"When We Fall"

original fiction by Mark Brislin

One more round, Will Longman thought as he leaned the back of his head against the ripped cushioned corner post. The corner man who Longman had been assigned for the fight dabbed ointment on the cut above his right eye that was opening every fight and opponents had begun to target. After he was done working on the cut he sponged Longman’s forehead and cheeks. Longman felt the dirty water drip down his swollen face and neck. He took a deep breath of the arena’s dank air and forced himself off the small wooden stool as the bell dinged.

His opponent was a young boxer from New York who boasted an undefeated record in twelve fights against Longman’s thirteen wins and twenty-four losses. He was stronger and faster and quicker than Longman had ever been in his prime, and that was a long time ago. Longman knew there was no way he was going to win this one, but if he went all twelve rounds he would get a bonus on top of the $500 purse he was guaranteed. Three more minutes of beatings and Longman would be able to pay his rent for the first time for two months and avoid eviction. All Longman had to do was dance around and stay the hell out of the guy’s way while he pocketed the extra cash, but Longman had never run from another pair of fists in his life. He was a brawler, a boxing style that never suited his short, stubby arms. The two fighters exchanged a series of blows before Longman was stunned by a stiff jab to his right eye, and his opponent followed it with a hard right cross that sent Longman reeling. Another jab-right cross-left hook combination sent him against the ropes.  Longman swung his arms wildly.

It was an uppercut that dropped him to the canvas. “One, two, three..." Longman stared at the arena’s roof while he tried to shake the glittery static that had filled his head. “Four, five, six...” He could feel the blood gushing out of the gash and begin to pool into his eye socket. He wiped at the thick liquid, smearing it against his cheek. “Seven, eight…” He rolled over and heard the shouts of drunken men calling him a pussy and telling him to get up.  Longman used his arms to try to pick himself up, and got to one knee as the ref shouted “nine,” but a fresh wave of heaviness filled his head, and he collapsed back down to the canvas, and the last thing he thought about before he blacked out was Sarah singing when he woke up one morning a few months ago.

She played most Saturday nights at a bar called Murphy’s, a piece of shit spot in the center of town that was frequented mostly by men who came for the all-night happy hour rather than the live music. Sarah was safe from most of the heckling the regulars usually unloaded on entertainers, because she had been playing there for so long that most of the patrons knew her songs by heart, and most of the men knew that if she was harassed they would have to deal with Will Longman. Most of the rowdy alcoholics who drank at Murphy’s were familiar with Longman’s fists. Longman was not a very good fighter, always letting off when he had an edge, but if he was getting beat he wouldn’t stay down. He was more of a nuisance than anything. Everyone who knew either of them knew that Longman was absolutely crazy about Sarah, but no one was ever sure how Sarah felt about Longman. It’s hard to tell how a person feels when she is high all the time. They had been seeing each other for over three years with no increasing commitment other than the number of nights Sarah slept at Longman’s place each month. They were both in their mid-thirties and at the tail end of chasing their own youthful dreams. They were drawn to each other when they were most lost, which seemed to be more often as of late.

She was on the small makeshift stage singing one of her songs when Longman stepped into the bar, and he stood by the entrance and listened. Longman loved her voice, soft and melodic, but with a hint of roughness from the cigarettes she smoked. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he felt all right. In his pocket was a bottle of ointment for his cut, and in his head was the voice that always soothed him.

Longman walked to the bar and ordered a beer. He took a long swallow of the thick lager. He felt the cold beer wash through his body. Sarah happened to look over at him as she was playing and they made eye contact. Longman offered a smile, but Sarah quickly turned her head back to the crowd. Sarah finished the song and announced that she was going to take a break. No one said anything and no one clapped as she walked off the stage and out the front door. Longman took a long last gulp of his beer and followed her outside.

She was looking into the dim parking lot of Murphy’s as Longman approached. Longman was surprised that she wasn’t smoking.

“Hey,” Longman said as he walked up beside her.

“You win?” she asked, not looking at him.

Longman shook his head. “I got knocked out in the final round.”

Sarah sighed softly. She looked at Longman, and he felt a warm shiver race through his chest. Throughout the long course of their relationship Sarah had made Longman feel almost every possible emotion, but the one that remained constant was a sparkling, indescribable sensation that had long ago planted its roots deep in Longman’s heart and hadn’t stopped spreading since. It felt like waking up at 2 a.m. on a rainy night after a long, pleasant dream; the warmth of the blanket on your skin; the crackling of rain on the roof; the smell of moisture in the air; realizing you still have a few more hours to sleep. That maybe you can slip back into that dream again. It was a mixture of intense desire, of something soft and warm, and the terror Longman felt as a result. He let out a small sigh of his own as she studied him.

“So what do you want, Will?”

Longman paused. “I need to borrow some money…”

“Fuck, Will.” She did her familiar habit of patting her pockets for her cigarettes, but then Will noticed her hand jerked quickly away and lightly touched her belly before it fell back to her side. “You always need money. Sometimes you make me feel like you’re my whore or something.”

“I’ll pay you back after the next one. I promise.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“I’m gonna train hard for this next one, Sarah. I think I can beat this guy.”

Sarah turned toward him and reached for Will’s wrists. Her hands were only big enough so that her thumb and middle finger touched the small ridges that ran up the bottom of his forearms. He felt his pulse quicken between her fingers. “I really don’t give a fuck whether you win or lose. I don’t even care about the money. I just…”

“What?”

She shook her head. They stood like that, Sarah holding onto Will’s wrists, in silence, for a long time. “Never mind,” Sarah finally said. She released her grip, and Will’s arms fell to his side. She dug into her pockets and pulled out her wallet. She took out three 50s. “Is that enough?”

“No, I only need a hundred,” Will said, and offered her one of the 50s back.

Sarah pushed his hand away. She reached out and touched the cut over his right eye.

“I’ll always pick you up when you fall, Will,” she said softly. Longman hung his head. Sarah’s touched lingered, and she took a step back. “I should get back inside.”

“Sarah,” Longman called as she began to walk to the door. She turned back around. “I’m going to pay you back.”

She smiled, and for the first time in a long time Longman thought she looked genuinely happy.

“I know you will,” she said, and she pushed open the door, and stepped back into the bar.

Mark Brislin is currently a student at the University of Hawai`i Manoa campus and Editor in Chief of the official campus newspaper for UH Manoa, Ka Leo O Hawai`i.  He can be contacted at mbrislin@hawaii.edu or you can leave a comment below.