Authors: Gina Ranalli
6
“
Well, that sucked,” Drizzle said when they were in the car driving again.
“Shut the fuck up,” Ed replied.
“What? It
didn’t
suck?”
“How much are you making form this shit, Drizzle, huh? Is it enough?”
“I don’t know. You’re the boss. But I figure, you wouldn’t be getting the work if it wasn’t for me so…I don’t know…fifty percent?”
Ed snorted, wishing he still had the toothpick he’d been gnawing on. “I’ll give you ten.”
Drizzle slammed on the brakes so hard that a tire blew out, the car spun sideways and the next thing Ed knew they were careening into oncoming traffic, headlights blinding them, horns blaring and tires squealing in an attempt to get out of their way.
Both men began to scream as the Pinto swerved back and forth, one second almost clipping a telephone pole, the next nearly slamming head first into a mini-van. Drizzle stomped the brake pedal and twisted the wheel hard to the right and avoided killing them by a millisecond. When the car finally stopped on the shoulder, Ed thought for sure he was having a heart-attack. He didn’t even have enough air in his lungs to yell at the stupid shit, but he was capable of being amazed when Drizzle shouted, “Ten percent? Are you fucking kidding me? After everything I’ve done for you?”
Ed couldn’t believe his ears. He was beginning to think he’d over-estimated this kid’s sanity in a big way. When he was finally able to speak again, he said, “Drizzle, you know you just blew out a tire, right?”
“Fuck the tire, man! I thought we were buds! And now you wanna fuck me in the ass with your fucking lousy ten percent! Fuck you, Champ! That’s some cold shit, right there!”
“I was in the middle of a poker game with my buddies,” Ed said slowly. “If you and I were buds, you would have been at the game. Get it
Champ
? We are
not
friends. We’ve never been friends. You’re a fucking
fan
. A
crazy fucking
fan! A fucking
stalker
fan. That’s what you are, Drizzle. That’s what you’ve
always
been, that’s what you’ll
always
be. Get it through your thick fucking skull. We are most definitely
not
buds.”
The silence in the car after that speech almost made Ed regret having made it. Almost. But it had needed to be said; had needed to be said for a long time now. They sat in that thick silence for quite a while before Ed finally broke it by saying, “Do you have a spare tire?”
“Yeah, man,” Drizzle replied, almost too softly for Ed to hear. “Yeah, I have a fucking spare.” Then he got out of the car and slammed the door.
Ed debated getting out and helping the kid change the tire, then decided against it. He also debated getting out and walking. True, the neighborhood sucked, but hell, he was a fucking boxer. He thought he could handle pretty much anything that might come up, with the exception of a gun pointed at him.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud and got out of the car. He didn’t bother saying anything to Drizzle, just started walking in the direction of the park-and-ride. He never even looked back at the kid or his piece of shit Pinto.
7
Of course, the guys were long gone when he finally arrived back home, but Ash was still awake, drunk off her ass and wanting to hear all about how it went. Ed went to the refrigerator and took out a beer, brought it over to the table and sat down with his wife staring bleary eyed at him.
“It was just a job,” he said, taking a pull off the beer. He didn’t think he’d tasted anything so fine in his life.
“That’s it? It was ‘just a job’?”
“That’s right, Ash. It was just a job. It sucked, but it’s over now.”
“Did you get the money?”
Studying the brown bottle in his hand, he said, “No, no money. At least not yet. Maybe never.”
“Never?” She screeched the word in that way she had when she was really shit-faced and itching for a fight. “What do you mean, ‘never’?”
“The kid wanted fifty percent. You believe that shit?”
“So? Fifty-fifty. So fucking what? What do you got if you ain’t got nothing? Fifty percent of nothing? Jesus, Ed, he got you the job!”
“No, he blackmailed me into the job. There’s a difference.”
“Money is money. I don’t see a difference.”
She continued trying to goad him into a fight for another half hour before she took her glass of wine into the bedroom and left him alone. Ed just sat there drinking his beer until it was gone and then he drank another. He sighed a lot. And then his phone rang.
It was the hospital. Emergency C-section.
“I’ve been drinking,” he said, trying to sound more drunk than he was.
The voice on the other end told him that no one else was available.
“Where’s Chuckie?”
Turned out, Chuckie was already waiting on a couple. Both parents there, ready and willing to take their punishment.
Lucky bastard, Ed thought and hung up the phone.
He grabbed the keys to the Trinidad off the table and headed out the door, wondering if this shit-ass night would ever end.
8
Back at work, he was greeted by a slew of family members waiting on the expectant mother, all of them looking tired and shell-shocked, with the exception of a boy of about ten.
“Are you the baby’s brother?” Ed asked him after the kid had stared at him for the better part of an hour.
“Yeah. You’re the Mother Puncher?”
“Yep. And the Father Puncher too.”
The little kid nodded and kicked Ed in the shin, just below his knee. Ed fell back against the wall, howling while the rest of the family laughed and cheered, suddenly more alive and alert than they’d had been in the entire previous hour.
The little shit was wearing football cleats that clanked against the linoleum floor as he ran back to his cheering family, laughing and shouting, “I kicked him! I kicked him for mom and dad!”
Ed bent and rubbed his sore shin, lips pressed tightly together. What the hell was wrong with these people? Didn’t they have any respect at all for the government? Didn’t they realize that these laws had been passed by people just like themselves
voting
for them to be passed?
No matter how much he tried, Ed just couldn’t make himself understand the mentality of these selfish people who continued to think breeding was a right that should go unpunished by the rest of society. No matter how many children died of starvation throughout the world every single day, they
still
managed to convince themselves that
their
kid would be different, it would be special and entitled to things that all the other kids couldn’t have.
Fucking bastards.
Ed did his best to ignore them until the doctor came out of the room and gave him the nod. Then he went inside and took care of business, clocking both parents hard enough to remind himself that he should stop hitting people with his right hand. He was pretty sure he was going to need surgery on it sooner rather than later, and that would be a total fucking drag.
But, at least he knew a few good doctors and more than a few good nurses. They would fix him up right when the time came. He just hoped the diagnosis wouldn’t be that he had to find work in some other field.
At least, that’s what he thought he hoped.
Maybe.
Sometimes.
9
By the time the pictures were taken and turned in, the sky was blushing pink on the eastern horizon and Ed just didn’t feel like going home. It was Saturday and Ash would be there and he was in no mood for one of her hangover bitch-fests.
He found an empty examining room on the first floor of the hospital, in the walk-in clinic, and curled up and went to sleep. He never even took off his shoes.
10
It was Sandy who shook him awake a few hours later.
“Mrs. English is back,” she said.
Ed fisted sleep from his eyes and sat up. “You can’t be fucking serious.”
“Oh, yeah. Serious as a heart attack. Number 9 is on its way.”
“When?” he said, yawning.
“Hour, maybe. She said she’s looking forward to seeing you again.”
He didn’t doubt it. Mrs. English was one of those rare women who enjoyed being pregnant so much that she just kept doing it. And now she was back again, ready to pop out the 9
th
brat in about as many years.
“Jesus Christ,” Ed said.
“Yeah, well, I just wanted to give you a heads up. You probably have plenty of time to hit the cafeteria and get a cup of Joe, if you want.”
He snorted. “
If
I want? Sandy you know me better than that. I live on caffeine.”
“I was being facetious.”
Laughing, he said, “You know, I don’t think my wife even knows that word.” He instantly felt a pang of guilt for saying it, implying that Ash was none too bright.
Sandy gave him a sad chuckle and walked out of the room, probably to check on Mrs. English’s progress.
Ed sat there, still as stone for another few minutes before finding the strength to pull himself up and drag his ass down to the cafeteria.
He grunted good mornings at the staff, got his free cup of sludge and took it to a table near the windows that looked out on the parking lot. Nothing too exciting to see out there at the moment, and he thought about going out to get a newspaper, but in the end, he just sat sipping the foul coffee and gazing off into space.
Draining the last of the cup, he rose to throw it away when a couple of young guys approached him. They appeared to be in their mid-twenties, both scruffy-faced with greasy hair and clothes and dirt beneath their fingernails. Ed immediately took them for auto mechanics.
“Aren’t you Ed Means?” the taller one asked.
“Who wants to know?”
The tall one slapped the short one’s shoulder. “Dude, I told you it was him.”
Shorty regarded Ed evenly, looking him up and down. “You looked bigger on TV.”
“Yeah, TV will do that to you,” Ed said, pushing past them.
“Hey! That’s no way to be!”
Ed faced them again. He was still just waking up and not really in the mood to play “famous guy” this morning.
“Dude, you fucking sucked,” the tall one said suddenly. “That time you K.O.’d Big Tommy Worthen? Yeah, he gave that to you. They
paid
him to go down. What do you think about
that,
Champ?”
Ed shrugged. “It’s history, either way.”
Laughing, Shorty said, “Mark, remember the time the Champ here got his ass handed to him by Bulldog Travis? Shit, that was some
must see TV
!”
Turning away once again, Ed said over his shoulder, “You boys have a good day now.” He walked towards the trash bins and tossed away his paper cup. He could feel everyone’s eyes burning into his back but he didn’t care. He was beginning to wish he’d gone home last night after all. Then he’d be sitting at his own table, drinking his own coffee and not having to deal with loser rednecks like those two clowns.
He’d just stepped out of the cafeteria and into the hall when someone jumped him from behind, landing on his back, causing him to stumble forward.
“Fuck,” he muttered, more annoyed than surprised.
“Let’s see how tough you are now,
Champ
,” the tall one snarled into his right ear. Ed could smell booze on the lowlife’s breath. “You a tough guy now,
Champ
? I hear you beat up women for a fucking living. That how tough you are, old
Champeroo
?”
Shorty came around the front of them, laughing, and slugged Ed in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. The guy on his back—Mark—was tightening his forearm around Ed’s throat, clinching his windpipe closed.
Ed knew he had to remain upright unless he wanted to be kicked with steel-toed workman’s boots for breakfast, and in order to remain upright he needed to breathe. He quickly assessed his options and regretted the decision he was left with. Shorty was coming in for another swing, this time aiming for his face, leaving his own mid-section wide open. Ed took advantage of it and gave the kid a nice hard kidney punch. Shorty yelped, reeled backwards holding his side until he collided with the wall and sat down on his ass. Ed didn’t think he’d be coming at him again, so he spun his body and rammed Mark’s back into the wall just inches from where his friend had landed. Mark grunted, his grip loosened, but he didn’t fall off.
Wishing for the first time that he had been a wrestler instead of a boxer, Ed slammed Mark again, harder this time and finally his grip loosened enough for Ed to get a hand under his forearm and twist the asshole around, tossing him to the floor like a sack of laundry.
Ed pointed a meaty finger at them. “Don’t get up,” he warned.
Shorty looked like he might cry at any moment, but Mark was clearly debating whether or not to rise and give him another go.
“Do it and I’ll break your fucking arm,” Ed said, staring him down. It wasn’t until Mark dropped his furious gaze that Ed felt ok to turn his back on them and continue on his way up to maternity to see how Mrs. English was doing. Knowing her, it was probably better than him.
When he saw Sandy, she said, “Damn. You look even rougher than you did when I first woke you up.”
He shrugged. “Run-in with a few anti-fans. Nothing major.”
She shook her head just as she had down in the walk-in clinic. “Mrs. English is gonna go quick. Don’t go far.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”
She smiled and disappeared back into the birthing room.
Ed really would have preferred being in the waiting room, leafing through a magazine and relaxing until it was time for him to go in, but experience had taught him that being anywhere near the expectant mother’s family and friends often had bad results. And Mrs. English had a
lot
of family, though they weren’t nearly as bad as some. He remembered the kick in the shin he’d received the previous day from that little kid, which only reinforced his idea to stay away from the waiting room. However, if the family members approached the birthing room, there wasn’t much he could do about it.
He wanted more coffee. And a shower and shave. And a change of clothes. He gave his armpit a sniff and grimaced. He
really
needed a shower and fresh clothes. As soon as this job was done, he’d check with Sandy about any other mothers and then rush home and get cleaned up. Maybe brew some coffee while he was in the shower and take a thermos to work. He hoped Ash would be asleep for all this. If not…he shuddered to think.
Luckily, that’s when he heard the screaming of a newborn and a few moments later, the doctor emerged, giving him the nod.
Ed slowly walked into the birthing room. As usual, Sandy was attending to the crying baby and Mrs. English was sitting up in bed, smiling to beat the band. She was a fat broad with thick dark curly hair and chubby cheeks that seemed rosy whether she’d just given birth or not.
“Ed!” she exclaimed happily. “Good to see you again. You’re looking…uh…not so good, actually. You feeling ok?”
He returned her smile. “I’m ok Mrs. English. How you doing?”
“Right as rain!” she announced proudly. “Another boy. Can you imagine? That’s five now!”
Ed said he couldn’t imagine and he really couldn’t. He lived at Envision for a reason.
“I’m naming this one Jeremy! All J’s! Nine J’s! Can you imagine?”
Still smiling, Ed nodded. “Jeremy is a fine name, Mrs. English.”
“It is! A fine name for a fine boy!”
“Uh huh.”
There was a pause punctuated only by Jeremy’s loud braying and then Mrs. English took a deep breath, released it and said, “Well, I’m ready whenever you are, Ed.”
“Ok.” He stepped up to the side of the bed. “Any preference?”
“Nope. Same as always. Just not the nose.”
“You got it, Mrs. English.” Then he socked her in the eye, trying not to hit her too hard, but hard enough to leave a bruise.
Mrs. English gasped in pain but recovered quickly. “That the best you got these days, Ed?” she joked. “You don’t hit like you used to.”
“I try to go easy on people I know.”
She laughed and then Sandy brought Jeremy over to her, placing the baby on her ample bosom.
Ed sat down at the foot of the bed and watched mother and son for a while, waiting for the shiner to show itself. It took a while, but Ed was happy to wait. The baby gurgled while Mrs. English cooed at him, wiping drool from his chin with a corner of the sheet.
Watching them together cheered Ed up somehow, but he couldn’t really say why. He still thought having babies in the current world was sinful but there was something about Mrs. English and her determination to keep doing it for no other reason than that she loved kids. And it was obvious that she was a kind and caring mother. Hell, she was a kind and caring woman.
Go figure, Ed thought.
A little while later, Mr. English hurried in, saying, “How are you, Barb? You ok?”
Ed stepped away for a bit, in order to give them some privacy and let the father examine and say hello to his new son. He figured five or ten minutes would be enough, but now that Mr. English was here, he knew he’d also have to wait for
his
shiner to show up too, doubling the time he had to spend in here. He hoped no other mothers were waiting to be punched, but he certainly wasn’t going to let an opportunity to punch a father pass him by.
When the time came, Mr. English was a good enough sport about it. Not as good as his wife, of course, but no one else was that good. Mr. English climbed into the bed with his wife, little Jeremy perched between them, both parents ginning into the camera as Ed snapped their picture.
“Congratulations to you both,” Ed told them before he left them alone. And for once, he was pretty sure he meant it.