Dinner with the Boxer

Tonight we went to a Italian restaurant owned by one of Dave’s friends. I can't remember the name. It was a casual meeting to discuss the script and talk to the boxer about his life. His life story is the subject of what we hope will become a feature film. A very thin very tan man with greasy long hair strutted us into the back, past the seemingly normal section, deep into the dark, to where you had to hold a candle right in front of the menu to read it. The walls were brick and the music was soft and forgettable at first. A group of fat businessmen sat to our left and a young couple sat behind us on a cushy couch, in what appeared to be the casual area. Dave was still outside, trying to find water for the steaming radiator of his rental car. I looked at the menu and was immediately happy I wasn't paying. The boxer appeared somewhat disappointed and a bit confused. The Italian waiter was extremely snooty and seemed to get a kick out of saying things in Italian to the boxer and trying to make him repeat whatever he was saying. I found myself translating between them and eventually taking over all together. I kept thinking about how if he wanted to the boxer could shatter a jaw with one throw. Dave's daughter, Gallery, was with us, her eyes glinting in the dark. She ordered Iced tea for her father with an extra glass full of ice and the rest of us had water. Tap for the boxer and me with a stylish curvy bottle of mineral water for Gallery.  The thought of me sitting there alone with the boxer was a bit overwhelming, especially knowing the things he’s done. Gallery had a wonderful way of picking up when we would hit dead air and you could see the boxer liked her style; I was glad she was there. He is a very nice man, soft spoken and often cracking a battered smile, but he doesn't like me so much. Or at least that he doesn't respect me. I think he thinks my life was handed to me. Maybe he doesn't think that at all.

Dave and I were eating and asking questions. The boxer ate his foreign salad. I tried some sort of squid and it was rubbery and strangely hollow. These questions were about anything and everything; nothing off limits. Playing reporter was all good fun. We pried open his life like it was a piece of public history. He had lived a very tortured life. That much was clear. Real-human-drama. Would make a great movie. Questions led to more questions. It happened on the topic of his childhood, more specifically on the topic of his Mother. Dave asked him if his Mother had ever told him that she loved him. The boxer shook his head no. I could see flashes on his face. I looked at my chicken.

Those massive hands were shaking.

It was darker than ever. His breathing became erratic. 

I looked back down to my torn, greasy chicken.

We made this man (harder than steel, sparred with Cassius Clay) cry.

Anything for a story.

Killing for killer material.

I put away my pad and pencil.

So did Dave, he also turned off the tape recorder.

I was no longer hungry, though I felt strangely hollow.

Who were we to ask such questions?