by Manuel Gonzales

It was Tuesday. Dawson was dead and had been for two days. Chango was gone, alone and lost and tired. We were at the funeral listening to the voice of God. It had been raining since Saturday.

By that time, Chango had collected at least a dozen scars, on his arms and legs and chest. That one under his chin from the time he fell off the horse (Chango never was any good with horses). That scar along his arm when one of Mariposa's girls cut him with a kitchen knife as she caught him sneaking into her bedroom (he was even worse with women). The flower of scars on his back from falling into a trash can of burning leaves. On the bridge of his nose, a faint scar from when he fell off the roof playing hide and seek. Pin-holes in his ass from when they were in school and Dawson threw him, pushed him into a bed of prickly pear cactus. Bullet holes in his chest, pieces of glass lodged in the back of his head, a sliver of wood (close enough to the skin you can feel it, move it around) buried in his shin. A broken nose, swollen cheeks, black eyes, chipped teeth. Chango threw himself into every mess this side of Orangefire County. Fights and falls, women and brawls. Gambling, smoking, drinking, fighting. He lost every game and cigarettes made him sick, he couldn't get drunk, but the boy could fight. Size of a mountain, he could float. Feet so light, legs so quick you couldn't see him move.

He started early, fights with kids after school, before school, during school. When Father caught wind of Chango's fighting, he took him over to Duke's place. Chango was eleven. He already weighed in over two hundred pounds. His hands were the size of your head, and his head was the size of a basketball and set wide in a grin. He stood tall and had Mother's eyes. Wild eyes.

Duke was an old man. Duke was a big man. He was bald and his eyes were gray and his neck folded at the at the back of his head. He liked to play the clarinet, like his father. His family was from New Orleans, but he grew up in Acadia. Dropped out of school, lied about his age, joined the Navy, and learned how to box. Golden Gloves. He came home and boxed around Texas. His manager billed him as "The Black Duke." Sixteen knockouts, undefeated, and then he quit. He took the money he made and built himself a small house, an open kitchen, a preactivce room, a workout room, a music room. He taught eastside kids how to box.

Father stood Chango in front of Duke and asked, "Can you teach him?"

They tried a little footwork outside. Chango tripped in the dirt, tripped over rocks, swung his arms too hard. He couldn't keep up with Duke -- liquid body, constant motion. Duke never stopped, and he never tired. You could barely hear him breathe, and he hit with his body, from the waist, strong upper-cuts and quick jabs.

"He's too big. He's too clumsy. His feet are too fast, his body too slow and his arms are sluggish. He's got no balance when he fights."

But inside, against the bag...Chango hit like a horse. The bag bounced against the chain which held it to the ceiling and small bits of dust showered Chango's head, colored his hair white. He left the body bag dented and ripped under his punches.

Duke would let him hit at the bag for half an hour a week. The rest of the time they spent on footwork:

Keep your body low.
Keep your legs moving.
Bounce on your toes.
Head up.
Look at who you're fighting.
Never stop moving.
Again. Try it again.

Chango would bounce and weave and duck, his movements peppered with jabs and hooks and cuts. Combinations of left right left, right left left right. But still, he tripped, couldn't stay balanced. His hands were soft and quick. He could climb anything, catch squirrels as they scrambled up trees, sneak in and out of the house like a mouse. But put him in the ring, he'd prance around, a swing and a miss, and he'd be flat on his back. Duke tied Chango's feet together with strong, worn rope and made him dance. His feet were light, always had been, but his body was bulky, over-sized and under-balanced. He had no center. He tripped over the rope and fell on his back and on his knees and on his hands, and Duke tied the rope tighter. After a month of falling, Chango stopped showing. He quit boxing and took up pool. Quarter games after school.

And then there was Dawson. Small and lean and weak and pale. His father, the Sheriff, wanted him to learn to fight. To stand up for himself, to grow bigger, stronger, faster. Sheriffs were large men, strong men, willing-to-fight men, fight-for-the-right men, and the Sheriff's son wasn't going to be any different. Whereas Chango was big and hit hard, but an easy target, stumbling and clumsy, Dawson's punches were feathers, Mother's soft kisses. Punching the bag made his knuckles sore and red. But you couldn't hit him. Couldn't follow him. A thin stick running around the ring, spinning and jumping. His feet blurred and skipped.

They were best friends, had been for years. Would be for years to come. Fierce friends, fierce competitors. Who could climb the tallest tree? Who could run the fastest? Who could swim the furthest? Who could shoot the best? Chango saw Dawson boxing. He saw him dance around the ring, dance circles around Duke. Saw his light, weightless, harmless punches. Saw him practicing at home, at school, at night with his father watching from the porch. Enough was enough. Two months after he quit, Chango tied his feet together at the ankles and shuffled around the house, all day, all night, his feet sliding and stepping, ginger feet, soft feet, slow feet. A step, and then another and another, and then a crash. Broken glass, broken furniture, broken dishes. Father cut the rope and sent him back to Duke's. Duke saw Chango and smiled.

"Get in the ring. See what you can do against Dawson."

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No punch landed. Chango didn't even come close. Dawson flew past him, hit him seven, eight times in a row. Chango didn't notice. His eyes followed Dawson, his body moved slowly, his legs moved barely at all. He bounced on his feet, back and forth. Side-step, slide slide, side-step, and more bouncing. Watching, waiting. He never touched Dawson, though he tried countless times, but more important, he never fell. Duke knew that Dawson and Chango in the ring was dangerous. Chango was too big, Dawson too small. Chango's punches too hard, Dawson's too light.

"Next time, Chango, you and me."

The next time in the ring, Chango's feet were lighter, his body smooth, and he landed two solid punches, one to Duke's kidney and another to his face, breaking Duke's nose. Sixteen knockouts, undefeated, and never once a broken nose. Duke laughed about it for a week. Dawson and Chango sparred together twice a day, every day after school. They ran together in the mornings and they swam together at night. Slowly, Dawson got stronger. He put on weight and his muscles filled out, his body tight and powerful, a spring. Chango gained control, over his legs and feet, his chest and arms. After a year, Chango could float across the ring, his punches precise and powerful, his body balanced. But he never once touched Dawson. Over a hundred fights, Chango and Dawson together in the ring, sweat falling off their foreheads in rivers, Chango bruised, but only a little. Dawson light and white, flitting from corner to corner, rope to rope, and not once did Chango's fist find Dawson's face. Once, though, Chango caught Dawson in the ribs, broke three, and Dawson couldn't fight for a month.

Three years, Chango and Dawson found their home at Duke's place. Where they ate, where they slept, where they hid when one (Chango) dragged the other (Dawson) into a mess. After school, they took their bags to Duke's place, sparred for an hour, and then Duke watched them as they each worked through their books. Chango lost his virginity at Duke's place, on a folded cot in the middle of the ring, the smell of sweat and blood in their noses. By then, though, he'd stopped boxing, stopped sparring with Dawson. He had begun working in the fields, working at the house, working to help the family. No more school, no more books, no more fights. He couldn't afford the fighting. He was too proud, too embarrassed. But sometimes he would sneak off to Duke's place and stand in the far corner and watch kids jump rope and dodge their shadows. There, he would relax and breathe deep the smell of boxers. A sour smell, a dark smell, his smell.

And that's where we found him, where we last saw him. Tuesday night, after the memorial, after the church service, after Dawson's body was lowered into the ground. Chango sitting among empty bottles, broken bottles, burnt out cigarettes. His head in his hands, red, bloody hands, the body bag knocked off its chain, lying in the middle of the room, its stuffing spilled to the floor. He looked up once, and his body shuddered, and then he disappeared.