Колонизация

Loudon handed him seventy-five bucks. Rolle mentioned his little conversation with the blonde.

“She’s good. Not one of us,” he said.

“Look around, Eyesore. Hardly any of the new sparrers are.”

***

Rolle stepped out the door and into the humid, concrete parking lot. The place sat in a turn-of-the-century strip mall where empty bottles and white fast food sacks littered islands of unkempt grass. Sparbars were always the lone bastions of hygiene in these abandoned neighborhoods-filthy on the exterior but scrubbed to shiny whiteness inside, like the hospital classrooms he’d passed through during med school.

Over the entryway, where anyone else would have a flat-screen marquee, a big silver sign

read:

Glass Joe’s

Competitive Sparring:

YOU Are the Entertainment!

“Damn right I are!” he said aloud to the night sky, fists above his head in mock triumph.

An acre of parking spaces stretched out like yellow tournament brackets along the asphalt. Across the lot, a bus stop beckoned.

He had almost walked the length of the parking lot when he heard a shout.

“Eyesore!”

A shiny, yellow, electric sports car swerved down the street, its windows open. Rolle stopped. He knew what came next. Everyone he knew had had run-ins with teenagers looking for trouble outside of sparbars. They might just drive by and throw something. Or they’d stop, and if he didn’t act fast, he’d have more than a broken nose to worry about.

He felt the emptiness of the parking lot in his bones, dropped his bag and wriggled out of his jacket. The car sped toward him. Rolle crouched a bit, his muscles still limber from the night’s workout.

These poor saps couldn’t have picked a worse time to mess with him.

As the car slowed a few yards away, he charged. He heard cheers from inside as the driver slammed it into park and began to get out. Rolle’s front kick snapped the door shut, pi

Rolle kicked the door once more, then spun to face his assailants. He straightened, showing them his full six-foot, three-inch frame, lifting his arms so they could see his bulk. He stepped into the tallest one’s oncoming punch, blocked him and kicked the back of his leg, pushing the attacker’s head into the concrete. A soft thud.

The last one charged him. Rolle dodged and delivered a jump side kick to the lower back. It felt like kicking the side of a house.

Enhancements. Somewhere, Rolle knew, this kid had parents who’d told him that only the strong survived, and that the world was tough and he’d have to be tougher, then paid thousands to give the kid artificial muscles and thickened skin. He’d never lack medical treatment and would rarely need it.

The driver had exited and was dragging the tall one back to the car, his left arm contorted. The last attacker turned.

“Eyesore prick!” he yelled.

Rolle’s leg ached, but he crouched down into an L-stance and raised his fists.

Light punches, he thought. Don’t break your hands.

Rolle delivered a quick backfist to the last guy’s jaw, keeping his left arm up to guard his nose. A fist slammed into his tightened stomach muscles.

Rolle clutched the assailant’s chin with his left hand, latched his right hand to the base of the skull, and spun, dropping to one knee. The big sap had no choice but to follow and land on the ground.

If life were like the mat, they’d have been done when Rolle landed his backfist. One point. Real life didn’t work like sparbars.

Instead it took two more moves exactly like the first. Give a punch, take a punch, grab him, drop him.

lurched forward while he had only one leg through the door. The car sped away. Rolle walked back to gather his stuff from the concrete, holding his injured side. Bus headlights appeared down the block.

On the ride back to his apartment, an older lady shouted to her companion about better days when buses still had TVs on them. Rolle sighed, mentally tallying his assets. Fifty dollars in checking. A flunky security job that left evenings free to spar and mornings eventless for recuperation. And that night’s wi

No matter what, he told himself, I’m not moving back in with Mom.

***

Rolle knew his mom wanted him to be a doctor even before she took him to Josh

Rendina’s house to catch chicken pox. Rolle was seven. His mom called it a “play day,” and she

drank coffee with Josh’s mom while the boys ran microcars up and down tracks made in the folds of Josh’s blanket. It had seemed odd to play with someone who wasn’t supposed to get out of bed. A few days later, Rolle came down with chicken pox himself, a fairly easy bout that left him with two tiny, white scars on his stomach and a lifelong immunity.

His mom didn’t lie about what she’d done. In fact, as she rubbed cool calamine lotion on his spot-infested shoulders, she told him how it had happened, and why it would be better to have it then rather than later. One thing about his mom, she always told the truth-at least partially.

Years later, Rolle learned that most kids received immunizations for chicken pox. Most moms took their kids to doctors who prevented diseases with syrups and injections rather than controlled contamination. He gradually realized that just because Mom wanted himto be a doctor didn’t necessarily mean she likedthem.

***

“You’re always welcome here,” said his mother.

“Just a month,” he said.

He’d stashed his bag by the door. His pride was in there somewhere.

Her house felt cramped despite its Spartan array of white, plastic furniture. Rolle eyed the living room’s carpet. The vacuum cleaner had been broken when he last visited. It still must’ve been.

“I sold your bed in the yard sale last summer,” she said.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.

The air conditioner kicked on outside. At least the house had one convenience.

“It’s OK,” she added. “We can move the futon into your old bedroom.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled.