A Dogfight
A tribute to H.L. Mencken
The boy clenched his teeth together until they creaked like old wood. His hands covered his ears and his eyes were shut tight. He sat on a hay bale, back to the plywood wall, bent over, head between knees. He was trying to create a nothingness, a void. To flood his senses with enough internal noise and chaos that he would no longer sense the noise and chaos on the other side of the wall. The vibrations were the only thing he hadn't figured out. The sounds and sights and smells were easy to erase still he could tell the shape of the fight by the the stamps of feet rattling on the plank floor and by the buzzing sensation on the wall from the shouting of the men and other boys as they rooted for one competitor or the other. He could tell when the favorite was winning, when the underdog was rallying against heavy odds. He could tell how a fight ended, whether by surrender or by the eternal extinction of the loser. Once he had seen a leg lost in a fight, torn off at a break high in the thigh and still the handler would not call surrender. Someone had thrown the leg into the crowd and it struck a drunk man on the forehead with a silent smack. That was the last fight the boy had watched. After that he sat on the other side of the wall and tried to build chaos in his head. After that he had begged his father to let him stay home with his mother and sisters, but his father said how would he become a man by spending all his time with women. His father was respected among the fighters. Nowhere else. He had never entered the fights himself but could predict winners better than most. The boy too could read the eyes and chests and ears and hips of the fighters as they sized up their opponents. Like a dog, he sensed fear. He considered these gifts curses and be never let on that he could call winners even better than his father. Even the old man was wrong one out of ten times. But his son was never wrong. Each time the two fighters were led past him to enter the room where the dirt ring was, he would say a silent goodbye to the loser. Even if he didn't die in the ring, he would likely be too mangled to fight again and would be discarded, to die in the city's slums or trash heaps, succumbing to hunger or the elements. The boy thought always of the losers. He used to bring food scraps to the outskirts of the city for them. His father found out and beat him. Your heart is too weak his father had said. Why should my family suffer and starve because of your weak heart his father had said. He feared the beatings and tried to harden his heart, but he still thought of them.
The boy clenched his teeth together until they creaked like old wood. His hands covered his ears and his eyes were shut tight. He sat on a hay bale, back to the plywood wall, bent over, head between knees. He was trying to create a nothingness, a void. To flood his senses with enough internal noise and chaos that he would no longer sense the noise and chaos on the other side of the wall. The vibrations were the only thing he hadn't figured out. The sounds and sights and smells were easy to erase still he could tell the shape of the fight by the the stamps of feet rattling on the plank floor and by the buzzing sensation on the wall from the shouting of the men and other boys as they rooted for one competitor or the other. He could tell when the favorite was winning, when the underdog was rallying against heavy odds. He could tell how a fight ended, whether by surrender or by the eternal extinction of the loser. Once he had seen a leg lost in a fight, torn off at a break high in the thigh and still the handler would not call surrender. Someone had thrown the leg into the crowd and it struck a drunk man on the forehead with a silent smack. That was the last fight the boy had watched. After that he sat on the other side of the wall and tried to build chaos in his head. After that he had begged his father to let him stay home with his mother and sisters, but his father said how would he become a man by spending all his time with women. His father was respected among the fighters. Nowhere else. He had never entered the fights himself but could predict winners better than most. The boy too could read the eyes and chests and ears and hips of the fighters as they sized up their opponents. Like a dog, he sensed fear. He considered these gifts curses and be never let on that he could call winners even better than his father. Even the old man was wrong one out of ten times. But his son was never wrong. Each time the two fighters were led past him to enter the room where the dirt ring was, he would say a silent goodbye to the loser. Even if he didn't die in the ring, he would likely be too mangled to fight again and would be discarded, to die in the city's slums or trash heaps, succumbing to hunger or the elements. The boy thought always of the losers. He used to bring food scraps to the outskirts of the city for them. His father found out and beat him. Your heart is too weak his father had said. Why should my family suffer and starve because of your weak heart his father had said. He feared the beatings and tried to harden his heart, but he still thought of them.
Carlos. Carlos. Carlos. Louder each time, finally cutting through to his senses, the chaos sucked away violently like a pressure change. He came to awareness with a shock and couldn't breathe. Then he began coughing violently. His father stood over him and waited. Come watch the fight he said. More coughing. His father spat and kicked dirt at him. The boy looked up but did not speak. His father spat again and pulled the boy's left hand from where it was pressed against his ear. He leaned in and spoke with excitement. He was a monster, a grotesquety, his hair greasy, his face sweaty, red, and pock-marked, and his breath stinking of abrajo. This one is a champion, he said. I've never seen one like this he said. The boy lowered his head and shut his eyes tight. His father was right. He had seen the dogs pass and knew the winner. Knew that he was more than today's winner, but the winner of many fights to come. He admired this dog, the one who had no fear in his heart. Every time the dogs passed he compared himself to them. He compared the qualities in his own heart to the qualities in their eyes. Some dogs had sad eyes, some had wary eyes, some angry, some hurt, some naive, some hard, some he knew would soon be shut forever. He always looked into their eyes and they into his. The losers, the dogs who faced their end would tell him so. The dogs knew. Today the one his father spoke of, the champion, had looked into his eyes and he had seen something new, something different than before. He had seen his own reflection. Not just a quality, but a dog that shared his own soul. He didn't budge. His father spat again and cursed. The boy looked up and saw his lips move but couldn't see what he was saying. Finally the man turned and headed back to the ring as the crowd became agitated. Carlos wanted to run, but instead he pressed his back against the wall and felt the vibrations. Feet stamping, bottles breaking, men shouting, then the buzz of the brass bell ringing and the voices rising and becoming denser. The snarls of the dogs and their nails scraping the wood floor below the sawdust. The thud of the dogs' barrel chests and hips striking the wooden wall of the ring, a muffled yelp, the gnashing of teeth, the growls boiling from jaws clenched tight around throat and nape. Vise grips unreleasing and leaving flaps of flesh torn and dripping, exposing muscle and bone. He could feel one dog losing footing, losing ground, tiring. The vibration of the eyeballs rolling back, the breath changing, the release of will, the cessation of struggle, the surrender of life. The men shouted triumph or defeat according to their wagers but the boy could no longer feel that. He now felt only the dogs. The panting of the victor, the void of the loser. He felt as though his soul had been rent. A few minutes passed and the winning dog was led past his bale to the cages behind the carraja. It wasn't necessary to look up. He knew which dog had won. The dead dog would be dragged out the side door, his body unclaimed by its owner. Carlos waited for the next fight to begin and then followed the path of footprints, beast and beast, to the cages out back. He wept soundlessly and removed the latch from the dog's cage. The dog lowered his head, flattened his ears, and growled deep in his throat as he slunk past and trotted his way across the street and disappeared into the town. The boy swiped at the wetness on his face with the dirty backs of his hands, lowered his head, flattened his ears and slunk back inside. Past the hay bale, through the dim hallway, over the lintel, into the arena. He kept along the wall behind the drunks and slid under the bleachers, finding a gap in the crowd and watching silently as the next pair of dogs did as they were trained.
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