The Man Game (23 page)

It was also the first time Clough ever remembered seeing Calabi outside his bakery. Even though it was only the alley behind the bakery, it was still jarring just to see him lean against the back door and watch. So he walked over to the baker and said: I'm a suspicious man by nature but this show fight seems to me more like a confidence game. Am I wrong here?

Wha'? said Calabi.

Getting nothing from that, Clough next went up and spoke with Campbell.

Klahowya? the logger asked Clough and they shook hands.

I'm here, answered Clough. Don't know why I'm here, but I'm here. Why aren't you with Furry & Daggett?

Campbell sniffed, horked, and spat. Yeah, I got the day off.

Day off. Clough passed Campbell the potato moonshine. Having never in his life heard of a man on their crew get a day off, he hoped the drink would loosen Campbell's lips.

So tell me, where's Daggett?

I told you already.

Who you bet on?

I bet you're drunk.

Ha ha, said Clough, well, odds are …

It was early in the morning. The air retained its arctic edge. It was pre-dawn, post-stars, cobalt blue ozone and deep, catatonic silence. The moonshine was unbearably good. And then, showing no remorse, the sun seared up the eastern lowlands and skipped off the bricks and ashbins, pushing shadows low and long, and began the day.

In the light, two figures appeared and caught everyone off-guard. The crowd quickly shaped themselves into something concentric with a space in the middle for the two men to insert themselves. In haste and with no warning, Litz and Pisk undressed and no one spoke. A few frowns but not a word. Clough was shocked. He kept rattling his
head and squinting his eyes to see better. Were they really stripping down?

The man game began when Litz and Pisk shook hands.

Shut up and watch the game, said Litz nervously to the noisome crowd.

Using the diversion, Pisk snuck up behind Litz and locked his arm around his neck. But Litz twisted out of it, got himself through a complicated hip-and-leg turnstile, spun Pisk through the air, and caught his hands again while doing a risky undersweep. Having dipped Pisk between his legs, he let him loose to draggle and buck and crash into the skidboards behind Calabi & Yau's Bakeshoppe, scraping his shins as he came to a stop and angering a rat banquet in a dough bag
{see
fig. 6.1
}
. The rats scattered in all directions.

Pisk wiped off his face. Motherfuck you, he said.

That's a point for me, said Litz.

Clough marvelled at what he saw. It was indecent and awesome, better than a fist fight or the music hall. It's one thing to see children slap each other incessantly in the face, but entirely another to see grown men do it naked in an alley. And it wasn't quite that they were just slapping each other in the face either, because now that he noticed they were doing three steps back and two steps forward in a gentle swirl, not obviously though, as if the slapping was actually a kind of
distraction for the real trick of the move, which was … what? Clough was about to speculate when Pisk said: That's my point
{see
fig. 6.2
}
.

FIGURE 6.1
The Spanish Layover, alternative study

See Calabi's commentary on
p. 109
.

Pisk gave him one last slap across the cheek, then repositioned himself near the edge of a ruddy fence behind a laundry house.

That's one-one, Litz said.

I know what it is, said Pisk.

Let's fucking showtime, screamed one of the gambling guys standing near Clough. You go at it, Litz. I gots to make some chickamin this morning, or I'm more fucked than a five-cent whoore.

What kind a man game is this? How was that a point? Clough asked the seaman once he settled back down.

Reeking of gull shit, the sailor said: Man game? Hell, I didn't see what happened. I just know it's Pisk's point.

Campbell took the opportunity to flip his lid, and ran for Pisk with his fists uncuffed and vengeance on his breath. He said: Get the fuck out a Vancouver, and cracked Pisk hard across the shoulder before six or seven men swarmed in to break it up.

While some of the mob tried to quell the violence, others joined in, and Clough for one tried to catch some of the action, single fist roundhousing as he went. But as men backed away from the melee, Litz and Pisk were nowhere to be seen.

FIGURE 6.2
Rook Takes Pawn, alternative sketch

Calabi's commentary: An early derivation of the Litz, where without so much attention paid to footwork the slaps become far more musical and percussive.

'The fuck—?

Campbell stormed off on his pony to alert Furry and Daggett.

Hoss calmly lapped his thumb and flipped over dollar bills, paying out to three stevedores who'd bet on Pisk. He stashed the rest of the money in his pocket, turned a knob, and sank behind a black door.

Itchy from the moonshine, tired, and broke, Clough was the last man in the alley. He decided to go back to his shack in the woods and sleep it off. Sleep it all off.

Ken darted across the backyard in imitation of a stiff-armed cyborg, then at the push of a button fell into a perfect roll. Silas jumped aboard and ran over Ken's body as it rolled beneath him twice over before he fell off, landing unsteadily on his feet. Ken unfurled to a handstand behind Silas, then sprang and kicked him in the shoulders with his feet. They collapsed in a pile with Ken on top
{see
fig. 6.3
}
. That, according to the crowd, was worth applauding. I couldn't help following suit. A beer spritzed open. There was beer? Someone with two fingers in his mouth whistled. Clapping was the norm.

Minna said: I was already thinking aboot what we'll eat next. Are you coming over for dinner after?

FIGURE 6.3
The Boxing Chinee, study 2

Now Ken and Silas were waving their arms, almost fencing, kind of striking each other with elbows, hands, and fingers, and I was liking the texture of the technique, this combat of arms. I loved the cinematic effect of the arms flickering back and forth between one another so quickly it was impossible to truly appreciate the high level of skill. And yet, at the same time, I realized it was a naked mockery of talent. I enjoyed the martially artistic swordplay of blocking and batting, but it was uncomfortable to watch the arm movements change to pattycake
{see
fig. 6.4
}
. I felt joked upon.

Did you hear me?

I said: I was listening. Sorry. Dinner, yes. After we drop off the bed at my place?

Oh, right. Yeah. Well, if they're home. Then dinner if I'm not too tired after. I forgot aboot the bed. Pass me the lighter.

They might not be? What a you mean?

I don't know. It's not like I can call in advance.

Right. I guess it's just that I really need a bed.

I know I know.

FIGURE 6.4
The Litz

Calabi's commentary: A dance a labour, a lumberjack's dance, wherein the first player to fall to the ground either from fatigue, loss a balance, or concussion can at least remain proud to have given his opponent such a tiring, hard-won point.

Silas's commentary: The original variant of the Rook Takes Pawn, where if you choose to attack with your legs, your opponent can attack only with his arms, and vice versa, all while moving in a sixteen-bar rhythm.

What am I going to do if they aren't home? Stay at your place?

With a feminine shrug, she said: You can if you want to. She packed the pipe again, assessed the quantity she'd bunted into the tube, and decided to light up. She took a fast drag: King size is more bed than I need. King size is so much bed. It gets lonely. She coughed, turned her head and spat. Just don't get ideas, she said.

No ideas? Forget it then.

Oh, right, I forgot it's impossible for you not to get ideas.

I like ideas. I'm very fond a ideas. I always was.

She shook her head with a calm and flattered grin there on the middle of her.

I'm fucking tired, said Ken. Let's take a break.

The two men all sweaty and naked and ripped with seriously taut muscles walked back into the house.

Some applause.

That was it. I expected more.

Maybe more by the time it's over, Minna said.

I said: You want to stay?

She shrugged happily.

A red plastic cooler full of ice and beer had a cardboard sign above it marked five dollars.

I want beer, I said.

Minna said sure.

We walked over to the cooler to stand in line. On the way I overheard a guy in an overly tight jacket say to his friend: Essentially I teach yoga to get laid, but you know. I also like to stay in shape.

His friend said: Yeah.

I let my eyes wander. A guy walked up behind us and my eyes casually studied him. He was brutal-looking, from his fat white sneakers and muddy blue jeans right on up to his wheaty-blond hair. All his facial features seemed to be swollen as though he'd just swallowed something he was allergic to, and the skin itself was completely covered in pockmarks. Every pore seemed to be a pock. His eyes were a waxy grey, like
a blind dog's. His mouth was open and I could see a little bubble hanging off the end of his tongue. He said: 'The fuck do you think you're looking at?