Missed Connection

This is my second missed connection in two weeks off of Craigslist. I'm hoping to amass some more. I don't know who this guy is, and can't remember seeing anyone of his description.

White Horse - m4m Sat night (berkeley)

Just want to say a few words to the guy who was wearing white t-shirt and tan pants. He was working as cleaning and putting glasses away. We had few glances and wanted to say you have a nice cute smile. I wish we had a moment to chat but knew you were busy. Drop me a line if you wish. I'm in the red shirt (Old navy shirt) and light blue jeans. If you're not comfortable. It's cool.. take care and have a good Sunday.

You wanted to see how good it feels to leave part 2

Amy called me in the middle of the day. I knew it was her from the unusual string of numbers that appeared on my phone.

"Hey," I answered.

"Hey, do you have some time," she asked me. Her voice was slightly shaky.

"Sure, I'm just sitting at home playing video games," I responded. I didn't know what to expect from this conversation. We'd been in decent communication, a few emails, some letters, a phone call or two. I didn't trust her anymore, and she'd done nothing to attempt to earn my trust. We seemed to be going through the motions. The distance between us had grown after she exposed her long going affair. We had tried to patch things together, but she seemed to be riding the fence. She still talked to the TA and I didn't doubt that they were sleeping together. Part of my desire to go to Thailand was to get away from her. It seemed like I couldn't quit her, it made me feel weak.

"I don't know how to say this...," her voice trailed off.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Go ahead."

"I'm moving out of my apartment."

"So what's the big deal about that? You've been talking about how you've disliked your roommate for several months now."

"Well I already gave her notice, and I don't have a place to go yet."

"Ah," I said with conclusion. She was going to move in with the TA. She had few friends and cared more for her immediate comfort than our relationship.

"I'm moving in with Rich."

"That makes sense," I said with comfort.

"Really!?"

"Yeah, you have no friends because you've spent the last year sleeping around rather than focusing on one relationship and making friends. Now you have nothing to fall back on but Rich, who is far more lenient with you than I. You've been hedging your bets for a long time now. Biding your time til one of us quit the game and then you'd stick with the other."

"Are you mad?"

"Of course I'm mad. You're not holding up your end of the relationship at all. We said that we'd be single until I came back and then we'd try to start things over... remember?"

"But I don't know what you're doing over there," she pleaded.

"I've told you before that I don't have a girlfriend. I've done nothing over here. I wander the city, I read, I drink occasionally, its g-rated."

"Our agreement makes me feel restricted. I don't like you telling me what to do," her whimpers had turned to anger.

"It was an agreement. It was something that you wanted as well."

"You're so far away... I need something now."

"I'm not there. There's nothing I can do about that. I can try to stay close to you in other ways, but part of why you're not here now is because you cheated on me, on the relationship. I don't want to be in someone's life who is going to back out of every agreement, who won't stick it out."

"But its hard, I'm having a hard time right now, I'm lonely."

"What can I do about that? I can write you, I can call you, I can email, what do you want?" My tone had turned towards vexation. At some point my feelings had turned. Maybe it was when I boarded the plane to Tai Pei, maybe it was during the flight from China to Thailand. Maybe it was when I was wondering in the Pat Pong district, eating lunch at the MBK food court, watching a fight at Lumpinee stadium. It was quite possible that they'd turned that day during that phone call. At some point my feelings for her had turned, they'd become stale. I no longer felt attached to her. It was my sense of commitment that had kept us together. My desire to see things through. That will buttressed my emotionally confusing and unwanted entanglements. She was my first long term girlfriend, I'd been happy I'd cared. I was no longer happy with her, I no longer cared.

"I don't know, I don't know what you can do, I don't know what to do...," she started to sob into the phone.

I held the phone away from my ear for a moment. I wondered if she was faking her tears.

"You never know what to do, so you do what's easiest. You don't break off a relationship even if it comes into conflict with another because it would be too hard. You don't bring the truth to light because its too hard. You can't be alone because its too hard. What was it you said once? 'If I was in a relationship with myself I would end it.'"

"..."

"This is your fault, this is your responsibility. You've made choices. You chose to cheat on me. You chose not to try to gain my trust. You chose to hedge your bets. That said I made my own choices. I chose to leave, I chose to try to patch things up, I'm not saying that I'm clear of all the wrong but you've made choices."

Again there was silence on the other end of the phone. I was getting tired of the conversation. It had an emotionally exhaustive quality to it. We sat in silence.

"Its my fault," she said with no tone.

"Is that a question or a statement. I believe its the latter." I nodded my head and looked at the wall. I was sitting on the edge of my bed. The video game before me looked alluring. Outside of the window came the sounds of Bangkok's constant construction. I'd like to remember that last bit being the way the conversation ended. Instead there was more silence, more wasted time.

"I've got to go, the supermarket is closing soon and I need to pick up things," I finally said.

"Isn't it noon there."

"The supermarket closes early today, some sort of election thing," I replied. I hung up the phone and sighed. I laid down on my bed feeling relieved. It was as if I had just bathed after descending into a New York City sewer or a Bangkok Khlong. I sat back up and started playing my video game again.

You wanted to see how good it feels to leave

I stood by the window looking out on the landing field. Our airplane, a large jumbo jet with a china airlines logo inscribed on it, was taxiing into the gate. It would still be 40 minutes til we would board. About a half mile away another plane was prepping for its flight. Luggage was being shuttled in. A large truck sat next to it pumping in fuel. I wondered who would be on that flight, where they would be going. I turned around and looked at my fellow passengers. It was a ragtag assortment. Mainly asians, but a few foreigners who were trekking through the jungles and tourist traps of southeast asia. I sat down on the stiff plastic chairs that lined the waiting area. The chairs were blue. They were shaped like orange peels and were not comfortable. I looked at my hands and traced the lines that were in them.

The first time I was in this airport, waiting for this airplane, I was swamped with thought. Now there wasn't a thought in my head. My mind was preoccuppied with the nervousness of travel, and still scattered from things between myself and Amy. Amy was my college girlfriend.We had first met at a party. We were attending CCA, an art school in north Oakland at the time. It was an embarassing social gathering of pimple faced rejects, berets, and pretensions. I thought she was cute, if a little plump and invited her to see "The Maltese Falcon," which was playing up on Shattuck.

Our relationship was a casual friendship at first and we spent much of our time discussing art; the lines of De Stilj, the vacuity of surrealism, the explosion of Dada. We painted together and our first art shows followed. Our relationship became more serious as are time together increased. With the passing days we had more and more in common. We planned a trip to Thailand together. We would take the time off of our schooling in order to focus on our creative enterprises along with traveling. I'd never been out of the states, she'd never been out of california.

Our plans fell apart when I learned she'd been cheating on me consistently for several months. She'd started hooking up with a TA in the film department. He thought he was her boyfriend as well. He liked Goddard, she liked sleeping around and lying. Our falling out was uneventful. I wanted there to be blood, smashed heads, crucifixitions. It was a bit of stamping about, huffing and puffing, and taking back a few of the items I'd given her. I cancelled her plane ticket to Thailand.

I started to spend time with my friends again drinking and complaining for a couple months. I finished a few paintings, and started talking to Amy again. I felt we were young, that people made mistakes, that I'd screwed people over before yet still wanted them in my life. She was still leading the TA around an a short leash and so our relationship was one of limbo. I was leaving for thailand, she was hedging her bets. Before I left I told her that if she was single during the time that I was in thailand and available when I came back I would consider getting into a serious relationship with her again.

I took up an apartment in eastern Bangkok and rarely left the city. I enjoyed the grittiness of the capital, the crowded streets, the dangling wires from the broken telephone poles, the constant construction that was unguarded. It was a stark contrast to the safety of college, of school, of art professors, and lectures. I wandered the city for hours, following the klongs, the sewage filled canals. I would try to count the number of houses on the canals, the number of tuk tuks on a busy street. I rented a motorbike for a few days then decided that it was far too dangerous, and I simply didn't have the courage to risk my life in the haphazard traffic.

I met Molly Tolliver the same week that I had my parting phone call with Amy.

Vote McCain

UNCH LINES

McCain has been fighting for boxers

JULIAN TURNER

Boxers are told to protect themselves at all times inside the ring but they often have trouble doing the same outside the ropes.

The history of the sport is littered with examples of boxers being cheated out of their money by people who were supposed to be looking after them.

How often do we hear about fighters ending their days penniless or being forced to carry on for too long because their money has gone?

It's not just small-time pugilists either as many big names fall victim to the same system.

However, while watching the current US presidential race between Barack Obama and John McCain, I was reminded of the hard work McCain has done to try and clean up the sport in his home country.

McCain boxed for the Navy as a young man but it is his work as the Republican senator for Arizona that endears him to many fight fans.

Twelve years ago he completed an initiative in the United States to try and free fighters from the grip of promoters and self-serving sanctioning bodies.

The Professional Boxing Safety Act was passed as law and subsequently amended in 2000 as the Muhammad Ali Boxing Reform Act.

McCain follows the sport closely and his legislation recognised that many boxers were being exploited and had little chance of redressing the balance.

They were tied to unfair contracts that meant their handlers could siphon off cash with impunity.

One of the best things about boxing is that it gives a chance to the poor to earn money and to make something of themselves.

But the people who are supposed to be guiding them can use the system to their own advantage.

The senator also raised questions about how sanctioning bodies like the WBC, WBA, IBF and WBO compiled their ratings and how they handled fighters.

McCain's hard work in passing these laws in the United States helped those who were previously at the mercy of people interested in lining their own pockets.

He recognised that the biggest problem facing the sport is the fact there is no central control which focuses primarily on the fighters.

His law obviously only applies in the USA but hopefully other elected officials will take up the baton around the world because the sport is in desperate need of independent regulation.

Some boxing commisions are strong and are able to keep wayward forces in check, but many more are not and they need help.

Many years ago, managers complained that they had to give money in brown paper bags to the right people to get their boxers ranked.

But is that very different to having to box continuously in dubious title fights to rise up the ratings while the sanctioning bodies take their cut?

There is also the issue of genuine belts being devalued.

Thailand currently has two world champions - WBC strawweight king Oledong Sithsamerchai and WBC women's light-flyweight holder Samson Sor Siriporn - yet the WBC has also allowed Nicaragua's Juan Palacios and Japan's Naomi Togashi to win "interim" belts in the same divisions despite Oledong and Samson being perfectly fit to defend.

That is an insult to both Thais.

The WBA crazily has super, normal and interim world titles in circulation at super-flyweight.

These are the kind of situations that McCain wanted to try and stamp out and clearly there is still a lot of work to do.

In an ideal world McCain's ideas could be implemented around the globe to help fighters everywhere, but that seems a long way from happening.

It has also taken a back seat in the US as McCain tries to become the next president in the face of serious competition from Democrat Obama.

There are far more serious issues at hand, but at least McCain has tried to help boxers because of his respect for the sport. I don't know if he will win the election but McCain's contribution to boxing should not be forgotten.

Julian Turner is the Bangkok Post's Deputy Sports Editor.

A nice night after all

The missouri lounge was showing "The Champion." Its an old noir film about a boxer, played by Kirk Douglas. The original story was by a guy named Lardner. I'd read the Lardner version. It sat on my shelf. I'd pass the time between fights, before fights, and after fights reading short stories like that one. I always thought that Midge Kelly, the bastard Douglas plays, was a real inspiration to the human race. The same sort of inspiration as a politician.

The bartender was clad in a pair of blue jeans, a white tank top and a paint of gloss on her lips that made them look like a puckered rose. Her latina characteristics came out in her slightly arched, painted, eyebrows along with her jet black hair. She had more curves than a windy mountainous road. She was strolling behind the bar like a caged tiger, waiting for something to catch and play with. A perverse desire made me want to be her mouse.

I shook my head and took a sip of my beer back. I'd been off the drink for 30 days but hoppen back on the wagon tonight. For the last twenty years I'd been drinking regularly, I figure the amount of time my ole mare was drinking while I was in the womb counted double. Her teats reeked like alcohol when I suckled on them.

I took some time off from the bottle to get myself back in shape. I still had passing thoughts of making it back in the ring. I know I'm too old now, my reflexes have faded, my nuckles are gnarled and the only thing that I can foretell in a bout is what the evening's weather will be like. My dreams of making it big kept me jogging in the mornings, while the harsh rocks of reality kept me at my job.

I worked as a baker at a bread company in west berkeley. I made the rice of the west with a handful of latino guys in the early mornings. We'd use huge machines to mix the flour, water, and yeast together. The air would get so full of flour and dust that we wore face masks. It paid shit but I liked the hours, it was hours that would keep me in the gym, not that I ever went anymore. I took my paycheck every week and put part of it in the bank, part of it towards my gut, and part of it towards buying hbo specials of the latest bouts. I could only catch about one fight a month due to my being on the lower end society's pay scale.

Tonight I was letting my stint at sobriety lapse as my one of my favorite fighter had lost his bout. The fight was an atrocity. The boxers looked like back up dancers for a boy band. They jabbed, bob, and feint one another off balance. Neither of them could have hit hard enough to wake his gradma out of a light doze. The crowd booed, rightfully, and the referee tried to spur the action to no avail. Disappointed with the pugilism I had come down here to drink my sorrows and more of my money away.

"I don't get why you're always pushing me away," said the blonde haired goon sitting next to me. He was addressing a blonde angel. She was lithe and swan like. She had a plait of golden hair that rested on her head like a halo. Her mouth was sweet looking like a peppermint, her cheeks were red and lightly spotted with orange freckles. I could only see the back of the goon's head but he had a linebacker's shoulders.

"You're an incorrugible lout," she replied. "I just wish you'd leave me alone."

"What are you talking about? Just like week you said you loved me."

"We were in front of your parents, I didn't want to make you look bad."

"That's what I love about you, you're willing to put others before yourself."

"You fucking prick," she turned away from him and downed her drink. She waved at the bartender for another.

"I think you've had enough," the goon said grabbing her wrist. I scootched my stool a little away from the couple afraid that their lover's spat might interrupt my alcoholic shots to the liver. "We should get going."

The bartender eyed the couple and signaled to the bouncer. The bouncer a stocky lad with a soft face was met with the goon's right cross as he opened his mouth to interrupt their scene. The bouncer dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"You dick. Now I'm not going anywhere with you," the blonde shrieked. The bartender got on the horn and looked to be calling the police. I eyed the bouncer on the floor. He was groaning which meant the punch couldn't have been that hard. I sighed. The blonde pushed her lug of a companion. He fell back into me. I fell over onto the floor with the goon on top of me. I pushed him off of me and dusted myself off after rising to my feet.

"I'm sorry," the bartender mouthed to me and then spoke into the phone. "Yeah I've got a bar fight at the missouri lounge, yup san pablo and parker in berkeley. Fifteen minutes great."

The goon had a bit of a harder time getting back onto his feet. He looked around the room and swayed slightly. He turned around and faced me. "What are you looking at," he said salivia shooting out of his mouth. "Why'd you knock me over you ass?"

I shrugged and he took a swing at me. I could see his big right haymaker coming but that didn't spur to me to do much about it. At the last second I covered the side of my head with my arm cushioning the blow. My eyes went out for a half a second and as soon as I regained composure my fists shot out. My trainer always used to tell me that you can't knock a guy out with a jab. I proved him wrong that night. I threw a right cross right into his nose. It made my knuckles ache, and his nose bust open like a faucet. I threw a left uppercut to his liver that doubled him over with a resounding "oomph." For my finale I threw a straight left jab right into his testicles. The last bit is what put him down for the count. The goon slumped to the ground.

The blonde looked at me with horror, and then at the bouncer, then at her goon. She started to shriek. "What the fuck did you do?" She spat venom at me and started to slap me. I shoved her off me and went back to my chair. She bent over and started sobbing into the goon's chest. The bouncer came to a minute later and the bartender gave him a sack of ice for his face. She looked at me and winked.

"I'll buy your next round," she said with a purr. Maybe I just imagined that throatiness at the end but it looked like it might be a nice night after all.

Sam

I hated my next door neighbors. I had a small apartment in the top of a duplex that had been quartered off into 4 units. The building next to mine was an old Victorian with a bunch young mid twenty year olds. The house was a constant den of comings and goings. It was a beehive of idiots. I had nicknames for the 6 inhabitants that resided there for that one irritating year. The one with the red hair was "Queen Bee," and her boyfriend was "Drone number 1." Another woman lived I nicknamed the "Mediocre Mare." I mused about how many times she visited the clinic for clap medication, considering her hordes of bestial men that came to see her, no doubt dates from craigslist. The other three boys were identical, one young shitbag looked the same as another. I just entitled them by number "2," "3," and "4." The prefix of shitbag was added when I was feeling particularly sour towards my three male neighbors. Without them though I would never have had Sam come into my life. That's why I hate them so much now.

I was sitting on my balcony one evening as I overheard them speak. They'd been in the building next door for ten months, and I desperately prayed that their lease would be up. My hopes were for a nice geriatric couple to take over so that I might get a night of sleep without wafting marijuana. Most of the time I was able to ignore their inane dialogues but tonight I ended up eavesdropping, much to my ear's chagrin.

"Do you know how LSD was invented," Queen Bee asked Drone number 1.

"Didn't it have to do with some guy in the CIA," he replied.

"Yeah, they were attempting to create a truth serum to use on prisoners of war. This guy Albert Hofman created LSD and took a big hit of it one day while he was riding his bicycle."

"Wow, I didn't know that, what happened,"

"Well obviously it exploded his consciousness, he started to realize how vast the fucking universe really is. He tripped balls. He started taking it all the time."

"Did the truth serum idea ever work out?"

"I don't think so. Do you know where we can score any? Do your coworkers have some?"

"I don't know, let me call Nick."

A few minutes later the Drone resumed the conversation.

"Nick doesn't have any acid but they did find a dog recently."

"A dog?"

"Yeah, isn't that sweet?"

"Next time Nick comes by he should bring the dog."

"We can get the dog high," they both laughed and I became so vexed that I went back inside. The nice evening had been spoiled by my foolishness in listening to those assholes.

A few weeks passed and I began to see more of Nick, and more of the dog. The dog was a small brown and white pit/mutt. She ran rampant in the streets as Nick engaged in narcotic practices with my neighbors. When the dog was tired from scurrying about the street she would sleep on the stoop of my apartment. I began to leave small bits of food for the dog, and even kept a small bowl of water for her when she was thirsty. After a month Nick swiped away the queen bee from the number one drone and the dog was a live in resident. The dog was often ignored left to her own devices outside in the world.

I worked late nights as a bartender at a local dive bar. The bar called the Bank was located in east Oakland, most of the clientele were local drunks and they kept me serving til the end of the night. I would take a late night bus home up San Pablo to my place on Prince and Martin Luther King. I'd walk the few blocks from San Pablo to Prince. Often I would see the dog sitting outside, usually on my stoop. When she was out there for a week I bought her one of those dog pillows. My constant attention to her, while initially out of a sense of duty, turned into a real desire for her companionship. She seemed a little happier when I was with her. I bought a leash and would take her on late night walks after work. We would walk to the water front park and I'd let her off the leash to run by the water. She'd run for a few minutes then mellow out and walk next to me as I followed the water line. It was one of those late night walks when I named her. I named her Sam.

I decided that my next door neighbors wouldn't notice her disappearance so I'd let her into my apartment when I got home from work, or after our walks. I started feeding her regularly and she filled out. Her coat started to shine. It was two weeks before I overheard my neighbors talking to each other about her vanishing. I decided to move to Derby and Grant. It was a few streets away, the rent was a little higher but I could keep Sam and not worry about my neighbors finding her. I didn't have much besides my job going for me, and I didn't much care about that. When I was home I felt like I had someone to talk to, albeit she couldn't talk back, but there was a way in which I felt she really listened to me.

I started taking Sam to the bank with me. That meant leaving for work earlier, and coming home a bit later but I didn't mind it. I didn't want her staying at home alone. It took about 40 minutes to walk to work. She made me feel safe walking down the streets of Oakland late at night, although truthfully she was a coward. When an unknown drunk would bend over to pet her at the bar she'd scuttle away.

It was a thursday night and Frank was sitting in front of me. Frank had been coming into the bar regularly for the last few months. A former straight edge vegan kid, he now eats meat and is an incorrugible alcoholic. I don't cut him off ever. If he knew how to control himself from drinking when he was straight edge, he should be able to now. He started babbling to me about his bicycle and then his cell phone.

"Look at this new cell phone. I can get the internet on it, I can text, I can take pictures..." his ramble trailed off as he became absorbed in his phone. He pushed his meaty fingers on the screen and then took a slug of his beer.

"How much does it cost," I asked. I was bored and it was another 15 minutes til last call.

"The phone was $150, then the service is $60 a month."

"Oh." I thought momentarily about acquiring a cell phone then decided once more against it. I got one for two months but no one ever called. The lack of calls just made me more depressed. I would look at the phone and wait for it to ring. I would think about all the people walking in downtown Berkeley gabbing away endlessly on their phones and then my phone, dead, silent. I switched back to a landline and hooked my answering machine to it. I get the same amount of telephone calls, which is still very few.

"Where's Sam," Frank asked.

"She's over here," I replied, pointing to her body at the end of the bar. Frank got up from his bar stool and wobbled over towards the bar. Sam hated Frank. Frank has a mustache and Sam hated men with facial hair. She'd nipped at Frank a few times, but when Frank got drunk he always tried to pet her.

"You should probably leave her alone," I told Frank.

I wouldn't do anything to Sam if she bit him. Frank doesn't tip well, and he's a loser. It's one thing to be a loser, its quite another to be a loser who doesn't tip. I'd probably let Sam rip his intenstines out and be halfway through digesting his liver before I bothered calling the 911.

Frank continued to stagger towards Sam despite my warnings, and their past relationship of pain.

"Here doggy, come here doggy," Frank said as he clapped his fingers together. He looked like an ape, a particularly stupid and drunk ape. Sam started growling as he got closer. "Come on, come on." Sam's growling got louder as Frank's sausage fingers came at her.

"Frank, she's growling, she's going to bite you and its going to be your fault."

Frank doesn't listen to me and inches his fingers closer to Sam's face. Her teeth were bared and she lashed out at Franks' digits. She bit hard and blood was drawn. She scuttled back into the bar and knocked into my leg. Frank let out a howl that was followed by patrons' laughter. Most of the regulars had seen this scene acted out before, and it still had a comical appeal to them. An idiot who slipped on a banana peel that he saw before him. Frank pulled his fingers into his mouth and began to suck on them.

"She bit me," he garbled, between his fingers.

"She always does. You need to keep your mitts away from her. She bites you every time. She doesn't like you much."

"I'll have a shot of JD." I nod and pour him his drink.

"Last call," I yell. A few patrons get more drinks but most of them were either plastered already or too poor to buy another drink. The patrons sulked in their seats for another 10 minutes before I announced the closing of the bar.

The drunks shuffled out ushered by my lackadaisical arm waving. They knew the routine. The smart ones had already left a few minutes ago to walk to Black and White liquor. They'd buy some malt liquor, a fifth of vodka, or maybe some bacardi breezers that they'd spike with rum to keep them going til their eyes closed on them or their livers gave out.

It took about fifteen minutes to close up the bar. I counted my money before I left. It was a slow night and I'd only made $150. The money had never mattered to me. Even with taking care of Sam I still had plenty of money. I would buy her dog pillows, endless amounts of dog biscuits, bones, and squeaky toys. She'd gnaw at the annoying squeaky balls that I got her for a day and then discard them, totally uninterested. She liked to spend most of her time sitting by my feat while I sat on my recliner watching tv. She was a bit of a lazy dog.

"Come on Sam," I said as I shut off the lights. She came up from her position at the end of the bar and walked to the door. She wagged her tail. I bent down and patted her head. I pushed in the code for the alarm, unlocked the front door, and then let myself out. Sam followed. I locked the door from the outside and we started up the street. I didn't bother having her on a leash. This late at night there were only a few crackheads around, whom we'd both avoid. She was pretty good about not hopping into the middle of the street so I didn't have her on a rope. We made it home. I checked my messages on my answering machine. There was one from a telemarketer. I listened the whole way through. I got a bottle of cola from my fridge, filled Sam's bowl with water and sat down on the recliner. I stared off in the distance for a while then flipped on the tube to watch the Cotto and Margarito fight.

Cotto was a fast, technical fighter. The first few rounds he dominated the less savvy Margarito. Cotto bobbed, weaved, and threw a variety of uppercuts into the taller boxer's mug. Margarito had a look of determination on his face as he relentlessly pushed Cotto up against the ropes, throwing straight punches at Cotto relentlessly. Most bouts the boys aren't boxing the whole time. They're sizing each other up, they're dancing about, they're waiting and picking their placement. This bout was a never ending push. Margarito kept pushing, like Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill. Unlike Sisyphus Margarito's efforts weren't in vain. He won the bout with his determination, not with his skill. Everyone knew that Cotto was a better boxer, but Margarito had the legs and the heart. That's what mattered. I watched the after bout report and drank some water.

It was 4 o'clock. The sun would start to rise soon I thought. I went and laid down in my bed. I patted the bed and Sam hopped up next to me. She sniffed at my face and walked around the bed. She setteled at the bottom of the bed where she fell asleep. I could hear her light snores as I stared up at the ceiling. Thinking of the boxers, thinking about Franks' bloody fingers, and thinking about what would happen when I awoke. My eyes dropped off and I fell into a dreamless slumber.

Sam woke me up around noon. She had to piss. I hauled my body out of bed and put on my slippers. We walked outside and she urinated on the brief patch of lawn out front. We strolled around the block and she dumped on a some lawn. I didn't bother picking up the crap. We went back to the house and I fed her. She got dry food in the mornings, and then a mix at a night of wet food and dry. Sometimes I'd pick up a steak for her and feed it to her. When I'd look at my bookshelf the Jack London story would come to my attention. Then I'd go out and buy her steak. London wrote about an old boxer who fought a young guy. It was an age versus youth story. The old boxer tried to hold out but he didn't have the wherewithal. He didn't have the energy because he hadn't eaten well, he hadn't eaten his steak. I wanted to make sure that Sam would have the constitution if she ever needed it, so I would feed her steak.

I ate cereal for breakfast and sat on the recliner. I watched the noon news and looked at the weather channel for a bit. After a few hours of sitting on my duff I took Sam out for a walk. We were walking by Ashby and Martin Luther King when she got sight of a cat. Sam didn't have much ado about felines but it was the neighborhood Tom. The Tom pissed her off good. Tom would sit and wait for Sam to come out for her morning moments of relief (on her bladder) and would take a cheap swipe at her face then run off. Sam was always too confused to do much about it. When Sam saw Tom she ran off though. She broke out of her leash, which was a flimsy piece of twine, and went like Margarito after Cotto.

She almost had Tom, just like the taller boxer, the one with the heart and the legs, had the smaller, when the car hit her. She was 3/4ths through the intersection and the blue subaru clipped her. She fell with a whine to the sidewalk. She was breathing real heavy. Her chest heaved. Blood poured out from her back quarters. It looked like her ribs had gotten crushed. She whimpered for a moment and then that was it. I closed her eyes and picked her up. The subaru hadn't seen anything and was long gone. I carried her back to my apartment and set her down on her dog pillow. I looked at her for two hours. The clothes I was wearing had blood on them so I threw them in the laundry and then showered for work. I let the warm water hit my body. I hoped that the water would wash away my skin. With a new skin maybe I'd be a new person, like a snake, or a grasshopper. My skin didn't come off and I toweled off. I walked to work in a daze.

Work passed. It was like being half awake. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, where the sounds of the world come through and you reply but your mind isn't focused. The mind is still lost in the fog of sleep. I walked back home. Her body made the apartment stink. I got a few blankets together and wrapped her in them. I tied the blankets with some twine, twine left over from when I'd made her leash. I carried her in the blankets to the Aquatic park. It was still dark out when I got to the bridge over the highway. The bridge also overlooked a bit of water that sat next to the park. I stood on the bridge and looked out towards the bay. I could see the lights of the bay bridge. I looked west and saw the lights of the city. Berkeley was lit up. I set Sam's body down and thought about how she came into my life. I decided that I hated my neighbors for my loss. Without any conduit for my emotions I put my feelings on those kids. I picked up her body and swung it back and forth a few times to get a feeling of her weight. Time turned to gel as I let her body go. It sailed forward and down into the water. It made a small splash as it hit the water. I looked down and was slightly relieved that her body sank. I walked home.

Sam part 3

The drunks shuffled out ushered by my lackadaisical arm waving. They knew the routine. The smart ones had already left a few minutes ago to walk to Black and White liquor. They'd buy some malt liquor, a fifth of vodka, or maybe some bacardi breezers that they'd spike with rum to keep them going til their eyes closed on them or their livers gave out.

It took about fifteen minutes to close up the bar. I counted my money before I left. It was a slow night and I'd only made $150. The money had never mattered to me. Even with taking care of Sam I still had plenty of money. I would buy her dog pillows, endless amounts of dog biscuits, bones, and squeaky toys. She'd gnaw at the annoying squeaky balls that I got her for a day and then discard them, totally uninterested. She liked to spend most of her time sitting by my feat while I sat on my recliner watching tv. She was a bit of a lazy dog.

"Come on Sam," I said as I shut off the lights. She came up from her position at the end of the bar and walked to the door. She wagged her tail. I bent down and patted her head. I pushed in the code for the alarm, unlocked the front door, and then let myself out. Sam followed. I locked the door from the outside and we started up the street. I didn't bother having her on a leash. This late at night there were only a few crackheads around, whom we'd both avoid. She was pretty good about not hopping into the middle of the street so I didn't have her on a rope. We made it home. I checked my messages on my answering machine. There was one from a telemarketer. I listened the whole way through. I got a bottle of cola from my fridge, filled Sam's bowl with water and sat down on the recliner. I stared off in the distance for a while then flipped on the tube to watch the Cotto and Margarito fight.

Cotto was a fast, technical fighter. The first few rounds he dominated the less savvy Margarito. Cotto bobbed, weaved, and threw a variety of uppercuts into the taller boxer's mug. Margarito had a look of determination on his face as he relentlessly pushed Cotto up against the ropes, throwing straight punches at Cotto relentlessly. Most bouts the boys aren't boxing the whole time. They're sizing each other up, they're dancing about, they're waiting and picking their placement. This bout was a never ending push. Margarito kept pushing, like Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill. Unlike Sisyphus Margarito's efforts weren't in vain. He won the bout with his determination, not with his skill. Everyone knew that Cotto was a better boxer, but Margarito had the legs and the heart. That's what mattered. I watched the after bout report and drank some water.

It was 4 o'clock. The sun would start to rise soon. I went and laid down in my bed. I patted the bed and Sam hopped up next to me. She sniffed at my face and walked around the bed. She setteled at the bottom of the bed where she fell asleep. I could hear her light snores as I stared up at the ceiling. Thinking of the boxers, thinking about Franks' bloody fingers, and thinking about what would happen when I awoke. My eyes dropped off and I fell into a dreamless slumber.

Sam woke me up around noon. She had to piss. I hauled my body out of bed and put on my slippers. We walked outside and she urinated on the brief patch of lawn out front. We strolled around the block and she dumped on a some lawn. I didn't bother picking up the crap. We went back to the house and I fed her. She got dry food in the mornings, and then a mix at a night of wet food and dry. Sometimes I'll pick up a steak for her and feed it to her. Usually its when I'm looking at my bookshelf and I see a Jack London story. London wrote about an old boxer who fought a young guy. It was an age versus youth story. The old boxer tried to hold out but he didn't have the wherewithal. He didn't have the energy because he hadn't eaten well, he hadn't eaten his steak. I wanted to make sure that Sam would have the constitution if she ever needed it, so I would feed her steak.

I ate cereal for breakfast and sat on the recliner. I watched the noon news and looked at the weather channel for a bit. After a few hours of sitting on my duff I took Sam out for a walk. We were walking by Ashby and Martin Luther King when she got sight of a cat. Sam didn't have much ado about felines but it was the neighborhood Tom. The tom pissed her off good. Tom would sit and wait for Sam to come out for her morning moments of relief (on her bladder) and would take a cheap swipe at her face then run off. Sam was always too confused to do much about it. When Sam saw Tom she ran off though. She broke out of her leash, which was a flimsy piece of twine, and went like Margarito after Cotto.

She almost had Tom, just like the taller boxer, the one with the heart and the legs, had the smaller, when the car hit her. She was 3/4ths through the intersection and the blue subaru clipped her. She fell with a whine to the sidewalk. She was breathing real heavy. Her chest heaved. Blood poured out from her back quarters. It looked like her ribs had gotten crushed. She whimpered for a moment and then that was it. I closed her eyes and picked her up. The subaru hadn't seen anything and was long gone. I carried her back to my apartment and set her down on her dog pillow. I looked at her for two hours. The clothes I was wearing had blood on them so I threw them in the laundry and then showered for work. I let the warm water hit my body. I hoped that it would wash away my skin. With a new skin maybe I'd be a new person, like a snake, or a grasshopper. My skin didn't come off and I toweled off. I walked to work in a daze.

Work was passed in a daze. It was like being half awake. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, where the sounds of the world come through and you reply but your mind isn't focused. The mind is still lost in the fog of sleep. I walked back home. Her body made the apartment stink, it was starting to smell bad already. I got a few blankets together and wrapped her in them. I tied the blankets with some twine, twine left over from when I'd made her leash. I carried her in the blankets to the Aquatic park. It was still dark out when I got to the bridge over the highway. I stood on the bridge and looked out towards the bay. I could see the lights of the bay bridge. I looked west and saw the lights of the city. Berkeley was lit up. I set Sam's body down and thought about how she came into my life. I decided that I hated my neighbors for my loss. Without any conduit for my emotions I put them on them. I picked up her body and swung it back and forth a few times to get a feeling of her weight. Time turned to gel as I let her body go. It sailed forward and down into the water. It made a small splash as it hit the water. I looked down and was slightly relieved that it sank. I walked home.