Neal Pollack

He sat on a stool and let his rage build. He thought about his whole life. It was all a waste. To end as the butt of a joke on a street-corner video box. A tag line. A broken old man. His face clenched as he stood up and punched the wall. That felt good. He did it again. Then again.

He found he lost track of time. Morning. Night. It all felt the same. He didn'’t eat. Sipped a little water. Had no desire or needs. They all faded away. He was in a void, an old man’s purgatory. He knew he was hiding. Too shamed to be seen. The village idiot. The dopey old man who still talked about his youth like it would matter to anyone but himself. He would wake up and groan and just want to stay asleep. How would he ever face anyone at the gym?

As he circled his room in a daze, it came to him. He heard it. Clearly. Cunning would join him. It was like an angel’s voice telling him what needed to be done. Then he knew. There would be only one way out.

He left his room on Friday at 7:30 p.m. He kept his head down and looked at no one. He moved quickly through the streets. He thought he heard a group of kids laughing at him on a street corner as he passed. He looked back and saw that a boy was telling a joke. But how did he know it was not a joke about Alex Pinto? It could be. He was the laughing stock of Humboldt Park. The stupid old man who boxed bums.

He went to Brick’s Gym and avoided the few fighters left working out. He looked around and then pulled out a long, thin metal locksmith tool from his gym bag. He picked the lock to Mr. Rico’s office. He knew Rico was gone for hours now and he didn'’t carry that gun on him. He closed the door and walked into the dark office and grabbed the revolver that was in the top drawer. He left the gym quietly.

When he got to the smoker, he went to a dark corner and put the gun inside his boxing glove. He moved closer to the crowd and sat on a milk crate and waited to be called into the ring. He kept his head down. Not from shame. That had left. No, he was hot. Red hot. He kept his head down. He didn'’t want anyone to see his smile.

This night he was going against a forty-five-year-old named Welch. But Welch would get off easy. He stood in his corner with his head down. As Paco got in the ring to announce the fight, Pinto threw off his boxing gloves and put the gun to Paco’s head.

Pinto yelled, “All right, you bunch of parasites. You punks! You think I am some kind of joke? Everyone out of here. Now!”

No one in the crowd moved. They stared at Pinto and a few made moves to grab their chairs.

Pinto cocked the revolver. “Paco, I will put this bullet in your stupid head now if you don’t tell them to leave. You heard that gun cock. Right? That means you got a second or two to live.”

“You dead, homes.”

Pinto pushed the gun into his temple. Paco shook and said in a whisper, “All right. All right! It was just a joke. Don’t shoot.”

“Then tell them to leave. Loud.”

Paco called out, “All right! Listen up! Get out of here. Listen to this crazy old fuck. It’s cool. Go home. I'’ll handle him. Get goin’.”

The crowd started to move to the exit. A man pointed at him. Some grumbled. Alex yelled, “Call 911! Tell them the boxer, Alex Pinto, has a gun to this punk’s head because Alex Pinto came to claim back his dignity which this pato tried to rob.”

The gym emptied as Pinto pushed Paco away and aimed the gun at his chest.

“You think you can make a fool of me. Rob me of my good name. Make fun of me. Treat me like a bum. Strip me of my humanity. You think that is funny? Make fun of who I once was?”

Paco backed away in the ring with a weak smile and his hands up, “Hey, pops, what’s your beef. I paid you for the fights. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is I saw those videos you’re selling. Bum Boxing. You played me for a fool. Made me a joke in my own neighborhood. Like my whole life was all a big joke to you. I ain’t a bum.”

Paco smiled and said, “Well, you ain’t a boxer no more either, pops.”

Pinto smiled back. Took a slow breath. Aimed the gun at Paco’s kneecap and pulled the trigger.

Paco fell to the ground with a scream.

“Well, at least I was once a boxer. I once fought for a title. What have you ever done? Look at you. Your life is over before it began. And what did you do? Make fun of people. Sell drugs. Ruin others.”

Paco kneeled on the canvas. He held his shattered knee and squirmed with pain. “Come on, papi. Don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone.”

Pinto stood over him. He gave him a small smile. “You want mercy, boy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It was just a joke. I paid you. I'’ll get rid of them all. No more videos of you. All gone. It will be forgotten. No one will remember.”

Pinto held the gun up and said, “Too late. When you were in diapers, I was out here on these streets trying to do what was right. Well, you know what? I’m tired of doin’ what’s right.”

Pinto aimed the gun and shot Paco once in the head. Paco fell back, his torso leaning on the ropes. His eyes were still open. Pinto threw the gun on Paco’s lap.