Identity

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A light bulb hung by a string. The light flickered and casted shadows on his face as it swung overhead. The storeroom of the pub's basement was a mixture of dirty concrete and peeling paint. Hard rock thumped from above, muffled and fed by thin walls and money junkies. A digital radio sat on a shelf to his right, plugged into the wall. It was just after midnight.

Billy studied himself in the mirror. Every few seconds, the walls shook from the music, causing the image of his face to distort. It seemed that every sound wave generated by the mob made the walls vibrate.

A wooden chair rested square against the wall; his bag lay open on its surface. The chair wobbled as he removed his boots from the bag and threw them on the floor. He looked over his possessions and remembered why he did it. He needed the money, and for him, it was just recreation. People gambled all the time, and there were tons of things worse than betting on cage fights. So long as he didn't draw attention from Baltimore PD, he was good.

His tank top was spackled red and brown, and he threw his tank top on the keg next to the sink. The top of the keg was covered by a circular plank of wood and served as a table instead of a booze container. He would throw the shirt away; washing a bloodied and ripped undershirt wasn't worth the effort. He could buy new shirts, but he'd have to stretch his winnings—despite the crowd, the grand he'd been promised didn't seem likely.

The idea of buying new clothes made him feel good, not so much the act of buying as the ability to buy, as though the reality itself justified everything he'd just put himself through. At least he knew he still had it in him to kick an ass or two.

Billy leaned forward, hands on either edge of the sink. He turned his head side to side. Blood ran down the left side of his face along his eye, solidifying as it started to dry and crust. The skin was tender and swollen. Fighter number ten apparently forgot to take his ring off.

Yeah, right.

His jaw throbbed, his neck was tight. It would get worse by tomorrow. Just like lifting weights after a long hiatus: inevitable soreness the morning after. Running the cold tap on the faucet, Billy reached down and filled his hands with water. He closed his eyes and splashed some against his face. His skin screamed as all the little cuts burned and tingled. He brought one more splash to his mouth and held it there. He drank it down and turned off the faucet.

He opened his eyes and let his gaze linger on the plugged drain. The water in the basin had taken on a dirty red tint. He stared into the ceramic and thought back to the fights. Small waves of water crashed over one another, and he relived each punch. Ten different fights—one for each finger, one for each year.

Billy turned to grab the dirty towel he'd been using. He winced at the soreness in his midsection. The pain made him think back to basic training—all the conditioning he'd had to do, the endlessly inventive exercises. He missed the camaraderie, the support and competition that felt like what a family probably was. Fighting was good for the spirit, but it wasn't the same.

He ran his fingers along his jaw. He opened his mouth and stretched out the muscles in his face. He'd taken a nasty desperation punch square in the jaw about half an hour ago. Number seven moved way too fast for a man his weight. When a guy took a hit without stumbling, it was usually a red flag. Billy wondered how common drug use was in the local fighting circuit.

There was the taste of blood in his mouth. He touched the inside of his cheek and saw red when he removed his fingers. Unplugging the drain, he spat into the dropping water level. A bit of saliva and blood hung from his lip, and he spat again. The glob of red mixed with the water, creating its own slipstream as it spiraled toward the drain. Billy watched it stretch and swirl, soon to be forgotten with everything else down there. He wondered if he was headed down a similar path, on the road to being forgotten and erased completely.

The brown sink was empty, and Billy scratched the back of his head. Maybe he was destined to roam the earth, squeezing as much out of a meaningless life as he possibly could. He looked at himself in the mirror.

Cry me a goddamn river.

Maybe he didn't need to live in the shadows anymore. Ten years was a long time.

Easy, bub.

He looked into the mirror. He shook his head and smiled a smile of pity. It was no wonder he jumped at the chance of a fight.

"Hey."

Billy shifted to his left. In the mirror, Fred stood in the doorway.

Fred's eyes were dark and beady, and the rest of his face was squished together like a bulldog's. He wore brown leather shoes and his suit was a thick grey. His jacket was open and his gut protruded against a shirt that would've fit Billy just fine. If someone ever decided to push Fred down a hill, he probably would've rolled like a ball.

"Hey," Billy said. He turned around and stood up tall.

Whoever Fred was, whatever he did for a living, it didn't matter; tonight, he was the money man. He held a white envelope, unsealed.

Billy looked at the envelope, but forced himself to maintain eye contact.

Fred stared at Billy's right arm for a second. "Quite a show you put on tonight." His voice was greasy with approval.

"I do what I can," Billy said. He grabbed a white t-shirt from his bag and threw it on. The thick cotton was tight against his stiff muscles. He crossed his arms and the taste of blood in his mouth was strong.

"When I saw you downtown I knew there was something about you," he said. "Where are you from anyways?"

"All over," Billy said. Even though he never got there, he thought of Fort Leavenworth. "Kansas for a while."

"Just passing through?" Fred put his hand in his pocket.

"That's right."

"Anywhere special?"

"Don't know yet."

"Big traveler," he said. "My brother used to travel a lot. He was in the navy, about twenty years back. He passed away, God rest him."

"Sorry to hear it," Billy said. "I'm going to get moving pretty soon."

"I understand. I won't keep you."

Fred stepped forward and extended his hand. Billy nodded and took the envelope. He placed the prize in his bag and closed the flap.

"Thanks," he said.

"Can I count on you to be back here someday?" Fred asked.

Billy leaned against the wall and rubbed his jaw. "Probably not."

"Sure a lot of people would love to see you in action again."

"Maybe," Billy said. Money was a language everybody spoke. If you didn't have any, no one spoke to you. "We'll see."

Fred hummed. He put his hands in his pockets as he studied his mystery fighter.

Billy was a statue on the wall.

"Well, see you around, guy."

Billy watched him leave. He listened as Fred's footsteps died off the farther he walked. The taste of blood was still fresh in his mouth, and he needed to spend a bit more time cleaning up before he headed out. Removing his bag from the chair, he placed it on the floor at his feet and sat down. Upstairs, the music grew louder. He heard heavy footsteps again.

"Hey, one other thing."

Billy looked up and saw Fred back in the doorway. "I already gave you my answer," he said.

"No, not that," Fred said. He put his hands up as if pleading a case. "I just wanted to tell you to be careful leaving tonight. Watch out for yourself."

"Not sure I follow."

Fred looked down at the floor, then back at Billy. "Some of the other guys you beat ain't too happy with the outcome. They think you're some kind of ringer, like a pool shark or something."

Billy held back a smile. Some people just didn't know how to lose. The short promoter seemed genuine with his warning, but in the event Billy ever came back to cage, Fred was protecting his investment, plain and simple.

"I beat them once," he said. "I think I'll be all right."

Fred frowned. "Whatever," he said. "Just thought you'd want to know." He waved and walked away. "Enjoy the jackpot."

Billy watched Fred leave for the second time. Upstairs, the music was still going, but the crowd seemed to have died down. It was Friday, so at the very least, he was probably looking at a 1:30 or 2 a.m. curfew. Illegal as a place of business was, it still had to obey some laws.

He rifled through his bag until he found his wristwatch. Half past midnight. He needed to see about making his way into Washington. BWI wasn't too far away. Union Station in Northeast D.C. was one stop after that.

Billy reached for a pair of socks and his hand brushed against the white envelope. He opened the main pouch of his bag and grabbed it. No matter how many times he told himself he didn't care, reaping the fruits of your labor was always nice. He opened the envelope's lid and Kid at Christmas echoed in his ears.

A stack of new and tattered bills greeted him on the inside. He flipped through and saw hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens, fives, and singles. The first ten were hundreds, and there were still more. He closed his eyes and saw the crowd around the cage, cheering and waving money as collectors came around with tickets, papers, and pens. The smell of smoke and beer filled his nostrils.

Jackpot indeed.

He stopped counting and stuffed the bills back into the envelope. He placed the money in the bag and thought of how easy the next few months would be.

Let's do this.

Billy put on his socks and boots and stood up. He grabbed his bloodied tank top and tossed it in the trash. He removed his black duster coat from the hook on the door and threw it on. Walking back to the sink, he doused his hands in some water and mussed it through his hair. He splashed some more on his face and did his best and clean himself off. He zipped up his bag and slung the strap across his shoulder.

Before he turned to leave, he was stopped in front of the mirror. He wasn't sure why this payday felt different. He knew the cycle: earn money, spend money, earn money again.

Wipe that damn smile off your face.

His grin widened. Something felt different, like things were finally changing. The pessimist in him wanted to take back the thought, but for the moment, he wanted to enjoy his victory. The State Plaza Hotel was supposed to be pretty nice. Maybe he'd stay there for a night or two.

He pulled the chain switch for the light bulb and the storeroom went dark. He walked through the door and barely caught his balance as he tripped over his shoe lace. Placing his bag on the floor, he knelt down and did up his laces. From his crouch, he saw the staircase leading up to the pub on his left. On his right, he saw a large service door marked Exit.

Billy got up and walked to the right. His money was in his bag, and already it felt too far away.

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