The night has gone quite splendidly. I am up forty bucks from our weekly poker get together. There's forty bucks my wife June, will never know about. Maybe I'll even tell her I lost twenty. It's not that there's a problem, It's just nice to have some playing around money. As I gather the stinking ashtrays flowing over with cigar and cigarette buts, stick my fingers in five or sick beer glasses in order to better carry all at once, Jack ambles down the hall from my bathroom.
I have known Jack for about thirty five years, actually since he left a whopping fart in the seat in front of me in first grade. We have vacationed together up north, hunted deer together and killed many a keg between us. He is a fairly important man in town, an alderman and owns a wildly successful Chevy dealership. Last month I bought my eighth pickup from Jack. He gave me a terrific deal as always. Once when June was going through a bout with breast cancer, Jack watched my kids for two whole weeks. Took care of me, too. He and Marge took over all our chores, even paying our bills. That's the kind of guy Jack is. A real solid guy. The type you can always count on. Like when he was my center when I was quarterback of the Prairie High Falcons. In over three years of playing, no matter what monster of a lineman was coming over the middle, Jack never failed to place that ball firmly in hands I held cupped under him.
Through the years we have had many disagreements, the worst being when his horny sixteen-year-old son Jeff was dating Chrissy, my first born. That one almost split us up for good. But we saw it through until Jeff eventually found a girl who "would".
As he ambles over to help me clean up, Jack stumbles a bit. "Woah, buddy, how much have you had to drink," I inquire.
"Not Enough, " Jack giggles.
"Well, numbnuts, I don't think you should be driving tonight. Even if the cops do work for you."
"Heh, Heh, yeah, they ain't gonna mess with me."
"No, but I am!" And so saying I scoop up his keys from the counter and shove them in the pocket of my well worn jeans. "Now you gonna call Marge and tell her you are stayin' the night or do you want me to? If I do it, you will sound irresponsible, but if you do it, you will sound responsible."
"Naw, cummon, Mike I can't stay here. How am I gonna get to work tomorrow, shower and all that."
"For Christ's sake Jack you own the place. You can shower here, sleep here, if need be you can even borrow one of my suits We are after all, the same size. Now cut it out. You know I am right. You can't drive, It is too late to ask Marge to drive all the way over here, June and the kids are visiting her mom and dad in Idaho, I got three bedrooms you can sleep in, not countin' the guest room. Now Knock it off. so you are staying and that's final!"
"Well, Jeez, jeez, OK, OK, Mr. quarterback."
"On second thought, don't let's wake Marge, it's after one. Just stay and we'll call her first thing in the morning. She knows where you are and she knows I wouldn't let anything happen to you. You know that too, don't you Jack?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure. I love you, too, buddy. Anyway, now I can have another beer."
"Sure, we'll have one together. And we'll have a shot of that 20 year old bourbon I have been saving!" Pointing to the remaining detritus. "Leave that shit, I'll get it in the morning. Cummon." I pop two Pabst from the fridge and snatch the bottle of golden brown liquor by the neck, heading for the den.
Propping up my feet on the coffee table I hand one beer to Jack as he plops beside me on the nearly collapsed sofa. He has sat in that spot so many times the old leather is shaped to fit his butt. The hills and valleys of this old broken down sofa have accommodated our rumps many times before; heard all the tales of woe and screams of joy, all the victories of this team or that, all the bitter defeats; For both of us, plopping here is like coming home.
Tonight, though, something is different. His thigh lies along mine in that same old familiar way, that same old familiar heat warms the leg of my well worn jeans. So why am I noticing? I shake my head and the strange feeling passes. My hand absently punches the remote. Some old fight comes on. The typical battle royale between two aging former champs, too old to be taking punishment, but too stupid and too poor to quit; trained for nothing else, and still young by non-boxing standards, they battle on. Like most of us I guess.
"Did you here about old Ted Blaine?"
"No what about Him?" I take a sip, a swig.
"He's fuckin' dead man!"
"Ted? Ted's younger than me. What the fuck happened, Man?" I pass the bottle.
"The big C. man, cancer, of the prostate."
"Holy Shit, man. God damn, they are droppin' like flies all around us."
"Yeah, kinda scary."
"That fucking cancer man, scares the shit outta me!"
"Me, too. Especially that prostate shit. I hear first you lose your ability to fuck, to cum, to make cum, the whole nine yards. Then the rest. It only took Ted nine months from the time they said he had it, then blam, gone!"
"I guess I don't mind dying, well, yeah, I guess I'd mind like hell, but, jeez to lose IT first and then go through all that. I Think that's what I am scared of most."
On the screen the two fighters are slumped against one another like spent lovers, each gasping for whatever air he can suck; punching listlessly and praying for the bell. At the clap, ten seconds before the bell, they separate and dance around a bit, one punch landing, soaked up like the hundreds of others before it.
Jack and I sit quiet for a few minutes, watching the fight, but not really. I for one am contemplating eternity, or the lack thereof, mortality.
My glance drops and I can't help but notice that Jack has an erection, his cock long down the leg of his business suit pants. I quickly look away.
"What do you know about the prostate,"Jack asks.
