Excerpt
People sometimes said of Nick McDuff that he didn’t have
enough mean. They said a boxer needs mean just as an engine
requires oil or a jukebox nickels. But these were the observations of
those who didn’t really know Nick, folks who’d likely never thrown
a punch, or, as recipients, remained upright afterwards.
It mustn’t be assumed he didn’t hear what people said of him —
Nick did, I’m sure. But to silence his detractors in the manner in
which he was capable was not his way.
We’d lost contact after both of us left school prematurely. Nick had
been expelled for indifference, I for truancy. We were reunited one
frigid morning at the Labour Exchange, a hiring hall for day labourers.
– You’re still an ugly bastard, I said.
His hand swallowed mine.
– Lippy prick.
He’d been sitting at the end of the bench whittling a bar of soap,
the pile of flakes like a falling of dandruff between his size 12 boots. It
was something Nick did whenever he found himself idle— in class,
aboard a city bus, at stool. I remember a butter knife like a sixth finger
in those massive paws and the miniatures he fashioned from
soap, wood and ice. Summers he competed in sandcastle competitions.
– That a mermaid?
– Uh-huh.
– They have bigger titties.
The dispatcher at the hiring hall called out the names of those
selected for work that day. Ours were not included.
