Content warning: Physical violence or abuse.

Boxer

So back before Highland Park was full of boutique record shops and themed bars and crackers in new-old stock CARHARTT pants it used to have stores like HARDWARE where they sold hardware and CORTES DE PELO where they did cortes on people’s pelos and THE DOPEMAN on Ave. 56 which wasn’t really the name of a store but was an actual spot where you’d go to buy dope and so, necessarily, there were a lot of homes for recovering addicts in the area too.

I lived in one for a year. It was on a street off Figueroa, by the COIN-OPS LAVANDERIA and the UNO MARKET #5, but I wasn’t a tweaker. I was ten. My mom was the tweaker, actually. It’s pretty weird to let a non-tweaker live in a sober living. And for that non-tweaker to be a child? Forget it. But there was nowhere else for me to go, and so it was that I stayed there.

There were two houses, one for men and one for women. I never went over to the men’s house. I was told that the men who lived there were violent and dangerous. The women, on the other hand, were only a danger to themselves, and that was better somehow.

The unfortunate truth about a lot of sober livings is that they are a great fucking place to get loaded. Maybe the best place. Bunch of lost souls, all ashamed, coming out of their high only to realize they’re in a terrible place and they’ve done terrible things. That’s the thing about using drugs. You don’t just traumatize the people you’re around. You traumatize yourself too. People forget that. So yeah—most don’t make it a month. I don’t think my mom made it even that long, but she’s a smooth talker with a pretty face and a knack for pulling a thousand dollars out of her ass when she needs it. We got by.

I remember my mom was watching JERSEY SHORE the day she got there. She introduced herself as “BOXER,” and moved into the room across the hall from my mom’s.

.

Where to start with BOXER? She used to wear wife-beaters and gray sweatpants. She had a tattoo of the sun on one arm, and a baby’s face on the other. She hung a banner of SNOOP DOGG on her bedroom wall, and used to play his music out loud on her Android phone speaker while crip-walking around the house. She’d do that until her phone battery died, at which point she’d always blame MetroPCS—Metro PieCe-a-Shit—as she called it. She used to say the N-word a lot, even though she was pretty white even by Latino standards. She had a dog she named FALLAS PAREDES, after the discount store down the street, where she found him. FALLAS PAREDES always smelled bad and was covered in crust. The dog, not the store. But the store sucked too. FALLAS and PAREDES are probably the names of the founders or something, but read together the phrase roughly translates to “FAILURES WALLS.” No doubt, if you ever find yourself inside of a FALLAS PAREDES, you’ve probably failed. I don’t know why you’d name a dog that.

Anyhow, BOXER took a liking to me early on. She used to call me “GUERO,” meaning blonde, even though I had black hair.

—GUERO, did you hear that dumb bitch Taylor speak on my name? I swear she’s been running her fucking mouth, güey. You can’t do that, starting drama in a house like this. We’d have fucked her up on the streets.
—I didn’t hear anything.
—Oh you’re in on it too huh GUERO. You know why I’m BOXER?
—Like yeah, I think I get it.

—GUERO, make me that TOP RAMEN how you do. With the mayo and the limon and shit, güey.
—Okay.
—Shrimp flavor, right?
—Yes.
—Órale, GUERO. That chicken shit is for poor people.

—GUERO, you know about DA GAME IS TO BE SOLD, NOT TO BE TOLD?
—No.
—It’s the shit, güey. Go put it on your iPod.
—Alright.

.

One day we were sitting out in the backyard with this dude called SWIPER or something else stupid. Nobody in these houses had a fucking—you know—like a real name. They were smoking BLACK&MILDS, which are like little cigars you can really only find at the liquor stores next to PAYDAY LOAN shops and places like that. My mom was a big cigarette smoker. She’d never step outside to smoke and so it’d just hang there in the air and make me feel sick. But the BLACK&MILDS had a kind of sweet, fruity aroma to them. I didn’t mind the way they lingered on my clothes.

After they were done BOXER leaned over to me.

—There are stories that SWIPER touches kids and shit, GUERO.
—Are they true?
—I’m not sure. But he’s kinda weird, no?
—Yeah, I guess so.
—Yeah.
—So why do you hang out with him?

She paused for a moment.

—Look GUERO, sometimes there are bad people, and you can’t fix them. Sometimes you try and just make it worse. SWIPER’s got a lot of people with him. If I start shit, I start shit with all of them, understand? You gotta know when to be a hero and shit, güey. Good ways to get yourself hurt and not help nobody. But GUERO, you stay away from him.
—Oh.
—Does that make sense?

.

My mom and I used to sleep in a twin bed together. I slept on the inside, back flat against the wall. Her room was always super hot, so it felt kind of nice to be pressed up on something cool like that. It also worked out that my mom was on the free side of the bed because, as things would go, she’d usually get up in the dead of night to go get high in the bathroom. Most nights I could sleep through her activities, but this one night I think she got a little too high and twitched herself right off the bed and onto the floor. She was mumbling incoherent shit, and I was scared, so I ran to BOXER’s room for help.

—The fuck man?

She looked down and saw me, pointing to my mom’s room. She picked me up and put me in her bed, then closed her door and went to our room. I laid in the dark, trying to make out the sound of anything through the walls—but it was no use. FALLAS PAREDES was there, and he curled up against my side. He smelled especially bad tonight, but I was glad he was in the bed with me. BOXER was in my mom’s room for a long time before she came back to me. She sat down on her bed and laid my head over her lap.

—GUERO, your mama loves you. She’s just got issues.

I said nothing.

—Tell me you know your mama loves you.
—I know.
—Good. I’m sorry, GUERO.

She combed her fingers through my hair for forever. But it wasn’t peaceful. I could feel her legs jittering, and her heart beating fast.

—You know, I’m a mama too.

I sat upright and looked at her.

—Her name is VALERIE. She’s in the system right now. Me and her dad were both in jail, so they took her. She’s twelve years old now. I think you and her could be friends.

She moved my hand over the tattoo of a baby’s face on her arm.

—That’s her. That’s my girl. I carry her with me every day. I love her, GUERO. I love her so much. I want to see her. I want to be in her life.
—I’m sorry, BOXER.

She smiled.

—Don’t say sorry. I will be. I have a meeting with the social worker scheduled for next month. They’re gonna let me start with visitation and shit. Then, once I get a job, and I get an apartment somewhere, maybe she can stay with me full time.

Her voice wavered a little bit.

—Do you think she hates me, GUERO?
—No.

.

Another time when we were hanging out in the backyard, there was this woman who had come and gone from the house in like two weeks tops. She left most of her shit there, and we were going through it. There was this little white bedside table. BOXER dragged it out of the pile and up against the fence gate.

—Wait here.

She came back with a cardboard box full of spray paints.

—You ever done this shit before?
—No.
—Oh it’s super easy, GUERO.

She did a design on the tabletop, like a curly-q.

—Now you try. Just don’t hold it too close and shit, güey. And move fast. You don’t want the paint to get too thick and runny on one spot.

I made a quick flick with my hand, trying to emulate her design, but my paint pooled and dripped all over.

—Okay, GUERO, that’s a good start.

We went back and forth, trying new designs on the table, switching colors when the whole surface was covered so that we could keep going.

—You know, white people hate graffiti. They think it’s like, trashy and shit. But it’s not. It art, just as good as all the other art. I think it’s good to let people know where you been. I think it’s good to have places that feel like people been there.

Just then the spray can slipped out of my hand as I was making a swipe across the table. Somehow I sprayed paint all over the side of the house.

—Ah shit, GUERO. You fucked up.
—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.

.

She never said exactly when she was supposed to have that meeting about her daughter, but I knew the morning-of, because BOXER had traded her wife-beater and sweatpants for a blouse and some nice jeans. I had never seen her in another outfit before. It was almost funny how little her appearance seemed to change from day to day, night to night. I wished her luck that morning. She blew me a kiss.

When BOXER got back, she seemed a little disappointed. I asked her what happened. Turns out, BOXER had been a bit confused about the exact logistics of the meeting and everything. It seemed she thought that she would get an immediate answer on the whole visitation thing. In reality, the meeting was just one piece of this whole big assessment and it would have to be reviewed by the social workers who would then make a decision.

—Don’t worry, BOXER. This is how it goes with everyone I bet. It doesn’t mean it’s a no or anything. You should be happy they care this much. They want VALERIE to be safe and stuff. It’s gonna work. I promise.

.

That night I couldn’t fall asleep, so I climbed up over my mom and went to BOXER’s room. But she wasn’t there, or anywhere in the house for that matter. I looked out the window and saw a light in the house across the street, and somehow I just knew. I kind of lied before—when I said that I never went to the men’s house—I never stepped inside, but I did go over there, one time.

I snuck out and crossed the street. I opened the side gate as quietly as I could, and crawled on my knees to the window that had the light on. It was SWIPER’s room. And sure enough, BOXER was in there. They were in his bed with no clothes on. I didn’t understand why. It’s almost funny now, how little I actually understood. I thought he was hurting her, I thought I had to do something to save her, but I was afraid—afraid of what she told me. I picked up a small rock from the walkway, slipped back to the edge of the gate and threw it right at the window.

I was halfway across the street when I heard the glass shatter, and back in the house before SWIPER ever made his way out front. It was dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t see through my window that SWIPER had a gun in his hand. BOXER followed behind him, barefoot and wrapped in a robe. He went over to the side gate and looked around, and then yelled something at BOXER once he could see there was nothing there. He stormed back inside the men’s house and shut the door in her face. I sat there in the darkness waiting for her to come back.

—GUERO! Did you do that? What the fuck are you thin–
—He had a gun.
–Why would you do that shit?
—Did he do something bad to you BOXER? Should we call the police?

—Are you stupid, güey? You don’t call the fucking police never. Besides, it’s not like that.

BOXER walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water from the tap.

—Things are complicated, GUERO. There’s stuff I can’t explain to you. There’s stuff you don’t need to know.
—What’s complicated? I thought he was bad. You told me that!
—He is.
—So then what?
—GUERO, I never said I was fucking perfect. I’m just doing my best.

BOXER set her glass of water in the sink and walked to her bedroom.

—Hey, BOXER.
—Yes, GUERO.
—Do you even believe the things you say?

.

I never got an answer to that question. I was sitting in the living room when I heard the screaming coming from her room. Then I heard things getting smashed. I shouldn’t have gotten in the middle of shit, but I couldn’t help it. I ran to her room and opened the door. Immediately FALLAS PAREDES ran out and cowered behind my legs.

BOXER’s room was trashed. Her SNOOP DOGG banner was ripped and hanging on the ground. Her bedframe was cracked. The chest of drawers were pulled out and broken on the floor. Her mirror was shattered. So was her phone. There was glass everywhere. I don’t think there was a single object in that room that wasn’t broken. Including her. There was blood all over her feet, probably from the glass on the floor. There were deep cuts all over her arms. I could barely recognize her.

Once she noticed her door had been opened, BOXER looked up at me with a dead expression. She paused and took a look around her room, and covered her mouth with her hand, leaving a bloody print on her face. Her eyes were streaming with tears.

—They said no, GUERO. They said no.

I let her come and wrap her arms around me, even though she smeared blood all over my shirt and face.

—My baby, my baby, my baby.

By now I was crying too. And so we both stood there in the doorway, covered in tears and blood. We stood there in her doorway for what felt like hours, until finally she unstuck herself from my body and closed the door in my face.

.

I didn’t see BOXER come out of her room for the next few days after that. There was no more smashing or crying, but there was rustling, like the sound of something weighty scraping on the floor. I tried knocking once, but I got no response.

A few days later, her door was finally opened. But when I went to check in, BOXER wasn’t there. Nothing was. I tried to ask the women in the house what happened, where she went, but people leaving unannounced was the name of the game at these places.

—Maybe she relapsed.
—Maybe she got an apartment.
—Maybe she moved to a different sober living.
—Maybe she went to jail.
—Maybe she died.

It mattered as much as it didn’t. The point was, she was gone. The next month, my mom got kicked out of the sober living. And then at some point after that, the city shut the whole house down.

.

I drove past the house for the first time since I was a kid recently. That block looks totally different now. The paint on the houses is fresh, and the lawns are all well tended. I saw a guy in BIRKENSTOCKS walking a husky. The COIN-OPS LAVANDERIA is now KINSHIP YOGA, and the UNO MARKET #5 is a cafe called LITTLE DESPEREAUX. I started thinking about BOXER, and what kinds of things she’d have to say about all this now.

—You know, GUERO…

I thought about maybe looking her up on Facebook, seeing what happened to her. But I was sitting there with my thumb over the search bar and I realized I never learned her real name.

 

 

About the Author
Kenneth Schultz is a recent Columbia graduate and writer from Los Angeles, currently living in Brooklyn. He is currently dreading grad school applications and learning how to be an adult. His work has previously appeared in the Columbia Daily Spectator.