46
KURT
Bruce falls without a cry. Just like Lamar.
Both of them sneaking out of the world without complaint. Only
sound is the clack of teeth when Scott sucker punches Danny,
throwing an uppercut to his chin. Second sound, as Danny tips over,
is his skull gonging against the steel base of the ring stand. Then
those rope pulleys squeaking loud as hamster wheels once Danny lets
go, dropping Bruce headfirst from the gym rafters ...
When Crud Bucket duct-taped me and Lamar inside
that storage tub as punishment, you’d think I’d’ve known exactly
when he stopped being alive. Packed tight as twins in a belly—face
to armpit, shin to hip, shoulder to ribs—the only sound in that
cramped blackness after we both stopped blubbering was Lamar’s
rhythmic wheezing. He’s the one told me to use my belt buckle. Use
the metal tong, he said, puffing to keep my shirt out of his mouth.
My arm couldn’t straighten to reach the buckle, so Lamar slid the
belt off me, then fed it up to my trapped hand. All the while he’s
breathing like oily rags are stuffed into his lungs. When I got the
second hole punched through, I told him to relax because I’d drill
enough holes to turn that plastic tub into a spaghetti strainer.
His wheezing quieted soon after, like I’d calmed him down. I’d just
finished the twelfth hole, started on the thirteenth, when the
jeans around my bottom knee got wet. Then that smell. Piss. I’m
working like crazy to get holes punched and here’s Lamar pissing on
me like it’s a big joke. It wasn’t funny. I told him so. Stop
pissing on me, fucker!
I got to lie with him like that for a day before
Crud Bucket cut through the duct tape, unsealed the tub, and peeled
the lid off. I’d punched four hundred and thirty-seven holes before
that lid came off. Four hundred and thirty-seven. I told
Lamar I’d turn it into a spaghetti strainer. I told him. If
he just waited, is all ...
A force—a bomb blast—blows me forward. Arms
outstretched, I try to catch a body falling from the sky, attempt
the impossible, try to save Bruce, try to make it up to Lamar, make
up for the past. I drive into Bruce’s dropping body like he’s a
tackling dummy, wrapping my arms around him, changing his direction
from down to sideways. His legs tangle over my shoulders as we
crash forward across an eight-inch mat. Bruce lands on his back as
I somersault past him. Good chance he’s got the wind knocked out of
him. Might’ve even broken a collarbone or busted a rib, but I’ve
stopped him from hitting his head and snapping his neck.
It’ll do.