Velociworld

SELF PUGILISM

After that last post I felt the familiar stirring, and went down to the lobby bar for a nightcap. Alas, said the bartender, I've just closed up. Rang out. See?

No, man, says I, juke me. I'll make it easy: vodka, rocks. And slid a five across the sink where it rested, unobtrusive, for his picking.

I can't, he said. My boss is right there!

Dude! I said in stage aside. Juke me.

And he not only risked his job for that lousy five dollars, he Ketel One'd me. And tossed in an olive.

Man, Jersey is alright.

But to the point: as I walked insouciantly back to the elevator a fellow who had been sitting at the bar joined me in the elevator.

"Man, that was nice work," he said.

"We're all in this together," I replied. "That guy's okay."

"Got two fights in Philly tommorrow!" he exclaimed.

"Really? Who's fighting?"

"Me!" he said. "I'm a bareknuckles fighter. Man, I love to fight."

"Does it hurt when you get hit?" I asked.

"Man, I fucking hate to get hit!" he said. "I love to do the fucking hitting, though!"

I let the moment pass, and when the elevator dinged on our floor he said "Got two fights in Philly tomorrow!" Curious, I said "Really? Who's fighting?"

"Me!" he said. "I'm a bareknuckles fighter. Man, I love to fight."

I pressed: "Does it hurt when you get hit?"

"Man, I fucking hate to get hit! I love to do the fucking hitting, though!"

Yes, I'm pretty sure we could have kept that conversation in continuous loop all night, but I was already growing tired of the game. And my ice was melting. And I so wanted to come tell you.