A middle-aged man was sitting behind the counter, nose buried in a newspaper, when the door chimes jangled. He craned his neck over the paper, cocking an eyebrow. Like hell he'd let some other delinquent make off with a bag of chips. But, as soon as he saw who it was, his shrewd features softened and a smile curled his mustached mouth.

"Well, look who it is." He said, folding the paper up and tucking away his round pair of reading glasses.

"Hey, Mr. J."

Pushing to his feet with a grunt, the man leaned forward and spread his hands across the counter, his fingers thick and knotted at the joints. "So what'll it be, champ? The usual?"

Mac ruffled his hoodie-flattened hair, absently eying rows of candy bars in shiny wrappers. After an especially long session at the gym earlier in the afternoon that had wrung all the sweat out of him, he was starving. "Heh, well, I ain't the champ yet."

"Better get used to hearing it, kid," Reaching for a paper bag, the shop clerk snapped it open, filling it with several sticks of beef jerky, some tinned soup, and a can of root beer. "'cause you will be soon. This big shot Macho guy from Hollywood?" He grimaced. "I watched the conference last week on television, and the guy's a complete joke. Just look at 'im."

The newspaper was tossed onto the counter and Mac turned it around to read, taking in the photo of Super Macho Man flexing a bulging bicep and flashing his most toothy, winning smirk.

"He's primping and preening himself in front of the cameras like some kind of peacock, just eating it all up." The man said. "The guy's so oiled up, he doesn't walk down the street, he glides."

Mac couldn't help chuckling. "Hey, I think I remember a line kinda like that from that Outsiders movie. Ever see that?"

The shop clerk waved a hand dismissively. "Listen Mac, you'll knock this sucker's gold tooth right out of that big mouth of his and be up against that Sandman from Philly in no time."

"Y'think so...? Oh, uh, actually I'll pass on the root beer. Water's better for me n' all. Gotta treat my body right before the match, y'know?"

Removing the can of pop, Mr. Johnson paused, giving the teen a scrutinizing frown. "Don't tell me you're worried about this guy."

"Who?"

"Super Macho whatever-his-name-is."

Mac shrugged his shoulders, breaking eye contact as he slanted his gaze downwards. He regretted expressing the slightest measure of uncertainty. "Nah. I mean, I ain't real worried, but he's beaten Bald Bull n' all. That ain't easy."

Mac had emerged from his bout with the Turk tasting the coppery tang of blood in his mouth and fighting to breathe, his left eyelid shiny, purple, and grotesquely swollen. Wobbly from more than the adrenaline and half-blinded by the cameras blinking all around him, he must have passed out, for the next thing he knew, he was in a hospital room with Doc at his side, being told by a doctor that he had broken a few ribs and that he was lucky they hadn't punctured his lungs.

Having been somewhat illness-prone as a child, suffering appendicitis, tonsillitis and some other kind of -itis, he was acquainted enough with hospitals to keenly dislike the restlessness and loneliness of lying in a drably plain room unable to do much of anything, long stretches of boredom occasionally interrupted by a nurse offering a professional smile, or his mother rushing to his bedside, cooing and stroking and kissing his forehead while his father stood half-awkwardly at a distance, his hands in his pockets.

It was different with Doc. During his post-match convalescence several months ago, Mac remembered chuckling until tears sprung to his eyes and he had to brace his side with a pillow, begging Doc in a wheezy voice not to crack any more jokes or share ridiculous anecdotes. ("Please, Doc, y'killin' me.") But the former heavyweight champ had come prepared to bolster his protege's spirit and laughed with him until a nurse had come in, scowling at the noise, and asked Mac if the man had been bothering him. Doc had even smuggled him a chocolate bar and let him have it - and Mac knew how much those meant to him.

His mother - bless her heart, Mac mused - would have burst into tears at the sight of her poor baby battered and bruised by Bald Bull, torn between scolding him in hushed, broken tones and smothering him with love.

"Yeah, and you did too," Mr. Johnson said, jabbing a finger at the young man almost disapprovingly. Mac blinked with fresh awareness, somewhat startled from his thoughts. "And don't you forget it, kid. Bald Bull... now there was a real fighter." After a moment, the clerk shook his head lightly. "This Macho guy has to have given the big Turk a nice wad of dough to pull his punches. That's the kind of shady stuff people with a lot of money to throw do, you know. Now, you? Y'got this bagged, kid - no contest. Show this chump what we're made of."

A reassured smirk quirked the corners of Mac's lips. "Thanks." A mildly awkward silence followed and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Say, d'you have any more of that chocolate milk that comes in the blue carton?"

"You running errands for Louis again?" The shop clerk laughed as he made for the refrigerated area towards the back of the store.

"Yeah." Mac stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweat suit and looked about the place, rocking lightly on his heels. In all his years of dropping by the corner store, nothing had really changed. Same old look, same old arcade cabinets, and they still had those delicious gummies in the shape of cola bottles. "But it don't bother me none."

"How's he doing, anyway?" Mr. Johnson asked as he returned to the counter and bagged the milk. "Pushing you too hard? That'll be five fifty."

Cracking a lopsided grin, the teen handed him six dollars, gathering up the crinkled paper bag in his arms. "Nah. Just hard enough."

"So when're you flying out to Hollywood?"

"Real early tomorrow mornin'... Doc and I're gonna meet up around three n' then head to LaGuardia airport."

"Yeah?" The cash register's coin slot rang open, and sifting around, Mr. Johnson dropped the change into the teen's upturned palm. Mac hefted the coins, tempted to burn the jingling quarters on the Pacman game in the corner, but reconsidered. It was best not to keep Doc waiting.

"Thanks." He said, turning on his heel and starting for the door only to jerk to a halt after he peered into the bag. "Uh, Mr. J, you gave me an extra- -"

The clerk settled back into his seat behind the counter with a groan of relief. "I may be getting old, but I ain't stupid." He answered with a scoffing grin before turning his attention back to his newspaper. "...Have a good night, kid."