Practice swing#1 in July 19th 2013 Flash friday

Ok, I’m rusty so I’m taking a practice swing here. Under twenty minutes, the prompts were from Amy G, and were frog robe quilt coal ice sweetie.

“Nice hook Sweetie, Western Union should be by any day now”

I had that familiar taste of rusty iron in my mouth. The kid wasn’t bad, there’s probably an old man in the boroughs somewhere that this guy loves, kept him off the street, trained him for golden gloves, told him he’d be strutting in the garden one day in a silk robe and Everlast trunks.

“Feeling froggy pops? Then you best jump”

Two left jabs that had my jaw anxious and another haymaker from the right, I ducked, three quick punches to the gut, not much leverage, but there wasn’t much gut. The kid wasn’t a kid no more, he had the abs of a man who’s always hungry, hard, but like a gnarled deadroot not like a mattress. He folded quick and pretty.

I shot a hard look at his friends; spat a little blood for emphasis. They were out the door and down the street before I could ask for a dance.

“The hell Jerry, what’m I s’pose to do with that?” Corky was polishing a glass, he was always polishing a glass, he gestured with his shoulder. You’d think I’d know his real name, but I don’t. He wasn’t that kind of corky, it was a job title not a name.

I shrugged “You saw it Corky; I was minding my own business.”

Corky polished the glass “Yeah, what’m I ‘spose to do with that?”

I knelt down, “You ok kid?”

“Fuck you.”

“Can you stand? Corky ain’t going to shut up otherwise.” I was quiet. The rubberneckers had to lean in. I gave em the same hard look that kept the kid from going home with who brought em. They all found real interesting things under their finger nails and on top of their shoes.

The kid shrugged me off but not until I helped him to his feet. He found a stool all on his own. I gave corky the spinning finger for a round, he had two drafts in front of us and was off polishing glasses. Always good to be a regular.

The kid coughed through the first inch of foam and seemed to settle down after the first pint.

“She left me,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m sorry too.”

“I loved her,” he says.

“The bitch.”

The kid leaned up to get Corky’s attention, swirling his finger.

“I’m sorry sir,” he said to Corky, pulling a wrinkled fifty out of his pocket, “round for the house and keep the change.” Corky looked at me. I nodded.