Vs Reality (2 page)

New York City
August 25, 2011
11:21 pm, Eastern Daylight Time

Donovan Cole wakes up in a haze after being brutally knocked out. His vision is blurry, but with a few rapid blinks the world fades into focus.  He can faintly make out the dim outline of the referee looking down at him.

In reality Cole’s face looks similar, with a strong jaw line and clear blue eyes, but his frame is anything but muscular; it’s long and wiry, and there are no tattoos on his arm or back. Throbbing purple bruises muddy his cheek and his left eye. A long crescent-shaped gash stretches above his eyebrow, and blood trickles from both nostrils. It’s bad, but he’s had worse.

Still flat on his back, Cole runs his fingers through his dark, blood-stained hair. As he peels himself off the canvas he stumbles, groping at the ring ropes before slipping and falling awkwardly to a knee.

“Listen, ‘champ’,” the referee grumbles, “I don’t care that you just got pulverized. If you call me a dick one more time, I’ll knock your skinny ass out myself. Now get the hell out of the ring, Cole. I can’t go home until I mop your blood off the canvas...
again
.” The ref reaches for the handle of an old wooden mop, and rolls a yellow bucket into the center of the ring. The canvas beneath his feet looks like a crime scene without the white chalk outline.

Cole regains his bearings and takes in his surroundings, standing gingerly on wobbly legs. He’s bleeding, battered, and most likely concussed, but at least he knows where he is: Gary’s Gym, a dilapidated building with boarded windows and bare light bulbs that hang from a water-stained ceiling. Worn heavy bags and free weights surround an old boxing ring in the center of the club, and torn prizefighting posters from the 1960s and 70s line the cracked walls.

He steps between the ropes and out of the ring. He manages to navigate three creaking wooden stairs without falling or throwing up. Progress. He’s greeted by a slender doe-eyed girl who looks no more than twenty. She nervously loops a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and offers to take Donovan’s arm for support. He’s never seen this nurse working at Gary’s before, but based on her age and awkwardness she’s bound to be an intern. It’s required by law that a medical professional be on-hand for any full-contact fight at the expense of the promoter; if Gary is the one signing the check, he’s going to take any shortcut necessary to ensure it’s as small a check as possible.

She cautiously leads Cole down a dusty hallway and through a set of steel doors. The change room at Gary’s Gym is as decrepit as the workout area; rusted locker doors hang from broken hinges, and several pipes are exposed against the crumbling brick walls. The smell is so overwhelming you can taste it. The water fountain looks like it should be condemned, and the small television monitor installed on a ceiling mount looks as if it could crash to the floor at any moment.

Cole sits on a folding steel chair in the center of the room. He sighs and rests his elbows on his knees, letting his head sag between them.

The nurse produces an icepack from her bag on a nearby table. “I have no idea where you need to apply this,” she says sympathetically, “but by the look of your face you’ve got to be sore somewhere…sorry I only have one.” She pauses for a moment and reaches for a syringe. “ I need to administer a local anesthetic to the laceration on your forehead. This is going to sting.”

Cole glances in her direction but says nothing. His mind is a highlight reel of all his recent losses, like a poorly edited VHS tape that becomes grainier the farther back you rewind; one faded memory after another flashes by, each one becoming less clear. Concussions, cracked ribs, a slipped disc, a hairline fracture in his skull…it all starts to blend together after a while.

Without requiring instruction, Donovan straightens himself in his chair and cranes his neck, tilting the gash towards the nurse.

It’s hard enough to come up with interesting topics of conversation while approaching an attractive girl in a bar, but when one is stitching up a sizable hole in your head it seems like an even greater challenge. He needs to say
something –
sitting in complete silence is getting weird.

Cole gazes up at the small television monitor, which at the moment is tuned to a news cast. A number of reporters are surrounding the entrance of the World Trade Center, which means it’s time for the meeting of the New World Council; an annual gathering where the brightest minds from every nation collaborate to develop new laws for global improvement.

“So…have you been watching the news?” Cole asks, trying not to flinch as the needle threads between his open skin. “Any big announcements this year?”

“Yeah, it’s been pretty interesting,” she replies with a sudden spark of interest. “They said that seventeen new countries are going to follow America’s lead – a complete ban on firearms. And there was a mention of the last nuclear weapon being disarmed by September.”

Donovan raises his eyebrows, which are now numb from the anesthetic. “Wow, it’s amazing how fast things are getting done.”

“I know. After the Council was assembled it only took a few years for communism to end, military occupations to get withdrawn…” She loops the needle driver through his skin, pulling the suture tight. “I can’t believe it’s already been
five years
since China’s first democratic election. I was planning a vacation there next summer, but with what I’m getting paid it might take a while longer to save up.”

As the nurse continues to stitch his wound, Cole hears a familiar sound echo down the hallway: a series of hacking coughs. The locker room door swings open and a gruff, balding man steps in, scratching at his belly. A portly stomach protrudes from his stained ‘Gary’s Gym’ t-shirt, a tattered garment that doesn’t look much cleaner than his decade-old sneakers and torn jogging pants.

“Hey kid,” Gary shouts, folding his arms. “That makes nine.”

Cole glances up. “Actually, I think I’m getting closer to fifteen stitches.”

“
Losses
, kid. Nine losses…in a row.” Gary reaches into the corner of the room to locate a folding steel chair and flips it open. He slides it between his legs and faces his student.

“I’m just getting back in the groove,” Cole groans. “One, maybe two more fights and I’m back on track.”

“
No
kid,” Gary fires back, “‘one, maybe two more fights’ and your ass will end up in the
hospital
– maybe worse. I can’t let you go on like this.”

“What are you talking about?” Cole asks, though he’s fairly certain he already knows the answer.

“Look kid, I’ve known you for six years now, ever since you started training.” Gary softens his tone – at least as much as his sandpapered voice will allow. “You know what your problem is? Aside from the fact that you never diet, exercise, or make it to morning practice anymore?”

Cole stares at the tiny drops of blood that are pooling on the concrete floor directly beneath his nose. “I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.” Like most people, he’s more receptive to constructive criticism when he hasn’t just been pummeled into unconsciousness.

“You’ve lost your heart,” Gary says matter-of-factly. “What was your record before?”

Cole swallows hard in a dry throat. “Twelve wins, one draw,” he whispers, the words outlined in pain.

“You’re undefeated for almost three years, and then what?
One
loss and your mind goes to shit.” Gary springs back to his feet and spreads his hands, quickly reverting to his normal volume level. “I’ve seen it a hundred times: a boxer goes undefeated, tearing through competition like he’s unstoppable; like he’s a goddamned wrecking ball smashing through a building. And then as soon as that first loss comes –
bang
,” Gary claps his hands, startling both Cole and the young nurse. “
Something
happens to him. He changes, and for whatever reason, he never changes back.” Gary places a hand on Cole’s aching shoulder, squeezing it softly. “As a coach, you
know
it, right there and then. You find out if your guy has what it takes to become a champion. That loss is either the greatest thing that ever happens to him, or it destroys his entire career. This is mixed martial arts, kid – you’re not wearing giant padded mitts like I was back in my boxing days. With these new four-ounce gloves you can get caught with a lucky punch at
any
point. Shit happens. But you can’t let it define you.”

The nurse finishes her last stitch and snips off the suture, stepping away.

“One more fight,” Cole pleads. “That’s
all
I need, really. I can feel it.”

Gary presses his lips into a thin line, furrowing his brow. “Sorry kid. I don’t want to see you back in my gym until you get your head straight. Eat right, find religion, take a vacation with that pretty redhead I’ve seen you with…do whatever you gotta do. But I care about you way too much to let you go on like this. I’m not going to sit ringside and watch you commit suicide.”

Cole rises, too quickly, sending arrows of pain into his temple. “I’ll get back in the gym,” he promises, “I’ll start hitting the weights more often, dieting…just
please
Gary, just…I can do this. I
know
I can.”

Gary turns and shuffles towards the exit. He stops in the threshold of the door and puts his hand on the frame. “It’s not just about protein shakes and kicking a heavy bag, kid. You could teach a chimpanzee to do that shit. You need to find something
inside
you, and decide if you’re really cut out for this. Fighting is for warriors, Cole,
that’s
reality.” And then Cole hears his mentor say the most painful words he’s ever heard in his life – at least up until that moment. “I don’t know if you have what it takes anymore.” He disappears down the hall, letting the steel door slam behind him. The sound carries through the empty gym and reverberates off the ancient lockers.

The nurse is suddenly gone. Cole is left in the darkened room, standing alone under the stale yellow glow of a bare light bulb. He falls back into the chair and whispers under his breath; the two agonizing words that he’d been repeating in his head for longer than he can remember: “Reality sucks.”

New York City
August 26, 2011
12:06 am, Eastern Daylight Time

For Donovan Cole, the most painful part of losing a fight isn’t being knocked out. And it isn’t a lost tooth, or a bloody nose, or the lightning that strikes your midsection when you try to inhale with a cracked rib. It’s what happens
afterwards
. When Cole has been stitched and bandaged and is prepared to head home, it’s the paralyzing fear that someone will see him after the fact, and think, ‘There’s the guy – that poor loser who just got his ass handed to him’.

The indignity Cole suffers on a day-to-day basis in his dead-end office job is soul crushing enough. The condescending tone in his father’s voice when he asks to borrow some cash to cover the rent is like a knife twisting in his gut. But that
look
– the pity behind someone’s eyes – it’s like he’s being knocked out a thousand more times, day and night, for weeks to follow. Just the thought of enduring that one fleeting glance from a complete stranger is enough to trigger the onset of a full-blown panic attack.

On this particular evening, Cole has nothing to worry about. Just to exercise caution he waits an additional half-hour before stepping out into the street, but the neighborhood is all but abandoned. A handful of decaying lampposts illuminate the vacant downtown area; every building that neighbors Gary’s Gym is either locked for the evening or had been shuttered for years – windows boarded, yellowed eviction notices stapled to rotting doors.

Out of the small crowd that attended the fight, only one spectator remains. Leaning against the side of a battered navy Buick Skylark is a scrawny, narrow-faced man in his late twenties, though with his mop of blond hair, ripped jeans and baggy red t-shirt he could easily pass for a teenager. He’s smiling from ear-to-ear. The Cheshire grin is likely due to the fact that he’s fanning himself with an obscenely thick stack of hundred-dollar bills.

“Well, well, well,” the man shouts. “If it isn’t Donovan ‘The Cannon’ Cole: the man who’s paying for my retirement. You’re makin’ me rich, son! You keep getting knocked out and I’m gonna buy that Porsche I’ve had my eye on.”

“If it isn’t Todd ‘Jens’ Jennum,” Cole replies, gingerly making his way down the cracked concrete stairs, “and he’s holding a suspiciously large pile of cash. A word of advice: I wouldn’t be advertising the fact that you keep betting against your best friend. If one of your bookies thinks we’re in on a scam together I won’t be the only guy on the receiving end of an epic beating.”

“It’s not like you’re taking a dive every month,” he replies with a chuckle. “You’re
legitimately
getting knocked out every time, and everyone knows it. Hell, last month one of your teeth landed in my burrito.” Jens yanks open the driver’s side door and slides in behind the wheel, twisting his key into the ignition.

“I never thanked you for holding onto that for me,” Cole groans. “I appreciate it.” He tosses his duffle bag in the trunk and drops into the passenger seat, not bothering to brush aside the piles of parking tickets and old CD cases.

“That’s what friends are for, amigo. Listen Cole, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Do you know what your problem is?”

“That I spend all my time getting advice from assholes?”

Jens shrugs. “Possibly. But I was going to say that you don’t know how to just cut loose and have
fun
anymore.”

Donovan rolls his eyes. He and Jens have had this conversation before. Several times. And it always ends the same way. “Yes Jens, I’m painfully aware that my life is devoid of fun. It’s a gaping void of joy. But I’m content being joyless for the moment.” Donovan tilts his head back and stares at the roof. “Just step off and let me be comfortably, happily depressed for once.”

“Look, I know you’re down about the whole Kimberly situation. And I
know
you’re on a huge losing streak, and you’ve suffered three
brutal
concussions.”

“Seven,” Cole corrects him.

“Jesus,
really
? Holy crap, how do they even let you keep your driver’s license?”

“
Dude
,” he says sharply, “your point.”

“Right,” Jens continues, “my point. So you’re in debt, you just got the living crap beaten out of you, and your job is a total nightmare. But you don’t have to worry about
any
of that shit right now.” Jens smiles again – the type of smile that signals to Cole that there’s a distinct possibility they’ll be running from the police at some point in the evening. “There is one cure for depression that
never
fails, and this is your lucky night because I’m taking your sorry ass there right now.”

Cole breathes out a lethargic sigh, gazing out the window. “I’m not in the mood to play Mortal Kombat and do bong hits in your dad’s basement, but I appreciate the offer.”

Jens twists the radio knob and stomps down on the accelerator, racing past stop signs as if they’re merely suggestions. The engine of his Buick groans in protest as he continues to pick up speed. “You have much to learn, young Padawan. Sit back and relax, because we’re heading to the happiest place on Earth.”

Donovan has known Todd Jennum since the fifth grade, so he’s acutely aware that when he references the ‘Happiest place on Earth’, it has nothing to do with visiting a lovably iconic round-eared mouse with a high-pitched voice.

After a short drive uptown Jens pulls his Buick in front of a posh nightclub called Platinum. A cherry-red Lamborghini is parked out front, along with several other candy-colored sports cars that Cole can’t identify. Someone just arriving might assume it’s an exotic car show from the dazzling array of convertibles lining both sides of the street.

A throng of well-dressed men and barely-dressed women stretch nearly a block, all filed in an orderly line next to a long velvet rope.

A small army of bouncers in tight-fitting black polo shirts are guarding the door, checking IDs and denying entrance to a number of hopeful partygoers. The ones at the front are wearing headsets, and one scrolls what is probably a guest list on an iPad. Cole can’t believe the security measures involved in buying a cocktail and listening to some shitty music; they probably have fewer precautions at the White House.

He turns to Jens, visibly confused. “You’ve
got
to be shitting me.” He gestures out the window. “Platinum? This is the hottest club in the city. Unless you’ve recently mastered a Jedi mind trick I don’t know how the hell you’re planning to get us past security, especially dressed like this.” He motions down to his black tank top, cargo shorts and sandals – a stark contrast with the business suits that are waiting to enter the club.

Once again, Jens fans the suspiciously large wad of bills out in front of him. “I have a feeling I can persuade them to put us on the VIP list. And besides, I know the owner, and he totally owes me a favor. Drinks are on me.”