7AM. Lower District: Frazier's Fight Gym
The automated ring bell chimed three times.
"Thirty seconds!"
The sound of gloves hitting leather heavy bags intensified. Sweat was flying. Body odor was pungent. The gym windows were foggy from the exhaust of twenty humans howling and grunting with every punch thrown.
"15 seconds! Pick it up! If I see any of you slow down, we doin' another set of planks. 10! 9! 8-"
The twenty humans groaned. Each second counting down to zero felt slower than the next.
"-5,4,3,2..."
Where was one? Is he going to say one? Did he say it already? The automated bell rang, but nobody dared to stop until Tariq said so. Twenty bodies were screaming to be put out of their misery.
"One!" Tariq smiled.
Every motion on the gym floor dropped flat like a water balloon pricked by a needle. Some were on the ground, rolling in their own sweat gasping for air. Others hung onto heavy bags like they were life rafters. The few that maintained their composure either walked it off, grabbed some water, or were still in their fight stance ready for the next workout. After a minute went by Tariq clapped his hands, not for applause, but to signify the next drill.
"Grab a partner! One on the mitts, the other one hits! We're working on upper body and head movement today. Mitts throws 1-2, hitter weaves and counters with the 3-4. Let's go! Let's go!"
Tariq increased the gym music volume with the interface on his wrist. The acoustics vibrated the walls with loud boom bap and bass, drowning out the bemoaned cries for a longer rest period.
"You trying to kill these folk?" Davey Frazier laughed. Tariq smiled before he turned around to see the old man in his famous khaki cowboy hat. It contrasted with his dark skin and piercing green eyes. "Can't have nobody dying in my gym, boy."
"They signed waivers." Tariq smirked, scratching his bald head.
"Well," Davey began, guiding Tariq's attention to the boxing ring behind them. At the center were two young men in red and blue sparring gear. The one in red was clearly outclassing the other. "That boy in blue sign a waiver?"
Tariq stepped towards the ring.
"Hey, Ricky!" Tariq called out, "Light sparring! You're in there to learn, not take each other's heads off!"
Ricky didn't listen. He was like a cat playing with an injured mouse. Lefts and rights were starting to land flush in between and around the blue's guard. Tariq jumped onto the ring and whipped between the ropes in a flash. Like a referee, he stepped in to break up the action, but Ricky was still in kill-or-be-killed mode. A wild right hand intended for his opponent ended up grazing Tariq's cheek, knocking his glasses off of his head and out of the ring.
"Hey!" Davey's yell stopped most of the gym members, mid-workout. All eyes were focused on the incident. "The hell is wrong with you, boy?"
Tariq stared Ricky down but the boy offered no apology. Instead, he spat his mouthpiece out onto the ring floor and grinned. There was a brief, infinitesimal thought that crossed Tariq's mind to react in such a way that would end Ricky, but he let it pass.
"Get the fuck out." Tariq pointed to the large sliding door exit. “We don’t do that tough guy bullshit in here. You know that.”
"Whatever. Shit is weak here anyways." Ricky exited through the ropes and went to grab his gym bag. "I'll go where the real fighters are at, not no washed up champs and has-beens like here.”
As he made his way for the door, Ricky stopped to look back at Tariq for one last insult. “Oh wait, that’s right. You never were a champ, huh? Ha! Just has-beens then."
Ricky slammed the entrance door behind him. There was a moment of awkward silence. Davey wasn't having that.
“What the hell y’all standin around for? Drills ain’t done yet!” Davey pulled the whistle out of his pocket and began blowing at it repeatedly, herding everyone back into their workouts as he went to go fetch Tariq’s glasses.
Tariq, unfazed by the whole scene, was more concerned about the boy in blue. Jermaine was his name, and he was bleeding from his left eyebrow.
“Go wash up and I’ll take care of that cut.” Tariq said, ushering the boy out of the ring. Davey walked over to hand Tariq his glasses, whistle still in his mouth. There was a crack on one of the lenses. Tariq clicked his tongue. He'll have to go downtown and get them fixed. That's two pairs in one month now.
"Ain't nothin' good to look at in here anyways.” Davey said, patting Tariq’s back then quickly rubbing his hand in pain as it clanged against his cybernetics. "And pay that bitch boy no mind."
“You’re not that washed up.” Davey laughed, making a stink face as his eyebrows moved up and down in comical fashion. “But you do need a good wash!” Davey laughed again, sashaying back to the twenty gym members, dancing to the beat of his own whistle.
That was Old Davey for you. Tariq carried on with the rest of his morning. Ricky’s words would sting him every now and then, but like always, the silent stoic made no fuss about it. Instead, he kept it balled up inside, tucked deep and unexposed to anyone and everyone around him.
