Eureka Man: A Novel (6 page)

“That's all there is to it,” said the
tutor.

After he noted Joe Frazier's other name was
Champ, Oliver said, “'Scuse me,” and he said it like he was
apologizing. “I don't mean to butt in, but if you're going to learn
algebra, you don't want to start off on the wrong foot. It gets
harder as you go along. You've got to know the right way to solve
for any unknown. That last step he gave you was wrong, big
man.”

“What are you talking about? Four times three
is twelve, dummy,” said Champ.

“Right. But it's the way you got to the three
that's going to screw you up later.”

“Show me, white boy.”

Oliver hesitated until the tutor waved the
piece of chalk in the air. “Yeah, show us please,” he said. “I just
started tutoring and math's not my forte.”

Oliver walked to the board and took the piece
of chalk. “Okay. Four x equals twelve, you're good up to there.
Four x means four times x, right? Now we want to get rid of the
four so we have to do the opposite of the sign. Always do the
opposite of the sign. The opposite of multiplication is division.
Divide four by four and that gets rid of the four, leaving only x.
What you do to one side of the equation you have to do to the other
side too, right? Twelve divided by four equals three. So x=3.”

“Damn! You know your shit, white boy. I got
that! You going to be my new math tutor. You work up here?”

“Not yet. I'm hoping to get hired as a
janitor.”

“A janitor? You don't want to be no janitor.
Tell that man you want to be a tutor.”

“Okay, I will.”

There were no tutor positions available but
he got the janitor's job and met the head janitor Melvin who wore a
baby Afro, had one eye and used the word Jim in almost every
sentence. Oliver liked Melvin from the start. His attitude and the
hitch in his giddy-up reminded Oliver of his old reform school
friend, Philly Dog.

“Ever done any janitorial work before,
Jim?”

“Yeah. And I once took a class on maintaining
tile, terrazzo and wood floors.”

“That's real funny, Jim.”

Oliver was serious.

“All right. Check this out. I clean the
classrooms and offices. You got the stairwell and the main corridor
and hall, and the rest rooms. You set your own hours and you can
come and go as you please. Just make sure your areas are good and
clean every morning.” He grabbed a pack of Pall Malls that were
pushing out of his shirt pocket and lit one. “You smoke, Jim?”

“No, thanks. I'm getting ready to go into
training.”

Melvin stared at Oliver as if this was
another joke, and then he went on. “Now dig this. There's all kinds
of advantages to working up here. You can hang out all day, come up
at night and find an empty room, write letters or listen to your
radio, and there's always some fine-looking bitches walking around
up here from the university, too. But dig this. There can be
disadvantages, too, if you step on my toes. Don't make no wine up
here. It brings too much heat. And stay away from Gloria. She's the
secretary. If you stash a shank or any drugs around here, make sure
the shit's in a good spot so the search boys don't find them. We
don't need no heat up here, Jim. You got any questions?”

“I can't think of any right now, Melvin, but
I'm sure I might once I get started.”

“Dig. Just holler when you need to know
something, Jim. Now I'm out of here.”

THE SAME DAY Oliver started his life as a janitor in
the halls of higher learning, he walked into the Young Guns Boxing
Gym, a whitewashed clapboard building that leaned fifty feet in
front of the Home Block, and told the civilian trainer he wanted to
join the team. Moose Godfrey scratched his beard and chewed on a
raggedy cigar while he studied Oliver up and down, apparently
looking for a sign that he was just kidding around or on
medication, or both.

“You do? A clean-cut kid like you? You ever
been in a fight before?”

“Yeah. Lots of them.”

“You don't look like you have. Can you
fight?”

“I'm pretty good.”

“Oh yeah? Well, white boys don't usually last
long in my gym, but you're welcome to stay and work out with the
team and we'll go from there. What's your name?”

“Priddy. Oliver Priddy.”

“Wait here, Priddy.”

Oliver looked the place over while he waited.
A ring in the center of the room and an office and shower room in
the back were all there was to it. The fractured walls were stained
with blood, sweat and nicotine. One old hurricane fan leaning in
the corner rattled in rhythm with the jump ropers. The room was as
hot as the inside of a Pittsburgh steel mill.

Two boxers were stepping into the ring to
spar when the head trainer shuffled out of the office with another
old man in tow. “This here's Mr. Palmer,” Moose Godfrey said,
snatching the red-plaid porkpie hat off his large wooly head.
“He'll be your trainer. What'd you say your name was?”

“Oliver Priddy. P-r-i-d-d-y.”

“He's all yours, Luther.”

The old trainer led Oliver to the side of the
gym and got him ready to work out on the heavy bag. When his turn
came he threw jabs, right crosses and hooks nonstop up and down the
bag for five minutes. Luther told him that was enough for the first
day; he had seen what he wanted to see and told Oliver he had
natural punching ability. They moved to the speed bag and after
Luther demonstrated the proper technique, it only took Oliver a few
minutes to get his timing down and a steady rhythm going. When he
finished jumping rope, Luther told him to go to the mat in the
corner and do two hundred and fifty sit-ups and that would be all
for his first day. “I almost forgot,” said Luther, wiping the sweat
from his coal black face. “Make sure you're on the yard no later
than seven o'clock tomorrow morning to start your road work.”

“I'll be there. Sure enough. Thanks a lot,
Mr. Luther.”

For six weeks Oliver ran around the yard five
mornings a week with the rest of the boxing team. He started out
running a mile, the second week two miles, then three, until he
could easily run five miles in forty-five minutes. Every afternoon
he left his job in the school to go to the gym and work out. The
training was agonizing, but he savored every minute of every drill
and exercise Luther put him through. He loved, too, the attention
and respect he was earning from the other boxers. Every one of them
encouraged him and gave him pointers. On the day of his first
sparring session, he was feeling ten feet tall when the prisoner he
had shown how to do algebra came up to him and said, “You're
sparring with my homeboy Disco Bob today. You ever sparred before,
white boy?”

“Well, not in the ring.”

“Keep your hands up and jab. Don't stand in
the middle of the ring and let that niggah tee off on you. You'll
be all right.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot, Champ.”

Oliver chewed nervously on his mouthpiece
while Luther pulled the sixteen-ounce gloves over his hands, tied
them and taped the laces. Then Luther adjusted his head gear and
tightened the strap under his chin. “You ready, Priddy?” Oliver
nodded.

He stepped between the ropes and looked
around like a cat in a dog pound. The onlookers were staring at
him, pointing and talking under their breath. When he saw the same
prisoner who had been following him everywhere he went since he
left the Home Block walk through the front door, Oliver's stomach
churned and he thought he was going to throw up.

Luther admonished him to keep his hands up
and stay loose. “Are you listening, boy?”

Oliver nodded and smiled nervously. Disco Bob
stepped into the ring, then leaned back and forth against the ropes
to test their slack before he danced around the ring one time. When
he stopped at his corner, Champ stood behind him, whispering in his
ear.

Moose yelled, “Time!”

The two boxers met in the center of the ring
and smacked gloves. Oliver moved to the right, flicking his jab to
find his range. Disco Bob moved forward, leaned to the side and
shot a quick jab into Oliver's stomach. Oliver countered with two
jabs of his own; the first one landed but Bob weaved under the
second one. Oliver landed another stiff jab and Disco Bob countered
with a solid left-right combination to Oliver's head. He stepped
back and adjusted his headgear and as Disco Bob came forward,
feigning a jab, bobbing and weaving, Oliver threw a straight right
cross that landed on the button of Disco Bob's chin. He followed it
up with a left hook to the head that landed and then Bob leaned on
Oliver and tied him up. Moose told them to break and Disco Bob
nodded to Oliver, acknowledging the power in his punches.

“Time!”

On the way back to his corner Oliver looked
outside the ring and stared right into the eyes of Winfield “Fat
Daddy” Petaway. “Look at me!” Luther said as Oliver slumped down on
the stool. “Are you all right?”

“Hell, yeah, Luther! I feel good.”

“Keep your damn hands up and throw more
punches. You're waiting on him. You're not a counterpuncher. When
you see the motherfucker coming in, set up and get your
combinations off before he does.”

“Okay. Did you see that, Luther? I got him
good twice.”

“I saw it. Rinse your mouth out. You
tired?”

“Just a little.”

“Time!”

As soon as they touched gloves again, Disco
Bob threw a right hand that landed with a thump in the middle of
Oliver's chest. Oliver blocked the next punch, a left hook to the
body, but he wasn't quick enough to block the second hook that
landed square on his right temple. Oliver fell back against the
rope and covered up in a shell the way he had seen other boxers do
a thousand times. Between the stars he saw each time he blinked, he
could see the faces of the ringside hecklers who were shouting
instructions and throwing punches of their own.

“Knock him out, Bob! Knock that cracker out!
I'll take him from there!”

Disco Bob let Oliver off the ropes and the
two fighters moved to the center of the ring, circled one another
and calculated. Bob did the Ali shuffle and faked like he was going
to move in. Oliver went for the fake, lunged and missed wildly with
his right. For the rest of the round, Bob danced and jabbed and
kept his distance.

In the third and final round Oliver connected
with two jackhammer jabs that snapped Disco Bob's head back. Dead
tired, he dropped his hands to his side and asked Bob if he was all
right. Bob shook his head from side to side, stared wide eyed and
moved forward, hitting Oliver with a three punch combination that
knocked him senseless. This time when he tried to cover up, Disco
Bob applied the pressure, throwing a flurry of precision punches
that landed. When it was obvious that Oliver was out on his feet,
Moose shouted, “Time!”

Oliver sat on the bench against the wall and
stared at the dirty floor as Luther waved smelling salts back and
forth under his nose. “You did real good for your first time,
Priddy. Lift your head up. You all right? Where are you? What's my
name?”

“Come on, Luther. I'm okay.” Oliver saw
others coming toward him.

“That's a hell of a jab you got,” Disco Bob
said, tapping Oliver on the shoulder.

“You're gonna be all right, white boy,” said
another boxer named Shotgun.

“You got a lot of heart, young buck,” a
welterweight named Sweet Tooth said.

“A lot of motherfuckers didn't think you were
going to show up today,” said Luther. He draped a towel over
Oliver's head. “I'm proud of you, Priddy. Now go get yourself a hot
shower.”

After Luther walked away, Oliver sat there
wondering where the fear had gone. From the instant he had touched
gloves with Disco Bob, his fear laid down as though a cage had
dropped over it. From there his concentration had been like a
seasoned musician playing sixteenth notes at a fast tempo. Intense
and effortless. Without thinking about it, he had known what
punches to throw and when to throw them. It was a beautiful
experience and he was exhilarated. Now he knew what he would tell
Early Greer the next time Early asked why he wanted to take up
boxing. He would tell him it was the zone, the same zone his
brother Skip had once told a sports reporter about when the
reporter had asked Skip what he was thinking each time he stepped
to the plate and hit the nastiest curve balls for doubles and
triples. He would tell Early about it and as sagacious as Early
was, he would understand, but he would still frown the way he had
weeks ago when Oliver told him he had joined the team. “Well
dammit, be careful, Oliver,” he had said. “There's a lot of rotten
guys over there. Whatever you do, stay out of that shower room.
Just don't go in there.” He never said why; he didn't have to.
Oliver knew.

What he knew was now staring back at him
through the ropes on the far side of the ring. Oliver ignored him
for now, but kept him in his peripheral vision. He waited until the
crowd thinned out before he hooked his long fingers through the
handles of his gym bag. Then he slung the bag over his shoulder and
headed for the door. He took three steps before he turned sideways
and stopped. “You following me, man?” He stared at Fat Daddy with
unflinching eyes.

Fat Daddy's smile revealed crooked white
teeth. “We going the same way,” Fat Daddy said. “I've been meaning
to holler at you since we had that little run-in last summer.”

Oliver looked up into the clear blue sky and
watched a platoon of blackbirds light on the barbed wire over the
chapel fence. The afternoon breeze felt cool against his skin as it
dried his sweat. He was still feeling exhilarated from his sparring
session and the last thing he wanted was a confrontation. “That's
over and done with as far as I'm concerned,” Oliver said. “So what
do you want to talk about?”

“I 'preciate that, letting bygones be
bygones. You may not know it, but we have a lot in common, you and
me. I'm a lifer too, and I used to box until I tore my shoulder up.
I held the welterweight title for two years.” His legs were shorter
than Oliver's and he had to walk fast to keep up. “I saw something
when you were sparring today. Something that could take you a long
way in the game.”