1,000 Word Challenge: Shallow Victory

Note: This was my submission for the first round challenge. The genre had to be Ghost Story. The location a boxing club. The item was neon sign.

The single light bulb above the eight uneven limestone steps cast a pale light that didn’t reach the edges where no doubt the rats waited. When they were youths, Carmen and Ricky took the steps two at a time much to the chagrin of Tony, the club trainer. One time Carmen slipped on the thin fourth step, slapping his elbow down hard on the stone, and costing him a spot in an upcoming tournament.

Those were the days when the room below was a respite from the chaos of the outside world. Carmen’s dad was a drunk that beat his wife bloody for sport, and Ricky didn’t have a family per se, he simply lived with a string of uncles and aunts, few of which he shared any blood with.

Descending the stairs at midnight to the boxing club housed below the VFW was a penance now for Carmen’s sin. With each step, the rats scurried in the shadows, hungry to witness his shaming. The sound of a glove popping a heavy bag below echoed to his ears above. Carmen sighed, his ribs still aching from the night before, and continued down.

The stairs opened to a cavernous room neatly organized after another day of training. To the right was a row of lockers with a bench in front and beyond was Tony’s office. The trainer was still going strong after 40 years of sparring with punks like Carmen and Ricky. Scattered around the room were heavy bags, speed bags, medicine balls, dumbbells and jump ropes hanging from hooks. At the top of the walls were promotional posters of bright yellow, pink and green.

The lighting was fine during the day with bulbs hanging from the rafters at regular intervals, but during his visits the electrical current was dim except for occasional surges when a bulb emitted a beam well beyond its voltage. The only natural light came from a window well on the opposite wall. At night, it revealed the flashing orange glow from a neon sign advertising for the bar across the alley, reminding Carmen of a traffic sign warning people away.

The ring, with droopy ropes and a canvas covering a plywood floor, was centered in the room. Ricky paced in the ring in ratty shorts and a pair of black boxing gloves. He was still the tall, muscled boy of 17, but his eyes were ringed black and his skin still had the grayish tone it had when they pulled his lifeless corpse from the river 20 years earlier.

“Evening, Ricky,” said Carmen, while removing his shirt. Ricky never spoke, just wore that same accepting gaze Carmen first witnessed that summer day as Ricky struggled in the water and Carmen pulled the boat away. The gaze clearly stated, “That’s the way it’s going to be then.”

Carmen grabbed his old gloves from the top of the lockers. Outside the ring, the rats squeaked and a snake hissed from some dank corner. The closer he came to Ricky the hotter, more humid it became. A pool of water collected at Ricky’s feet. The stench of death and the river filled Carmen’s nostrils. A worm crawled from Ricky’s mouth, and Carmen’s stomach nearly turned.

“I can’t keep going like this,” Carmen pleaded. “It’s been so long. I’m sorry!”

If Ricky considered the plea, nothing reflected in his eyes, which had been blue but were only black now. He raised his gloves, his signal to begin.

In life, Ricky was only a week removed from winning his final amateur match before leaving for the Olympic team camp when he climbed on the boat that fateful day. He was quick with a long reach and dominated Carmen, which was also true outside the ring. Grades, Ricky pulled good ones. Girls, he got the best, including the one Carmen wanted most. Breaks, the world was bending over for him. Carmen, on the other hand, the world never ceased squatting on. The difference in luck poisoned a friendship, and Carmen’s jealousy – the one thing he certainly inherited from dear old dad – planted dark thoughts and hardened his heart.

Ricky’s first jab darted to Carmen’s right and landed on his tender ribs. He doubled over. Ricky didn’t attack again until Carmen brought his gloves back up, and then the ghost moved in with a wicked combination that peppered Carmen’s midsection. Each glove felt like a brick being slammed into his flesh. Carmen stumbled away, spitting blood into a bucket in the corner.
 
Some nights Carmen let Ricky bash away. Others, when he was really fed up, he thrashed wildly, sometimes landing glancing blows on Ricky’s clammy skin. Sometimes the sessions were 10 minutes of pounding, and other nights Ricky jabbed away for an hour.

Ricky satisfied his latest need for a pound of flesh with an upper cut that tagged Carmen in the nose, buckling his knees. Blood gushed down his chin and a canvas of stars painted his vision.

Ricky walked through the ropes and floated to the floor, his essence slowly diminishing as he went. The rats scurried away, the room cooled and the puddle of water drained away as if a plug was pulled.

Dazed, Carmen thought about that last summer when they were 17. He lost at everything, and he was losing his only friend.  Ricky borrowed the boat from one of their boxing acquaintances as a chance for reconciliation before he left town. Carmen brought the beer and knew that Ricky couldn’t swim.

They were drunk and arguing when Carmen landed his first and last good punch on his friend, sending the young boxing star into the river. For once, Carmen won. Ricky flailed in the water, and their eyes met as Carmen pulled away. It was a shallow victory. The satisfaction lasted less than a minute.

Carmen turned the boat back, but his friend was lost. He staggered to his feet in the ring, sobbing just as he had that day 20 years earlier.