friend
like Piper, even though I first saw her as another blonde with a tight body after
a night of fighting. The fiery blonde left me lonely in my bed while she slept
on my couch that night. She hasn’t left since. It’s completely mind-bending
thinking of that night now. As beautiful as she is, the thought of seeing Piper
naked is revolting. We have definitely hit brother-sister status.

“You want me to come
with you tomorrow to see your dad? I’m done with class at four, and my yoga
class doesn’t start until seven. I have a three hour window. I’d be happy to
go.”

I contemplate her
offer seriously for the first time, although I’m not quite sure what has caused
my sudden change of heart. I’m not sure if she’s wearing me down or if I’m
finally ready to accept, with open arms and an open heart (another infamous Dr.
Denise quote), a past I try so hard to hide from everyone else, including
myself. Maybe it was that goddamn smile, a hairline crack in my Kelly “The
Dude” wall.

My father, Steven
Black, is serving a ten year sentence for manslaughter. This is the eighth time
Piper has offered to go with me to see my dad at Waupun Correctional
Institution. It only took two nights of her sleeping on my couch and three
beers for me to pour out my deepest, darkest secrets to Piper Sullivan. I
relayed that night to her, minute by minute, hour by painstaking hour. It was
the night that altered the course of my life. Not a single person, other than
Dr. Denise, has been able to make me open up, including a slew of close guy
friends and an East Coast girl by the name of Genevieve that stayed a few dates
longer than most.

We walk the last block
in silence past a section of row houses with front porches chock-full of bikes
and ratty couches. I’m pretty confident we’re both thinking about the same
thing, but I stop myself before I say something that she’ll hate me for.
Instead of saying that I’ll go see my dad the day she finally heads to Appleton
to track down Cash Rowland, the long lost love of her life, I say something to
pacify her until next week. It’s the same thing I’ve said for the past eight
weeks, “Maybe next week.”

But she doesn’t reply
how I expect and how she’s replied the last eight times with a rebuttal of how
important it would be to visit since I haven’t seen him in six years. She
doesn’t waste her breath. Instead she says, “Fine. But then you’re coming with
me to yoga tomorrow night.”

Chapter 2

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t see your name
on the list.”

It’s the type of phrase
I’m conditioned to hear. Of course my name is on the list, but the cougar
behind the counter of the yoga studio with her sleek ponytail and black-rimmed
glasses doesn’t acknowledge that someone like ‘The Dude’ has a girl name. It
doesn’t match up. I’m about to lay into her when Piper interrupts.

“It’s Kelly Black. He’s
with me, Piper Sullivan,” she replies evenly. I know she wants to laugh, but
she doesn’t. It’s still fun for her because it’s only been ten weeks.

The woman looks down
through her glasses and places check marks next to our names. “Oh, I’m sorry. I
didn’t realize,” she mumbles before she pushes her glasses up and gives a once
over she tries to hide by quickly averting her eyes back to my face. She
clearly likes what she sees; most women do. But I’m already smiling, which
makes her blush and look back down at the sign-in sheet.

An elbow jabs my ribs.
I’ve gotten more elbows in my ribs in the last few weeks with Piper than I’ve
gotten my entire life. Apparently, Piper’s definition of fixing takes one
knobby elbow and countless thrusts.

“It’s okay. I’m used to
it, although I think I should put out a public service announcement to all
mothers out there about choosing the right name for their sons. There’s a lot
to a name, don’t you think? What’s yours?”

Another elbow. It’s a
good thing the counter comes up to my chest.

Before the woman can
answer, Piper mutters, “Thanks” and drags me away.

“What?” I laugh as we
walk down a hallway plastered with large framed photos of women in various
compromising positions, which I’m assuming are supposed to be yoga poses. Yoga
could be therapeutic for me after all.

“Damn it, I can’t bring
you anywhere,” Piper groans next to me. “Please promise me that you’ll keep it
together for the class. Don’t talk to anyone before, during, or after class.
Don’t throw those ‘have sex with me’ eyes at any of the women next to us, okay?
Do you promise?”

“Why did you make me
come to this class anyway? You know how I am any time I get around women wearing
tight clothes. I can’t help myself. It’s human nature,” I say.

“I brought you here so
you could try something new. I thought you might be able to relax and find some
sort of inner peace and quiet. Somewhere beneath all those ripped muscles is a
nice guy. Deep down you’re really not a jerk, and I want other women to see
that.”

“Wow, that’s a huge
compliment, Pipes. You’re really boosting my self-esteem here.” I shoot her a
sarcastic grin.

“I’m a nice person, what
can I say?” She turns the corner and brings us into a large studio with wooden
floors, dim lighting, and a handful of women in body-hugging pants and tank
tops. A soft, airy melody resonates through the space. I can only assume it’s
called
Trees Dancing in the Winds
.

“This is going to be
harder than I thought,” I whisper as we walk past the women, who can only be identified
at this point by the shape of their tight, little yoga bodies. I’m pretty sure
we’re in the advanced class because there’s no way most college girls around
campus look like this. She’s brought me into a fiery ring of temptation to
somehow increase my resistance to my vices. I think Dr. Denise called this
technique immersion therapy, but this doesn’t seem like the right therapy for
my so-called condition. For Christ’s sake, I’m not afraid of spiders.

The room falls quiet as
we walk in. The conversation among the women dulls into a soft murmur as each
of them assesses me. I’m ready to hand them a Dream Guy Checklist; I’m sure
I’ve met all their criteria.

Piper waves at the
gawking women and then walks to the front of the room, a few feet from the
instructor mat. She flings out her mat and plops it on the floor.

“So you can’t look at
the other women.” She answers my question about being in front of the room
before I can ask it. “I don’t want you staring at asses.”

“Got it.” I follow her
lead and situate the mat Piper purchased for me. We take off our shoes and
jackets and stuff them into a bookshelf that runs along the edge of the wall. I
can still feel the women’s eyes on me, and I’m sure they’re wondering how Piper
landed someone like me. I’m about to start checking out the women in the room
when Piper quietly clucks at me. I exhale and oblige. The least I can do is get
through the class and then
assess
the situation. As frustrating as Piper
is, I know she’s only trying to help me. I remind myself of this over and over
as we sit on our mats and wait.

“Breathe in through
your nose and out through your mouth. Do as much as you can but never push
yourself past a point where you feel like you will injure yourself,” she
starts.

“Injure myself?” I
laugh. I’ve been punched and kicked in the head, repeatedly, on numerous
occasions. My oldest brother, Max, once slammed a cast iron grill into the side
of my head. My poor mom had it rough raising four boys with fight in their
blood. She always said she deserved a mother of the century award if all the
men in the Black family made it to the age of eighteen without being thrown
behind bars. Technically, she did earn the award. My brothers and I successfully
skirted prison time or any
major
mishaps. But she didn’t know she should
have been worried about her husband.