Punch Drunk Doug

short fiction

I never wanted any of this shit, or at least I thought I didn't.

It was the first bumfight of the month, so that meant fresh fightin' jerseys. Us sad sacks gathered at zero hour behind the Agassiz Duck House, flicking butts off each other—jonesing for Brooky-Boi's plump ass to emerge Godzilla-like from the deep dusk. Earlier, he'd nabbed some primo T's from a boujee joint over on Newbury, making him our ipso facto Santy Claus.

The new pups were clowning around. They howled as one of ‘em got on the ground, mimed a duvet to his throat, and waxed poetic: 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the Fens, all us yoo-hoos were diddling, so sick from the bends…

Per usual, Brooky-Boi was swarmed with mock applause as he lumbered up, bulging bag slung over his shoulder. I wallflowered about, grinning at the frenzy, making my move when it petered out. 

I unfurled my fresh jersey, meeting the familiar pupilless gaze of 00, oogling out from where my gut would be. I winced but played it as a smile. A light breeze fluttered the shirt, and I smelled expensive cologne. On the rear was another, larger, and somehow more downcast 00, bookending my spine. Above it, PUNCH DRUNK DOUG was scrawled across the shoulders in puke green Sharpie.

I ain't over the moon about my name, but at least it's true—it helps when things are true. My nom de combat is courtesy of my pansy-ass tendency to see stars after even the meekest of face blows. I used to try my damnedest in the ring, but once the boys learned to go for Dougie's map, he'll be as hopeless as a Times Square yokel!—it was game over. I'm more of a willing patsy than formidable tussle, but hey—if that's my role, so be it. I like to think my moniker is more about how I leave the ring—an homage to my famous half-cowboy, half-seaman wave-walk defined by Down he goes! troughs and Atta boy! crests.

It ain't a bad gig, really. I get to keep whatever's thrown at me, and if I appear extra worse for wear, guilty collegiate gazers sulk over and scarf up some pity bucks. The other week, I'm sprawled on my back, semi-conscious—00 gut tracing constellations, when a doe-eyed twenty-something in a BU hoodie remembered me from the school days. She tossed a fiver on my belly and cooed, "You were really good at calculus," before hitailing back to her gaggle. I would have told her to fuck her mother if my face wasn't so swollen.

Anyways, it was just your typical Saturday. Ended up fighting Tango "T-Rex" Rex and (surprise, surprise) got my ass silver plattered. T-Rex is a standup guy, though; he helped gather my consolation detritus and played crutch, shouldering me across the gardens to the river. I spent the night slumped against the Boylston Bridge, licking my wounds and breathing through the wrong side of my face. I awoke at first light to the rude velcro zips of grazing geese.

I sat for God knows how long—in and out of the world, traffic whooshing above. Passersby poked their heads over the bridge's stone lip like neurotic gophers. Sometimes disembodied hands holding phones appeared up there, slowly scanning the still river and Victory Gardens—lingering where the cattails stood before they burned down. Those things went up multiple times a year, but they always came back. The city must've got tired of their rejuvenatory bullshit and pulled the plug. It's a shame, really; I loved those things.

The sun was high when I crawled to the river and washed my face. Pinkish rehydrated blood trickled down my forearms; it smelled like perfume. I looked into the rippling water and felt dizzy. For a split second, I saw Mom looming behind me, bent over her ‘90s camcorder. I shuddered and slapped my face. My body reminisced cold hardwood under pudgy virgin feet and the silver cyclops's stare: C'mon, Dougie! Walk to me! That's it! That's it! 

I slapped again, harder, and looked down at the water in relief—nothing, just me. I eased upright. The water was calm, the geese were grazing, but a fuzziness lingered. I stood pickled in the sour sepia of home movies, wondering if she was out there, watching those damned things. After my breath normalized, I chalked the whole thing up to T-Rex's right hook: I'm just zonked—zonked and hungry, that's all! 

I slunk back to the bridge and rifled through my knapsack for a stale piece of Wonder Bread. The geese were close now. The biggest of ‘em hissed at me, bearing his serrated tongue. I tossed him a nub of bread. As it landed at his feet, I raised my slice in a cheers! gesture and took a mighty chomp. It felt good to eat with company. The goose seemed to agree; he took his time, bowing his head in thanks before waddling away. I noticed a baby cattail pushing up through the grass where he had been eating. Despite a mouth chipmunked with semi-chewed Wonder, I grinned wide at the rebel before setting off.

It was rough goings up Boylston at first, but when I hit Copley, the vertical differential between Down he goes! and Atta boy! had evened out into a manageable-yet-hemorrhoidic limp. I sat in the Commons for a few hours, sunning myself and watching the off-leash pups zoom around. At 5:00, I crossed Tremont to Winter St. and entered The Gritty.

We all cling to a totemic X, as in "so long as I have X, all is groovy." Many worship a pantheon of Xs. I tried that once—it just ain't for me. Too many cooks in the kitchen force Intellect and Feeling into fisticuffs, kicking up clouds of ennui. I like to keep things simple: one love for one life. Sundays at The Gritty are my X—splurging the week's blood money on high-shelf liquor, turning my barstool into an inner tube, each sip carrying me further from wollymindedness into the deep blue of zilch. The world's welcome to rape me blind so long as I have Sundays of transcendent sitting and shot shit forgot at first light.

It was dark and crowded when I walked in. The joint smelt vaguely holy—like the musk let loose in a church after a good rain. I sniffed and nodded to Eddy as I claimed my wobbly stool. He nodded back and served an old fashioned worthy of Don Draper. It was so damn hot in there for some reason. Typically, Eddy's a frugal sonofabitch, but every now and again, he's known to lay a heavy hand on that thermostat. Never like this, though—this was amniotic heat. I caught myself dozing between sips.

Next thing I know, I'm mid-air, hanging ten like a sugar glider, puckering linoleum racing towards my map for a sloppy smooch. Phantom perfume tickles cortex, conjuring a sepia diaper-clad self, stumbling toothless towards her bosom—That's it! C'mon! Yes! 

I get it together just in time to break my fall, thudding corpse-like on my side. The stool bangs me square on the hip, and my leg feels wet. I notice the auburn waterfall raging down from the pitiless formica.

I don't recall any of what happened next, but apparently, I was a sorry wreck—a bonafide spilled milk brat. I laid on the floor, gesticulating wildly, mumbling pathetic shit like, "This is why I don't love anything! It all goes to shit! Damn it all to hell! It's not fair! I love Sundays! I fucking loved that whiskey!" blah blah blah, so on and so forth, et cetera… 

The next thing I remember is the sound—the soft singing of glass, not unlike the quick circle of a moist fingertip on the lip of a wine glass. It was loud and sure and hummed in my temple. My cheeks flushed with white noise, and pixelated VHS arms enveloped me with a silent there, there pride. The sound faded, giving way to dumb bar drabble. I remembered where I was and sat up. My leg was bone dry; no more waterfall. 

Again, I chalked it all up to T-Rex's wallop—wait 'til that bastard gets a load of this, fucker owes me a whiskey! I staggered to my feet, picked up the stool, and sat. My old fashioned stood unscathed—bespeckled with plump dimples of condensation. I shook my head; a smile formed as I traced the labyrinthian white veins in the too-big ice cube. 

Eddy came over, looking concerned, "You good Dougie?" I nodded and ran a hand through sweaty hair. He smiled, "The power of love, man, the power of love…that shit conquers all."

I blew a raspberry at him, "Get fucked!" I said, choking on a laugh. We both broke into laughter, and I felt better. I raised my glass for a sip when a hand clasped my shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir," said a pimply boy-man, "I hate to be a bother, but I couldn't—couldn't help but notice what you did." He brandished a rancid bouquet of flowers. "Please, sir, it's—it's my anniversary, and they up and died on me!" He thrust the flowers closer, "Please, sir!" 

I stared at the boy-man, his sorry flowers, then back at him, noticing he had begun to blush. 

"What do you want? Money?" 

"No, sir!" he said. 

I let him squirm in my silence.

"I don't want money, sir," he said.

"Well, what the fuck do you want me to do about it?" 

I turned away from him to take a sip. He stood puerile and beet-faced, stammering to himself. He still had the flowers outstretched, and his puny arms began to tremble. "Tell' em—"he was stuttering real bad— "T-T-Tell the flowers you love 'em!"

I looked at Eddy; we both had another healing howl, followed by a sip.

"That's a good one, man! I just ain't in the mood for funny business today, okay? Leave me be."

I figured that would be the end of it, but I got to hand it to the boy-man; he was as tenacious as he was gaunt.

"I saw what you did!"

"What I did?" I turned back towards him. "You mean fall off my stool?"

"You know what I mean!"

I had enough.

"Alright, alright…It's time for you fuck off."

"Tell the flowers you love ‘em!" He was yelling now. People were staring.

He went silent, veins worming his forehead, eyes nearing waterworks. It was the first time he met my gaze.

Like clockwork, the familiar impulse to kill the moment with submission reared its head: figure out what the fucker wants and say it so you can get back to Sunday undisturbed. I wasn't always this quick to give credence to this impulse; it's something I had to learn.

Like a river, life don't owe you shit. It's not obligated to pack fish down your gullet or remind you to hydrate. Frankly, it couldn't care less. But, if you lie on your back, it will push you somewhere. 

Let it. 

Be no better than driftwood. 

If you hit a snag, for instance, a surprisingly persistent (possibly crazed) boy-man, don't despair—just wriggle your way back to the flow. 

If your bristles of piss and vinegar don't cut it, play opossum—lie, preach, cry, submit, throw integrity to the wind, renounce good samaritanism, accept Christ as your lord and savior—anything to get back to the river, back to the flow.

"Alright, what the hell…" I said, shooting a grin at Eddy before leveling my face with the flowers. They were indeed putrid and beyond redemption. I took a deep breath, trying to stifle a chuff before saying "I love you" in the most sarcastic way imaginable. Before I finished speaking, the flowers sprung into vibrancy, slapping my face and leaving a smudge of yellow pollen on my nose. I sat back, gobsmacked.

The boy-man didn't even thank me; he ran off giggling before I could make heads of what happened. Eddy stared like my skin was inside out and poured more whiskey. I considered blaming T-Rex for this, too, but it felt different. I drowned the whiskey. "Another," I said. Eddy obliged; he still hadn't blinked. 

There was a mild clamor in The Gritty now. I was about to ask Eddy what in the hell was going on, when a frazzled woman rushed forward. "Sir!" she pulled two dead canaries from her purse, laying them on the bar top. I barely noticed her. I was lost in the scent of flowers, lost in arms after a maiden stroll, sharp ‘90s kisses pecking my scalp—you did so good!

"Sir, my babies were killed by the neighborhood stray—" she blathered on about her babies, but I tuned her out. It didn't matter; I knew what she wanted. There was that impulse again—back to the flow, c’mon! Walk to me!

"I love your birds," I blurted out to shut her up. Sure enough, the damn things took flight, performing wild acrobatics in the rafters, landing to peck at old peanut shells.

The patrons cheered.

Now, every damn day, from happy hour til' zero hour, a line forms before me. Endless faces step forth, presenting unsolvable conundrums, their stickiest tragedies, mild inconveniences, odd woes, persistent pickles, cancers, coughs, skin tags—if you can name it, they’ll throw it at my feet.

I've learned to sit patiently, sipping bottomless whiskey, speaking when they’re through, knowing they all want the same thing—

"Doug, Ma's ready to throw in the towel—"

"I love your mother."

“Doug, my 401(k)’s in the shitter—”

"I love your 401(k)."

"Doug, my crops failed—"

"I love your crops."

I know I said I never wanted this shit, but like everything else outta my yap these days, that was a lie. It's probably exactly what I wanted; I just didn't know I was capable of wanting things again, let alone whatever the hell this is. I understand none of it. I love none of these things, but it doesn't seem to matter. The current has carried me here, and that’s good enough.

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