Giant Men and Violent Women

Never Again

PRESLEY ANN

"This road is so foggy. Can you see?" I ask my driver, Boxer.

"I can," is all he says, which is two more words than what he says on any normal day.

Boxer, a guy in his early fifties with acorn-brown hair and tattoos that cover his arms from elbows to shoulders, has the body of a thirty-five-year old, thanks to the jailhouse penchant of athletics to pass the years away.

That makes me wonder why former prisoners have such a hard time finding a job after they're freed. Why not create a workout video? How many women would buy a video filled with bad boys with big muscles? Maybe these bad boys can become personal trainers. How many married women would love to spend time with a buff guy who was convicted of a nonsexual-related crime? Or maybe the guys can get a small business loan to start their own gyms. Possibly name it Jailhouse Gym. Why am I the only one coming up with these ideas?

Anyway, Boxer—once the owner of a reggae-folk dive in Coxsackie, New Hampshire—has a confident and decided air to him. He says nothing more than the truth and in as little words as possible. With my vivid and dangerous imagination, I can see him before he turned into a murderer.

There stands Boxer, behind the bar. He's tattooed, broad-shouldered, and of course, using a white rag to wipe off a glass. The dive is dark, and white Christmas lights are strung around the bar.

I picture a woman on stage who looks like all other New Hampshire reggae-folk singers—crazy, curly, straight, tangled, or wild hair with worn jeans, a tee that has a thought-provoking message on it, and jewelry made by the Joki tribe. This woman is singing Dawn Penn's infamous song "You Don't Love Me" because every reggae-folk bar in New Hampshire seems to be required by law to include that song in a singer's set list.

I see mountain women in ratty jeans and plaid shirts flirting with mountain men with five o'clock shadows who work at a local cider brewery. I see a woman leave the bar's restroom, having made sure her homemade dye—made from New Hampshire's standard ground coffee and apple cider vinegar recipe—is covering her roots. I see her dancing on a floor covered in walnut shells and getting drunk off tequila before asking Boxer—who is the owner, bartender, bouncer, and busboy—to take her back to his cabin. He's just clean enough, buff enough, and gruff enough for her to expect a good stubble-against-the-face time.

I wonder if that was Boxer's life before he murdered a man in that bar.

I look at the road again. There's nothing but blackness and fog. I sit back and will myself to take deep breaths.

The ride from Darling to Hanover, New Hampshire, is laid in oil-black pavement with mustard-yellow lines in the middle, with no lights to help guide the way. Why would a foggy, dark, winding road through the woods in the mountains be lit? What good would ever come out of a father of five being able to see his way home?

But the winding road isn't my biggest fear right now. My biggest fear at this moment is a curious moose and the coincidence of a split-second bat of Boxer's eyes. Hoping that Boxer has his eyes open, I decide to close mine. This is something I would never have done before Nona came to live with me. My need for control would have prevented me from even blinking when in the company of a convicted killer. Nona, the yoga instructor turned murderer turned maid, says that control is just a feeling invented by people who have not realized that they are not God. So now I meditate and evolve into a better person. I'm a better person.

I'm a better person. I'm a better person. Are we there yet?

I'm a better person.

I'm a better person.