Odd Jobs (6 page)

CHAPTER 3

I sleep like
I
am in a coma on the bus ride home. Walking into our house, I notice two voicemails on my cell phone.

“First message.” Beeeep. “Kevin, it’s Loot. Great action tonight at the park, bring your jump shot, we needs you, lots of dough-ray-me for the takin’.”

“Second message.” Beeeeep.

“What up, Kevin? It’s Ray. Man, were you wasted last night. What a pissa! Cameron has an ‘in’ at a serious after-hours club in the village, lots of ladies. Gimme a call. Its gonna be awessssomme!”

I stare at the cell phone for a few seconds and say, “Fuck you.” I grab some food and fall sound asleep by 8:30 p.m.

I make it through the next day at Kosher World and the next week. I guess they’re still betting on when I quit. The work and the abuse pile on. Every shit job that has to be done and any miserable mess that needs to be cleaned up, I’m the man.

Sev has me clean the bathrooms one day, all of them. He thinks it will help me learn their locations so when I have my “stomach problems” I won’t be such a disturbance.

Yesterday, Bino corners me in one of the factory corridors. He’s got this smirk that’s so freakin’ weird. The pale fuck is wearing a white butcher’s apron over his jumpsuit and he seems to melt into the sanitary white walls of the corridor. All you can see are some dark red lips that have been freezer burned and orange hair effortlessly floating above. But that’s all you can see, lips and orange hair. The rest is there, but you hardly notice any other feature.
I
feel like laughing, but I know that every time
I
see this guy, it means trouble.

Bino says they have a job for me. He should have said he has a job for me but he chooses to say “they.” Bino brings me to the lounge area; coincidentally, it happens to be when the place is on break, so it’s crowded in there.

Bino pulls out a toothbrush and says, “Hey, dipshit! I doubt you ever seen one of these. It’s a toothbrush.”

I’m thinking,
Thanks, Mr. Rogers, can you show me what a comb looks like?

“The room needs a good cleaning in those hard-to-reach corners, so get going,” Bino says.

So instead of having a break, I’m cleaning corners with a toothbrush and steaming under my breath. Bino sits down with his friends and occasionally barks at me to hurry up because there are plenty of corners in Kosher World. Who gave him the authority? Man, I hate that pale fuck.

The other two grunts are loving life. I make their job so much easier. All the crap used to be divided among the three of us, but not anymore. I managed to invent a new job. I’ve become a grunt’s grunt. I keep telling myself it’s just a few months, but I’m kidding myself. I have to figure out a way to make it stop.

At lunch, Bruce Nissen, a college grunt from Hofstra, tells me to watch out because Sev is really on the warpath.

“Why is today different?” I ask.

“They have these matches set up once a month against some of the factories on Industrial Road and even from outside the area. It’s a real big deal, lots of gambling. Everyone takes a lot of pride in it.”

I guess I should have known about it, but no one talks to me. “What kind of matches?”

“Boxing matches, except without any gloves. Sev’s man Hector had to bail today, and Sev has egg on his face. There’s no one he can get on short notice. Man, is he pissed.”

“I
know Hector Pinto. He works in the butcher block. What happened to him?”

Bruce tells me that Hector practically cut off his entire index finger. “The butcher block is brutal,” he says. “Those guys are cutting up the same exact piece of meat day in and day out, 12 hours a day. It’s hard to concentrate. You know, one minute you’re thinking about some hot girl on a beach and the next thing you know, wham. You’re missing a digit.”

“The fact that he was going to get the crap beat out of him today probably had a lot to do with it,” I say. Hector’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t look like much of a fighter.

“Supposedly, he needed the money.”

“What kind of money?” I ask.

“Depends on what’s bet. Guys who lose a bet have to kick in an extra percent, you know, a vig. The vig gets split between the winning fighter and guys who are set up as bookmakers. I hear the winning fighter usually gets around two to three grand.”

“No kidding. What’s the loser get?”

“Usually stitches.”

We were both quiet for a minute or two and then Bruce says, “Sev is really bummed because he hasn’t been winning lately. Now he’s gonna be a no-show.”

I say good-bye to Bruce and go looking for Sev. Already I’m making plans.

There are only 10 minutes left before lunch is over, and I’m due at the Smokehouse to clean the scraps. I poke my head into all the different rooms as I search for Sev, but he’s not in any of them. I head to the lounge.

The lounge is still pretty packed considering there are only five minutes left in the lunch hour. Georgie is standing and talking to a seated Sev, who is flanked by Frank and Sal. I have less than five minutes; Georgie will have to be interrupted.

“Hey Sev, put me in for Hector Pinto tonight.” I say it loud enough so Sev, Frank, Georgie and the masses can hear me.

Sev looks at me, irritated, and says, “Go away. There are no throw-up events that I know about.” Sev gets some laughs from all the ass-kissers there, but this chance is too good to be true. All the laughter is going to stop now.

“Hey, right now you have nothing tonight,” I insist. “You want to save face, get me in. And if you had any real balls, you would put a ton of wood on me.”

There are a couple of blank stares from the guys in the room, then a couple of “holy shits,” then just outright howling and whistling. I love it. The place is going berserk; no one talks to Sev that way. It’s not like I have a particular desire to show him up; it’s just that I need some results here.

Sev has no choice. “I don’t give a shit whose bitch from management you are,” he says. “You want in, fine. I hope he kicks your teeth in.”

When word gets out a few hours later that I’m representing Kosher World, I don’t amass much confidence. Hector was a three-to-one underdog; now I’m going off at five to one. At least I’m not ten to one.

The bout is at our courtyard and my opponent is from the Dairy King Milk Factory. But there are plenty of people here from all the factories, like Moonbeam Cheese, Country Boots and Foliage Coffee. It’s probably one of the biggest crowds I ever fought in front of. Pretty cool considering a few hours ago I had no idea I was even doing this.

Being how it is our “home game,” practically our whole factory is here. The Hot Dog Room is the only area that can’t come. They have to work through the night as we are approaching the July 4 weekend, the go-go time for hotdogs.

It’s amazing watching the courtyard fill up. The fences around the perimeter bend as the group continues to expand. The activity at the bookmakers looks like a combination of circus ringmaster and the New York Stock Exchange. It’s serious stuff.

I hear the other fighter’s name is Butch Bombart, but I can’t be sure. I’m waiting for a ring announcer but there isn’t going to be one. Hell, it would be nice to have a guy in the corner with me, but I guess I’m such a joke that no one wants to associate with me. Butch steps out in the middle of the ring and takes off his shirt. He is a stocky black man about 5’9” and maybe 195 pounds. He must be in his early 40s. He looks strong, but at least I have the reach on him.

Someone taps me forcefully on the shoulder and I turn around. It’s Sev.

“Let’s go, Peter Pan. They’re waiting for you at Never-Never Land.” He doesn’t smirk, wish me luck or check my medical insurance options; he just points to the circle created by the crowd.

“Hey, Sev, any rules I should know about?”

“Hands and feet. I don’t think you can bite or use any foreign object.”

I get to the ring and unzip my orange jumpsuit. I take off my flannel shirt and my thermal undershirt. As I take off my shirt, I hear Felipe say to Georgie, “Holy shit, the kid is ripped.” I’m standing bare-chested in my jeans. I guess this is the first time anyone really sees what I look like. They should see me when I’m really in shape. But I should be okay for this guy. I probably weigh the same but I have a good four inches on him. I love having a reach advantage.

My heart is hammering now, as it always does when I fight. Is it the raw thrill or the fear of getting your head kicked in? Whatever causes the rush, it’s exciting, real exciting.

Butch and I circle around each other a few times. I wish I had seen one of these street fights before; I am definitely at a disadvantage here. I keep him at bay. Then jab, jab, I get him twice on his forehead. I open up a quick cut on his head, but I think I hurt my hand more. This is different than with boxing gloves. I need to adapt. I jab again and get him in the face again. This guy is so dumb and slow I should be fine.

Butch lets out a huge growl, charges me like a bull and tackles me to the ground. The crowd is going wild, as I am clearly not the fan favorite. He drives me so hard and far that the crowd has to shift to accommodate our new position. This guy is strong; he’s got me on the ground. He gets me in some kind of wrestling hold. My face is smashed against the ground and he’s trying to twist my arm behind my back. I feel my face scraped raw along the blacktop. I have to get up; I’m in trouble on the ground. Butch punches me in the back of the head. Damn, this hurts! I can’t let him do this anymore. I’m getting scared now; this is no joke.

Butch is on top of me, trying to get me on my back; I’ll be more vulnerable face up. He pushes me to the right and I resist. I push left with everything I have, and he continues to push hard right. I keep pushing real hard to the left, and then suddenly, on purpose, go limp. His ferocious pushing and all the momentum turn me over much quicker than he expected. We both roll over completely and I am able to pop up free. I am not going to make that mistake again. This guy will never get close to me.

Butch slowly gets to his feet and the crowd jeers at him. He had me in his crosshairs and he couldn’t finish me. I’m getting tired. Wrestling is tough and I don’t have the stamina that I used to. It’s not like I’ve been in any kind of training lately.

We circle each other. I keep him away. Then I jab.
Got him.
His face pops back and he keeps coming. Jab, jab, fake, jab jab. I’m connecting. He throws a wild left hook but I duck down easily and then jump up. Jab, jab. He can take that with him, give him something to remember. Keep working. Jab, right, jab, hook. I connect on two of them. He’s bleeding from his left eye, so I keep working his left eye. He throws another wild left and I duck.

Jab, jab. It looks like another left. No, it’s a right! Damn!

My face is in the pavement again. I can’t believe I let that asshole connect on a haymaker overhand right like that. He’s about to pound on me.

I tuck and roll away as fast as I can. He’s catching his breath, he’s winded. I pop up fast and I know there’s no more fucking around. I’m winded too, much more than usual. But I can’t let him catch his breath; it’s go time. I pop two more jabs and get him to throw another haymaker. I duck underneath and come up with everything I’ve got. I throw lefts and rights, fast and hard in constant combination. I guarantee it’s faster than anything these guys have ever seen in person.

Butch is taking them but the stubborn son of a bitch won’t go down. Still, he’s dazed and harmless. I duck down and snap my whole body into a left hook that lands square on the right side of his face. Two teeth fly out and blood splatters. That’s enough. Butch goes down hard and I raise both fists in the air.

I’m exhausted. The guys at Kosher World are cheering and patting me on my back. A couple of guys are helping Butch out, and I can’t help but wonder how they would have treated me if I were knocked out. Tommie Doyle, the bookmaker, catches up to me and hands me a wad of money.