CEE CEE

Blue Nun. Nun on the kitchen counter. Nun on the floor empty. Nun in the fridge under the heavy plastic bags of head-on shrimp. Nun flash cooling in the freezer set above leftover Baskin Robbins turtle pie. Blue Nun--that and Heineken: the beer that tastes like wet dog and wine sold on sister's promise. From God's hand to your lips: Blue Nun. Didn't ease the sting of having their asses handed to them in spades. Lionel switched gears. Suggested hearts. He lit another cigar. Condo's ground floor swam in smoke. Everytime an ad for The Shining came on I turned the TV off. Watched the picture dissolve and the light set in a white orb and then fade slowly away. Image of Jack Nicholson swinging axe into a big white door and then burying his unshaven face in it and spitting HERE'S JOHNNY. I kept the TV off. Lionel kept getting up. He kept checking the radio. He kept bitching about the Leonard fight.

How in the goddamn hell is this fight not on goddamn tee vee, he said. He gesticulated so much he looked like a bobble head doll. Stew are they sayin anything about the goddamn fight on the tee vee. He steeped down into the den. You got the tee vee off. OK. Well great. Ladies how about a game of hearts? I can't beleive this fuh-king fight isn't on.

Later that night they called it on the radio. Leonard got beat. It was close. But he got beat. Something like three rounds to two and then points put him down. Don't know how they heard it over the yelling and the laughter and the Blue Nun and Heineken. Lionel gasped. Audibly gasped. No fuh-king way, he said.

I'd never heard someone say fuck as much as him. Or quite like him. It sounded the way it should sound. Powerful. Dirty. Punctuation to action unbeleived. Born in D.C. Schooled in Alabama and fitted with a drawl like a queen hairdresser two feet in a bottle of Turkey on a Tuesday morning. No fuh-king way, he said. He called the radio station. No fuh-king way, he said. He poured a double J&B and then had another. How in the goddamn hell could that nigger have lost to Roberto fuh-king Durr-and? No fuh-king way.

He woke me at dawn. Cracked the door. Peered in. Here's Johnnnnneeee, he said. He and dad and I drove to Fort Walton to some dive breakfast place he knew. For $1.99 you got two hotcakes, two eggs any way, two pieces of sausage or bacon, toast, coffee or juice. We got three specials. All the paper boxes were empty. Everyone in the place reading the sports section. When the table next to us finished, Lionel asked to see the sports sec. He shook it open. No fuh-king way, he said. Dad laughed. Lionel shook while he drank his coffee. Waitress came by. Is everything alright? she said. Honey, do you know who Roberto Durr-and is? Lionel said. Who? she said. See, Lionel said. Who? Who the fuck is Roberto Durr-and? She laughed. I don't know, sugar, you asked me.

Guy next to our table leaned in and asked Lionel if he could keep it clean. He pointed at his kids, no older than me. Sure buddy, sorry about that, he said. You believe this shit, he said, slapping the paper, this fuh-kin beanhead beat our nigger down in Canada last night. The guy got up looked at his kids and said let's go. He put money on the table and looked back at us like we were orangutans eating each other's shit. Waitress came back by. Honey, will you get me a glass of water. She knodded. So here's the goddamn deal, he said. Durr-and got three rounds to Leonard's two. And the other ten are goddamn even. Waitress set the water down. He thanked her and pulled Alka Seltzer from his pocket. Just like the commercial.

He read. He laughed. Listen to this motherfucker, he said. He says when asked if Leonard's the best he's ever fought, cee cee. He does have a heart. That's why he's living. Lionel guffawed. He slapped the table. The plates hopped, rattled. Coffee spilled. He does have a heart. What the fuck does that mean? Goddamn. He folded the sports section in two and slapped his hand with it. No fuh-king way. Ro-ber-do Durr-and, he said. Motherfucker. He looked around. We listened to the people talking. Dishes clattering. Smell the bacon and sausage, the coffee, the butter, the Coppertone, the booze reeking from thirty-somethings all wearing collar upturned Lacoste, mirrored Ray Bans, Weejuns.