For 2017, I'm planning to write one short piece every month. Last month I wrote "Flashes in Memoriam". I had something completely different planned for this month, but I had to set my plans aside and pick up something a little lighter.
Many thanks and appreciative words of love to Milner and BK2U for their attention and help with my writing.
He tasted iron and salt. The tang crept in at least thirty minutes prior, subtle but unnoticed, before it progressed to him questioning if his gums were bleeding. He pushed past his concerns and continued to flex his feet to spring his toes an inch off the ground with each round of the jump rope. His calves smoldered like red hot coals, waiting for just one moment of stillness to erupt into cramping pain. The cable caught his toe and he faltered. Exhaustion took hold. The cessation of movement sucked all of his will to push harder, faster, longer out of him. Not even an earthquake could get him to jump one more time. Fire crawled up from his ankles and through his shins to his calves and quadriceps. He shuffled to the bench, sat, and sloshed water around his mouth to clear the metallic flavor.
He stared at the new poster to the right of the locker room entrance. "The Legendary FOUR" was spelled out in bright red on the stark black background above his face. His last victory had added his name to a list of potential challengers for the championship title. The current middleweight champion, Eric Coulter, was featured in a similar poster on the left, his name in a slimmer text. Four's brief spate of advertising classes had him wondering if Eric's management wanted to lure his subconscious into thinking Eric was smaller, weaker— to reduce the threat and, hopefully, the preparations. He pushed himself up and gripped the jump rope in one hand. He shuffled back into the open space and grimaced as he bounced from one sole to the other; the rope sped up, and he pushed on. If he ever got the offer, he wanted to be ready.
Four's gym had other fighters, and a long history of champions in almost every weight class. He even had a contemporary in the next weight class down that had just won a big fight the week before. However, Four was the next headliner on the schedule, and that brought all the focus and attention down onto him. Rolls of the posters, like the one by the locker room entrance, had arrived that morning, and one had even been stapled up on the board in the locker room. With only a week left to train and prepare, a growing spectacle had gathered outside his humble little gym. No one had anticipated that the crowd would already be gathering. His manager had joked earlier that they'd be besieged by fight night, blocked in by a camp of paparazzi, fans, and the sporadic groupie.
Preparing for a fight required structure and dedication. But after training, between sweating and sleeping, he could take as much time as he wanted to relax, eat, and be a human being. He loved showering after a long day, and the closer to a fight he got, the longer the days seemed to be. He stripped off his shirt and tossed his shower sandals onto the floor. In just his shorts, he grabbed a towel and kneaded his shoulder with his palm while he walked.
Al, a plumber and the gym owner's cousin, blocked the door with his toolbox. "Sorry, Champ. Working on that drain issue tonight."
He let out a long sigh. Usually he'd correct Al about not calling him Champ. He wasn't a champion, not yet. And he still had to win at least a few more fights before he could even dream of challenging Eric Coulter. But all he wanted was the warm drizzle of water, not a discussion. He dragged his feet on his way back to his locker and pulled his phone out. It was forty degrees outside, not horrible.
Walking out sweaty into the cold sent a shiver down his spine to his toes, but the cold felt good. Four filled his lungs with crisp air and stretched. Someone yelled, and his moment of stillness and silence was over. Exiting the gym was never fun when the press was circling, but this time they were looking for him and not another fighter. He draped a towel over his head, more for the heat retention than to avoid the cameras. He ignored the shouts for him to 'look over here' or to tell them how he felt about his impending face off against former middleweight champion, Carlos Marban. Marban was on a redemptive streak with his eye on taking back his title from Eric Coulter. Four was an underdog, Carlos his highest profile opponent to date. Some of them read Marban's quotes, the ones disregarding him as no more than a speed bump, and looked for a response. He gave them nothing, sauntering his way out to his car. A couple of journalists banged on the window.
He put the car in drive and honked before he started moving. For the first time, motorcycles followed him. He got on the highway; they pursued. One zipped up next to him and snapped pictures; the flash caused him to swerve, and he knew he couldn't drive safely. He exited and found his way to a restaurant that Amar, his trainer, had taken him to. He felt comfortable with the staff. He parked and rushed in, the paparazzi in pursuit. He dialed Amar.
"What do you mean, photographers?"
"I'm serious. I don't know why. I don't get this. But they're following me and driving up right on my car. What do I do?"
"I… I guess, just call a cab and come here."
"Are you sure? Bring this to your place? What if they're crazy?"
"I've at least got a doorman. You got nothing."
Four sighed, hung up, and Googled a taxi company. The manager let him exit out the back for a twenty.
"So, you got an address?" He jerked his gaze up at the feminine tone. "You deaf, buddy? I need an address," she stated again, turning left to keep the car moving.
"Oh, yeah. 399 West Monroe." He twisted forward to get a better look, worried they'd hired some child, considering the way she was obscured by the seat. The small blonde tapped the address into her GPS, all the while keeping her eyes glancing between the road and the mirrors.
"You want to go straight there, or do you need to make any stops?" She turned right suddenly, causing him to slide down the bench and nearly hit his head.
"What the hell?" he shouted.
"Sorry, some asshole was following me really close and just sitting in my blind spot. I just wanted to grind some respect into his brake pads." She shrugged and made another fast turn to get back towards the main route. He stared at the thin arm and shadowed profile of her face, annoyed and dumbfounded at the same time. If the driver were a man, he would have given him a piece of his mind, threatened him, put him in his place. But a woman... he didn't know what to say. With this particular woman, he sensed that taking a similar approach could get him killed.
"So, stops or straight there?" she asked again.
"Straight there."
Silence filled the car as she drove. He melted into the seat and closed his eyes. He opened them in a panic, stiff and sliding, again, his body jerking into his seatbelt. She honked her horn, flipped someone off, and yelled. But she never cursed. She just yelled, loud. He took stock of himself, his surroundings, and the fact that she was smiling.
"Sorry. Just some cow cutting me off."
"Seems like a grave mistake. I wouldn't cross you."
"You'd never survive if you tried." He chuckled; she took offense. "I can handle myself, you know? I took self defense classes and everything. I'm like a brown belt in judo."
"Like a brown belt, or actually a brown belt?"
She was quiet for a moment before she launched her counterclaim. "I'm not as weak as I look. I've even fought competitively, so don't get any ideas."
"You like fighting? Boxing? UFC?"
"Oh, man, I love watching fights. Any fights."
"Yeah, well, you get me home in one piece, I'll pay you to drive me the rest of the week. And I can even get you tickets to a fight for Saturday."
"If it isn't an Eric Coulter fight, I'm not interested."
"You're a Coulter fan?"
"Who isn't? I mean, tough to go against the underdog— and everyone he fights is an underdog — but Coulter's undefeated. I saw him fight Pedro Castano two months ago. The man is ferocious. A beast."
"Yeah, well, he's not fighting this Saturday, but Four is undefeated, too."
"Look who he's fought, though. He's coming up a weight class to get at Marban. He's gonna get creamed." She glanced in the mirror, flicked on her turn signal and pulled up in front of Amar's building. "Oh my God. I uh… I don't usually run my mouth like that. It's been a long day. Sorry for yammering the whole drive."
"S'okay. You got a card or something? I've got a similar need all week, maybe longer. You seem like you can handle yourself, and that's better than rolling the dice. So, can I just call you direct?"
"Yeah, sure." She scrambled, extracted a card and handed it back to him. He started to gather his things. "Uh, sir? You owe me eighteen dollars and thirty cents."
"Right! Right. Credit." She held up the small attachment to her phone and twisted in her seat to take his card.
She read the details on his card while she waited for approval. "Tobias? That's a nice name."
"It is when you say it."
She rolled her eyes but still blushed. "Have a good night, Tobias."
He glanced at her card to return the same level of familiarity. "Yeah, Beatrice. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tris. It's just Tris."
He smiled, nodded, took his card back and hustled across the wide sidewalk to the front door of Amar's building.
Four didn't so much ask to use Amar's shower as he was pushed towards the bathroom mere minutes after entering the room.
"You take the L? You smell like a train car floor!"
"I took a taxi. And they were fixing the drains," he defended. Amar pulled a towel out of the hall closet and shoved it at him. He muttered on his way to his room to seek out spare clothes. Four cut his usual shower short to save some water for his hosts. He toweled off and wrapped it around his waist.
"You got something I can borrow?" he asked, walking out into the living room.
Amar's boyfriend, George, gave him a quick glance and then looked away, blushing. Amar hastily cut across the room and pushed sweatpants and a shirt at him.
"He's definitely fight-ready," George snickered.
Four stayed on the pullout couch and got a lift from Amar to his apartment. He changed, got what he'd need for the day, and ran back out. Instead of going to the gym, Amar made a turn and headed out of the city towards the suburbs.
"Where we going?"
"Well, if there's press outside, you can't run in the neighborhood." He pulled over at a park, and Four took off down the trails.
His feet fell into a predictable pattern; he struggled at a mile and pushed on. Everything was just like normal, except for the scenery and the conversation that he kept replaying over and over in his head: "He's gonna get creamed."
When the wall came at four miles, he willed his knees higher and leaned in to accelerate. He would not get creamed. He would not be a has-been. He would not be a speed bump on Marban's return to the top. He'd be a wrecking ball to put him into retirement. He'd outpace, outpunch, and outlast. And then he'd move on to the next guy, and the next guy, and the next guy, until he had Eric-fucking-Coulter knocked out cold on the mat.
Amar had to physically stop him from starting another loop. "Cool down, you've got a thirty minute drive and then we'll do the bags."
"I gotta get faster."
"You're plenty fast. You just did five miles in twenty-five minutes."
"No. Coulter's got that triple combo. That, right, left, upper. I gotta get faster."
"And Marban isn't gonna let you get enough space to even throw a full extension, so let's focus on the close quarter body shots. One fight at a time, okay?"
Tobias streamed Marban's last three fights in the car, studying. He spent the most time watching Eric Coulter take him out in three rounds for the title; his and Eric's styles were as far apart as could be imagined.
They spent most of the day bobbing under clotheslines, and getting low and evasive. Amar drove him back out to the park for his afternoon run. Instead of stopping him, he just watched him from the car, noting each lap — five, six, seven — before Four came walking to the car for water.
Amar got out and leaned against the hood. "Done?" Four nodded and swiped at the sweat on his neck. "Get in. I gotta get moving."
Four was buckled over, his hands on his knees. "I need to get my car."
"Eh, it's way out of the way. Why don't you just take my couch. It's late. We can get your car in the morning."
"It's already been sitting a night and a day. I'll be lucky if it's still got windows."
"One more night. If you're lucky, it's already towed. Come on, get in."
Four pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Naw, I'll call that taxi driver back. No biggie."
"Expensive."
"I don't think I'm gonna be driving 'til after this fight. Maybe I can work out a deal. She likes fights. Maybe she'll take tickets? I mean, you said I get four, it's not like I got anybody to give 'em to."
"She?" Amar huffed and grinned.
"Don't make a big deal. It's a taxi."
"Fine, fine. It's a taxi. You're not giving your tickets to your dad?"
Four snorted. "No chance in hell."
"Alright, well, call if you need anything. Otherwise, let's meet at the park again tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Sure. I'll just do another lap or two while I wait." Four stretched his back and started walking back towards the park. He dialed Beatrice Prior and left her a message. He got a text back: she was on her way.
Tris pulled up and rolled down her window. She took a chance on the kid lying on the bench. "Hey, you call for a taxi?"
Four bolted up and caught his balance. He got his bearings and dug salty sleep out of the corner of his eyes. She called again, "Yo, you Tobias? You called for a taxi?"
"Yeah, that's me." He patted himself to check for his belongings, and got in the back seat. Tris left her window cracked.
"I need an address."
"Uh, that restaurant. Where you first picked me up." Tobias snapped his fingers trying to remember.
"Lemon and Mint?"
"Yeah, that one. I need to go get my car back."
"Ah, that's too bad. I was hoping this could be a long term gig," she teased to be polite. Tris wished she had an air freshener hanging from her rearview; instead she settled for rolling the window down a little bit more.
"Oh, well, I hate to disappoint." The sound of the air baffling through the window annoyed him. He worried that she needed the air to stay awake.
"It's okay. Strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to take folks outside of the company system during my shift, so it's probably for the best. I don't know what I was thinking handing out that card. It's from my old company. They were a bit more lenient."
"Oh, really?" Something about her voice, the animation to her tone, her eyes stealing glances back in the mirror, made him want her to tell him all about being a taxi driver.
"Well, it undercuts their business, right? The do regular service— airports and stuff— it's all supposed to go through the main line so they get their cut. But I can hide the mileage for a trip or two. Helps with the bills."
"I can't actually drive my car to and from work right now. So, I still have a need for rides. But I don't want to get you in trouble…"
She had rent due at the end of the month and she was still three-hundred short; Tris scrambled to keep his business. "You can call the main line and ask for me specifically. You just have to give them my cab number, seven-six-four, and a specific time. I'm on shift for them until ten. Anything after that, you can call direct and if I still have the car, I'll come pick you up. I mean, if you really wanna help a girl out."
"I can call it in, book you the rest of the week, if that's okay?"
She smiled to herself; three or four days of a steady fare would be a good start on the first hundred. She'd have to hustle the nightclubs to come up with the other two. Even if he stank, it was better than cleaning vomit out of the carpet. "Oh, yeah. That sounds fine."
"Is there a discount, or anything, for booking like that?"
Tris chuckled. If they asked that question, it usually meant it would be the last time she'd see them. But maybe the sales team could work some magic and sign him up. If they cut him a break, undoubtedly they'd take it out of her cut. "Never hurts to ask. They might give a frequent flier discount. They'll have you prepay over the phone, though, so have your credit card handy."
"Will do." He leaned back and closed his eyes, dozing off and on the rest of the way.
His car was, in fact, unharmed. But one glance at the beat up Honda and Tris knew she'd never see him again. "Hey, take care, Tobias." She handed him back his card.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Sure thing." She waved, rolled down all the windows, and purged the sweaty-boy smell out of her vehicle. She liked his smile. It was a shame, all the cute guys were the poor ones.
He called Tris's taxi company when they broke for lunch the next day. He booked her for the next three days. For whatever reason, the idea of seeing Tris at the end of his day made him watch the clock. He never watched the clock. Amar was about to step in, like usual, and ask him to cool down, but Four was already heading to the showers.
He took an extra long shower, staring at the fresh grout in the floor around the drain. Tobias pushed through the smaller crowd of press and out to her waiting car. He jerked the handle open and slid into the backseat. "Just move. Go." He spurred her into motion, looking at the crowd behind him.
"What was going on back there?"
"Who knows," he dismissed.
She looked back at him in the rearview and he watched her eyebrows crease. "So?"
"So?"
"I had like sixty fares since I first drove you home, you're gonna have to give me the address again."
"Oh, right. Uh, actually, that wasn't my place. I'm at 302 North Walnut." She punched it in; he checked behind them.
"Thanks for showering today. I was worried you'd be that guy." She slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. "I'm sorry. I… I don't know what it is about you, but I keep blabbing my mouth."
Four cringed and sighed. "I… I…"
"I am so sorry. I swear, driving you is so much better than puke!"
"Better than puke? Wow, really hitting my stride."
"I'm just gonna stop talking. Please don't cancel."
Tobias laughed. He couldn't stop laughing, his face was hot as fire. "I should be the one apologizing. I didn't… I didn't have access to a shower the last couple nights. The window makes more sense. I thought you were just tired."
"Oh, no. You stank."
"And you still told me to book you?"
She shrugged. "I need the money."
"Taxis in Chicago going bust?"
"Honestly, yeah. Uber and Lyft are taking a lot of business."
"Why not drive for one of them?"
"Because they don't come with cars!" She waved her hand around. "I don't have the money for a vehicle. I'm a student, for crying out loud."
"What are you studying?" He leaned forward onto the passenger seat.
"The grandest get rich scheme of the century: social work." They both laughed. "I'll be driving a cab forever."
"You never know. Crazy opportunities come along all the time. I have a degree in Advertising and Business. I don't do either."
"Yeah, what do you do?"
"I… I work in a gym," he generalized. He hadn't had such easy conversation with any woman since he'd become a local name. Why they thought he might have money or cars or anything more than a dwindling checking account was beyond him.
"Personal trainer?"
"Yeah, and a few other things."
"Maybe I should be the one hiring you. I could use someone to kick me back into shape."
"Oh, yeah. I could give you a free session."
"Really? Free?"
His pulse quickened. "Yeah, you know, tomorrow. We could go… discuss your goals over dinner, or something…" His voice trailed off, and he glanced away from the mirror when her eyes floated up.
"Are you asking me out?"
"Would you consider it?"
She looked back at him, his eyes steady in the glass. "Yeah. I guess I would."
If you've never read my stuff before, click on my profile and investigate other stories: "Let me get a Pikachu!" (no Pokemon experience required for this short story starter) and "Something New" (angsty opus), as well as the before mentioned January Short: "Flashes in Memoriam."
If you want to get alerts when I post my next Monthly Short, set an Author Alert and you'll get an email. If you want to know if this story ever gets added, set a Story Alert. If you favorite, you don't get an email. :)
If you hated it, let me know in a review. If you loved it, let me know in a review. If you never want me to write again, pop that in a review. The main thing: if you read it, review it. Thanks!