Tucked behind a rusty chain-link fence, the small gym sat on a quiet enough street; only the sound of sirens broke through the stillness. Its faded sign barely stood out, reading “MMA Outlaws.” I slipped in through the back and headed straight into a narrow locker room cluttered with damp gym wear and oversized duffel bags. It forced me into playing a slippery game of hopscotch, skipping among the far and few spaces free of junk. I wasn’t a neat freak, but the mess pissed me off. With my luck, I’d break my fucking neck.

  dumbkids

  Who gives a damn, I thought and kicked off my boots into the same heaping pile of shit. If you can't beat 'em, join ‘em. The stench of stale sweat wafted above as I peeled off my socks and laid my bare feet onto the cool rubber flooring. I planted myself on a bench, eyes closed and head heavy in my hands, hunched over to seek a rare moment of respite. The pressure of my elbows on my knees drove my calloused feet deeper into the frigid floor. I sat there long enough for the cold to travel upwards and settle in my shins. The silence, save for the hum of the vents, brought some much-needed peace.

  It was quiet — too quiet. Something was off.

  I cupped my ear, expecting to hear the familiar boom of blows and throws ricocheting around the walls of the gym. Where were the usual button mashers? Those newbies, always blindly hitting the heavy bags with their uncoordinated random combinations, living off the high of their first kickboxing class and thinking they were killers now. Instead, their absence was replaced by the hushed pitter patter of gloves intentional in hitting their mark, creating a rhythmic sound of precision.

  Did I get the times mixed up? I swore I was coaching a class tonight.

  I pushed forward through the swinging doors; the facility opened up into a dimly lit loft. The airy space contrasted the dark Tatami mats perfectly sized to dimension. Against the back wall, a series of worn-out heavy bags dangled off knotted chains, untouched but waiting to be swung. It was a sad sight to see the wrinkled leather sag into itself with no one to play, a masochist without a sadist. They framed the ongoing sparring class nicely. Most of the students were disciplined in their exchanges, purposefully feeling each other out. No one seemed to be a novice. Maybe they had swapped the beginner class for the advanced one?

  Amidst the controlled chaos, in the eye of that storm, ego took over technique. With a minute left on the buzzer, a pair of meatheads were trying to prove a point — something — whether that was to themselves or those watching. It didn’t really matter, it was a good fuckin’ fight.

  The two were opposites in every way. Red looked thick, solid, and tight in his matching headgear and shorts as he swayed forward in a lazy southpaw stance, heavy on the lead leg. Meanwhile, Blue used his long limbs to slide in and out of range seamlessly, pawing at Red’s lead hand to gauge a sense of distance. Suddenly, Blue lunged forward, popping off a double jab, backing Red away.

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  “Keep your head off the centerline!” I yelled at Red.

  He slipped the jab to the inside before loading up for a fat left hook upstairs. It hit Blue straight on the jaw, sending a jolt of energy through his chin. He fell dead onto the shiny gym mats, head bouncing off the vinyl padding in a brutal finish. Both were slicked with blood and sweat — every inch an opportunity for bacteria to fester uninhabited.

  “Enough!” I knew that voice.

  Coach Dan was first to arrive at the murder scene, sliding down to his knees to feel for a pulse. He flipped Blue over and onto his back to observe his breathing. It was fast and shallow, coming deep from his belly. I bet Coach was shitting bricks, hoping this wouldn’t become a thing. There was no way the gym could survive a suit against a serious injury or death. Those waivers weren’t bulletproof, and the public shitstorm would be too much to handle.

  Coach grabbed Blue’s ankles and lifted his legs high, forcing gravity to drain his blood towards his damaged core. I could tell he was nervous — an injury like this had never happened before, at least not that I recalled. His piercing blue eyes, like bullets through the soul, shot glances at those gathering around. The yellow lights reflected proudly off the top of his round, shiny head. The personification of Mr. Clean.

  The tense anxiousness of the room quickly dissipated as Blue regained awareness. He came to with a stupid grin plastered over his beaten face, shaking off Coach’s grip so he could stand himself, trying to show off how he wasn’t hurt. But we all saw through his transparent act as he hobbled over, almost falling over again. After watching Blue return to his natural pallor, Coach said sternly, “You’re going straight to the doctor. You fucking got that?” Blue blankly nodded in agreement.

  “Kickboxing! Line up!” He shouted at the rest of the group. It took, at most, ten seconds for today’s mixed bag—hobbyists, amateurs, and professionals—to funnel in side-by-side. Coach looked more pissed off than usual. His face was all knotted up, teeth clenched. “You know deep in your heart who got the better of you!” He pointed his finger at them and then twice towards the ground. “You need to come here every day! This is a profession!”

  There was nothing more to say. Dismissed, the rest scattered like cockroaches, leaving me in their wake, right in Coach’s line of sight.

  “What are you doing here?” What was that tone? I guess he was angry at me too.

  “Hey man, you say come at seven, I come at seven. You need to tell me in advance if that’s changed.” I snapped back, standing my ground.

  “We’ve changed the schedule months ago.” He continued to mean mug me. “You know this. Stop bullshitting me.”

  “I’m not bullshitting you.” Give me a fuckin’ break, dude. “I don’t know what to say. I thought it was still seven.”

  “That’s not even the point! It doesn’t matter. You don’t work here anymore!” What was he talking about? Did he just fire me?

  “What the fuck did I do?”

  “Is this a new thing now? You come back once a week, pretending you still work here? How many times do we need to have this conversation?”

  I was speechless. Fired? When did that happen? I didn’t even remember it, yet the feeling of hurt still stung the same.

  “Get out of my fucking gym!” He waved his hand towards the door, swatting the last cockroach away. My body went numb as I turned away in an obedient autopilot. Deep in my gut, I felt it, the truth, wrapped in my sense of shame and his lack of patience. The feeling was both foreign and hauntingly familiar — I had lived through this moment before, but couldn’t remember when. It was déjà vu, but it was wrong, so wrong, like a piece of my life had slipped through my fingers, and I couldn’t even remember what it was.