fight for me

ten: "english project."

Marcel.

"i've been wondering what's been going on, what's our situation, hanging on and on and on to every conversation, i, wanna let go but it's so complicated, baby all i'm saying is, what's our situation."
- Situation, Ruth B

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it's 9:32. one of my biggest pet peeves are when people round time to the nearest five, 1 minute can make a huge difference.

i'm admittedly nervous. my shirt grows darker near the armpit area and my breathing starts to quicken. i walk towards my destination suddenly getting really annoyed with the rock/gravel pavement i have no control over. i start getting mad when i'm nervous. and defensive.

i bang on a large blue storage unit garage, brightened by dim lights on both sides.

"Heh hey! Marce! Your back, aye mi amigo, te he extrañado tanto ah! El gingos we're asking for a fucking beatdown." he says as he pulls me in for a warm bro hug.

"Gracias muchacho, fuì esperando a nunca ser aqui, pero..." i trail off

"I get it, mi muchacho. Do what you gotta do. Siento para tu padre Marcel." he replies

harvey and my mom go way back. as a kid, he would always come to the back where the kitchen was at mama and papa's restaurant and see if they had any expired food. from there, mama gave him a job, and my father taught him anything and everything about business and he worked his way out of there. i didn't hear of "uncle harvey" again for years until i came to the UBH and found out he was their "muscle man." i occasionally wonder what happened.

"Go knock 'em dead, Mexicano." he raises his eye brows and winks

i chuckle genuinely. first one in a while. he opens a camouflaged-cement latch and gestures to climb the usual ladder down.

he then salutes me and closes the door only for me to see a sliver of light and a glimpse of his blue guayabera.

when i get down, as i figured, a lot of eyes follow me, just like that day in class when i saw pink bow.

there was a fight going on between one of our youngins, and some medium. and even they stopped their pre-train to stare at the poor boy who lost his poor daddy.

and the trainers can't even stop them because they're staring too.

my hands feel clammy and clenched. my leather jacket becomes suffocating.

"What." I bark at everyone, people quickly go back to focusing on the fight ahead of me.

same old millionaires betting on teenage bodies. i can still feel the thin white mat underneath me. although i don't agree with the lifestyle this fighting goes hand in hand with, i love fighting. i always wanted to do it professionally. boxing to be exact. it gives adrenaline and excitement out of me. it's also one of the one things my dad and I could enjoy together.

when i was a kid, and we were living out of a food truck, my dad found 20 bucks in the ground. he could of used it where all of our money was going, to buying an actual apartment, but he went into a cheap sports store and bought pads to attach to his hands so i could practice. he didn't have enough for gloves but he just said:

"Tu no necessitas "boxing gloves" real men, fight with their manos."

he said in the most thickest accent you'd think he's speaking mush.