<http://schema.org/articleBody>
" They&amp;#039;d squared off coming out of the club, Murray with his man, Shorty and Big Ed with theirs. The three they fought were likely students: Polos, ball caps, denim. In the club, seated on stools at the high round tables, Big Ed had said forget them, bunch of dickbeaters, but the tallest one \u2014 tall and blonde and girl-pretty \u2014 had popped off to Shorty, and Shorty had given it right back. There was more drinking and disrespect, and then the club was closing, and the D.J. was on the speakers telling them last call. They filed out into the dark, wet streets, crossed to the gravel parking lot, and when Murray glanced back, the three boys were standing curbside, eyeing them. Someone said something. Someone always did. Murray had just opened the door of the pickup and Big Ed was climbing down inside. Shorty was drunk and he turned to the boys, told them to suck it. Murray tossed the keys to the floorboard, gently closed the door. From the corner of his eye, he saw Big Ed step out and come around the tailgate. The man was six foot six and Murray could remember thinking that he looked too tired to fight, too tired, and drunk, and old. He looked inconvenienced. Right about then Shorty threw a right hand and he and his man went to the ground. A crowd of young men was already gathering, yelling to get him, egging it on. Ed rushed the boy on the left. Shorty was on the gravel, grappling. Murray walked forward without much sense of how he&amp;#039;d deal with his opponent other than he&amp;#039;d be the first one to hit. Odd how quick it sorted out. Like radar. He thought about it like radar. He was twenty-eight and they&amp;#039;d done this quite a lot. There must have been a time when it was fun. If there were women, the women would watch and they&amp;#039;d talk about it on the interstate driving home. If there weren&amp;#039;t women \u2014 and tonight there were not \u2014 they&amp;#039;d have to pick up more alcohol, get drunker, rehearse amongst themselves. Who hit who and how hard and what with until they passed the Earlsboro exit, cut across to take 270 into town. The boy Murray would fight was a little taller, not much, maybe two, three inches. Murray had seen him inside the club: dark hair, chubby cheeks, probably just old enough to get in, brave enough to back his buddy&amp;#039;s play, not enough to talk him down. He was standing there with his hands on his hips when Murray hit him with a jab and a cross. He threw the punches in quick succession, turning from his hips. Good distance. Shoulders loose. The boy couldn&amp;#039;t have had many fights. He didn&amp;#039;t even raise his hands. The left caught him in the nose and he was already falling backward when Murray landed his right. He surprised himself how flush it landed, the boy on the end of his whip. He shuffled forward, straddled him, bent to deal out some punishment. The boy was lying on the gravel holding his cheek with one hand, bracing his torso up with the other. His eyes looked wet in the light of the streetlamps. He was mumbling something, but Murray couldn&amp;#039;t understand. He dropped an elbow onto the boy&amp;#039;s chin and felt the body go slack beneath him and he thought he couldn&amp;#039;t have knocked him out, not that easy. He stood and kicked him halfheartedly and the boy lay, moaning. He had on boots. Had on his Ropers. He stood there a moment, staring down at him, and then glanced over and saw Big Ed wrestling his man against the side of the building. He couldn&amp;#039;t see Shorty. He&amp;#039;d gone down behind a car. Big Ed had his man in a headlock and he was ramming him against the bricks. The whole thing was an awkward, erratic dance. Murray rounded the end of the Toyota parked at the curb and saw the blonde boy atop Shorty, pounding. He&amp;#039;d mounted him and had one hand locked on his friend&amp;#039;s throat, the other feeding him rights. The sound was like a board slapping water. The boy had his back to Murray and couldn&amp;#039;t have seen or heard him coming. Couldn&amp;#039;t have seen Murray skid forward on his left boot, sliding in the gravel like an ice skater, the other leg cocked behind him just like Sifu Dan had always taught. The knee hit the center of the blonde boy&amp;#039;s spine. His head snapped back. Both arms flung out. He collapsed onto Shorty in an almost feminine embrace, but Murray was already tugging at Shorty&amp;#039;s leg, pulling him across the gravel, and then Shorty was up, standing beside him, and then yelling, and Murray had to hold him back, because it was enough already, enough. He couldn&amp;#039;t see Shorty clearly, but he could tell he was bleeding, and by the time he&amp;#039;d gotten him back to the pickup, collected Big Ed at the parking lot&amp;#039;s entrance, Shorty&amp;#039;s left eye was swollen shut, and his nose was pushed toward his right cheek, badly broken, looking like a wad of putty someone had rolled into a tube and then pounded flat. He woke the next morning with a hangover and sore throat and blood crusted between his fingers, he wasn&amp;#039;t sure whose. He rolled to the side of the bed and studied his feet. He&amp;#039;d managed to get undressed when he came in the night before and his clothes were in a pile on the carpet, his boots alongside, one standing, one slumped. He stared at them a few moments. Something strange was gathering just back of his windpipe, traveling down to his stomach and arms. A sick feeling. Something missing. Something achieved. He stood and wandered into the bathroom and leaned against the sink, turned on the tap and cupped water to his face. Stared at himself in the mirror. Had a bruise on his forehead and a few scrapes along his neck. He looked down at his hands and then ran them beneath the faucet, reached into the shower and fetched up a dirty shard of Lava from the plastic caddy and began lathering his hands. He worked the pumice into the skin and then soaped his forearms. He rinsed and relathered. He wet his face and shaved and then stood there fingering his moustache and goatee, coming in darker now, thick. The sick feeling had settled behind his sternum and a panic was collecting in his stomach. He turned off the tap and walked back to the bedroom. Fishing his cell from his jeans&amp;#039; front pocket, he turned on the phone and dialed Shorty&amp;#039;s number, got his voicemail and hung up. He dialed Big Ed and got the same. He thought about that a moment. He was very hungry, but didn&amp;#039;t think he could eat. He palmed the phone and walked down the hallway and into the living room, sat at the edge of his recliner, found the remote. It was 12:09 and he flipped through the local stations and tried to find some news. He toggled from channel Nine, to Five, to Four, back and forth, but they&amp;#039;d already done the top stories and he&amp;#039;d have to wait until half-past. He thought if he owned a computer he could try looking on the internet, but he didn&amp;#039;t own a computer, and he didn&amp;#039;t know anyone who did. He thought he had an aunt who had one, maybe, but she lived in South Dakota, and he wasn&amp;#039;t going to call her and tell her about the previous night. He sat until the rebroadcast at 12:30, flipping from station to station, but there was no mention of a fight or hospitalization. He wondered if they&amp;#039;d televise that sort of thing. He wondered if the three of them had used credit cards at the club. Yesterday was Friday and he and Shorty had both cashed their checks. Big Ed had never owned a credit card, far as he knew. He couldn&amp;#039;t imagine a company giving him one. He stood and walked back into his bedroom, found his wallet and Visa and looked through the billfold for receipts. If they&amp;#039;d used cash, the club wouldn&amp;#039;t have their names, and if it was dark enough, the video cameras might not identify them. If they had video cameras. If they were working. By the time he dressed and pulled on his boots, he&amp;#039;d worked himself into a sweat. He took his truck keys off the counter and opened the trailer door and stepped onto the bare dirt. The sky was white and hot. Cicadas buzzed from the oaks. He walked over to the pickup and climbed in, started the engine and pulled down the street. When he turned off the dirt road onto Shorty&amp;#039;s property, it was about one o&amp;#039;clock and he could see, above the treetops, a line of clouds moving in from the west. He pulled around the gravel drive to the back of the house and stepped out onto the scorched grass. Shorty was seated in a lawn chair on the cracked cement porch. He wore a pair of cutoff jeans and flip-flops and his nose was bandaged, purple under both his eyes. There were scratches over his chest and shoulders, like he&amp;#039;d been mauled by a cat. He sat staring at Murray over the rims of his sunglasses. He lifted his beer in a toast. Murray shook his head. He walked over and took a Keystone from the plastic cooler, eased himself into the lawn chair beside Shorty&amp;#039;s and popped the tab.  &amp;quot;Who straightened your nose?&amp;quot; he asked him. &amp;quot;Ed.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;d he use? Pencils?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Pencils,&amp;quot; Shorty said. Murray glanced over at his friend sitting there in his cut-offs and mirrored sunglasses, and then he glanced out at the woods which backed Shorty&amp;#039;s property. Black oaks, mainly. A few evergreen and fern. &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;d you think happened to those ole boys?&amp;quot; he asked. &amp;quot;What ole boys?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Guys we fought.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Fuck them guys,&amp;quot; Shorty said. &amp;quot;Yeah,&amp;quot; said Murray, &amp;quot;What do you think happened to them?&amp;quot; Shorty stared a moment. He asked him what he meant. &amp;quot;I mean,&amp;quot; said Murray, &amp;quot;where they ended up. Hospital? Emergency?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Who gives a shit?&amp;quot; Murray shook his head. &amp;quot;You were too drunk.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Wasn&amp;#039;t too drunk.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You were too drunk to remember.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I remember just fine.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You remember me putting a knee in that guy&amp;#039;s back? You remember him laying there like a corpse?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; said Shorty, &amp;quot;I remember his fucking hand around my throat. I remember that.&amp;quot; Murray sipped his beer. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m telling you,&amp;quot; said Shorty: &amp;quot;Fuck&amp;#039;em.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Yeah.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Seriously.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I guess.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Fuck&amp;#039;em and feed&amp;#039;em fish-heads.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Fish-heads,&amp;quot; Murray said. Then it was Monday, and he was back tarring roofs. All day in the Oklahoma sun from seven in the morning to seven at night, tar and fumes and the dizzy rooftops in the division where they were working. Satellite dishes and sunburns. Bag lunches under trees. You come in from work, open the door of your trailer, and sit there, staring. He used to sit staring. Now he flipped channels, looking for reports of a death. An admittance to the hospital in the dead of the night, broken back, fractured spine. For as long as he could remember, he&amp;#039;d considered committing murder, and now it presented itself and a gap yawned inside him. But he&amp;#039;d done it before, left them lying there, in parking lots, in alleys. One on his knees holding his arm upon his lap, another on his face, spitting teeth. The next day, nothing. Exhilaration. Pride.  Was it knowing you didn&amp;#039;t kill them?  Was this a kind of grief? And if the man was dead, the blonde boy he&amp;#039;d kneed, if his spine had snapped and he was paralyzed, if he&amp;#039;d expired, how would his body know when he didn&amp;#039;t? Because he was getting older, Murray decided. Growing weak. So the week passed and he worked the roofs, pushing hot tar on the end of his brush, walking over to the scaffolding to where they brought it up in plastic buckets, the bubbling pitch, and on the hot, white days when the sky was blank and cloudless and his skin burned red beneath the brown and peeled away, flaking, the fumes and heat and several beers at noontime would cause it to subside, and he could forget. He&amp;#039;d go to Shorty&amp;#039;s in the evening, go over to Ed&amp;#039;s. Both the men said the same thing, he wasn&amp;#039;t dead, you didn&amp;#039;t kill him, fuck&amp;#039;em anyway, shit-eating prick, had a head like a catfish, had a head like a bastard rat. He&amp;#039;d come home half-drunk and stand in the middle of the living room, swaying, go over and stare out the window in the direction of Oklahoma City, though it might not even have been where the boy was from, and he was looking out into the night for the blonde boy he&amp;#039;d maybe killed, maybe not, and he wished like hell he could&amp;#039;ve taken it back. But he had Shorty down, mounted. He had Shorty by the throat.  If he hadn&amp;#039;t done what he&amp;#039;d done the blonde boy could have killed Shorty, and Murray couldn&amp;#039;t have taken that. His oldest friend. Dead in his mid-twenties. Some bullshit like that. It was Shorty who&amp;#039;d been friends with him in high school all those years ago when he was a fat, sad boy, on the baseball team together, Murray playing catcher because under all that weight he was an athlete, graceful and quick, just didn&amp;#039;t have a sprinter&amp;#039;s body, always brought up the rear running the field. Shorty was pitcher and he&amp;#039;d fall back and run along with him and Coach Brown would drive up on the golf cart and harass the two, get on with it already, going to run another mile. &amp;quot;Hurry, Murray,&amp;quot; the coach would croon, and Murray could only shake his head and sweat. He didn&amp;#039;t like to run. He thought if you got tough enough, lean enough, you wouldn&amp;#039;t have to. It was Shorty who&amp;#039;d kept him company those years before the weight came off and he hit his growth spurt, the two of them staying up on Friday nights watching Kung Fu Theater, watching Bruce take down hordes of Anglo henchmen, and the two of them, Murray and Shorty, they made nun-chucks from broom handles, and when Murray was fourteen and enrolled at the martial arts class the community center was offering, it was Shorty who&amp;#039;d held the mitts for him, Shorty who&amp;#039;d stood behind the bag, telling him kick it harder, reminding him to turn his hip. And then it wasn&amp;#039;t just something he was trying to do anymore. He began training under Sifu Dan out at the boxing gym on 99, a talented man and very tough, half-crazy, Murray thought. Sifu trained him in Muay Thai and Kali, and his hands got good, his elbows and knees, wasn&amp;#039;t the most flexible, but when the weight came off, there was only muscle beneath it, and by the time Murray graduated high school, it wasn&amp;#039;t a joke anymore, Kung Fu Murray, it was something he did: don&amp;#039;t shut up and I&amp;#039;ll tell Murray, he&amp;#039;ll come down and whip your ass. He did it plenty. How Sifu Dan had shown him. Real fights, real fighting, western boxing and Thai, Arnis, Escrima, put your man down, hit him with a stick. There was a girl for awhile, there was Sheila, and after her a few others who didn&amp;#039;t last long, but always he and Shorty and Big Ed, first in the bars around Perser, and then Shawnee, and then the strip joints and clubs down the interstate in Oklahoma City. And at the end of countless nights, the three of them squaring off against packs of young men in parking lots and winning, sometimes not even having to fight, backing the others down, calling out insults as they backed away.  That, he decided, was over. For the next several weeks it was. He didn&amp;#039;t go out weekends. He stayed away from the gym. He boxed up his heavy bag, and took the speed bag down from the swivel on the back porch, packed up his gloves, and wraps, and mitts. Shorty would come over after work with a twelve pack and they&amp;#039;d sit watching the local news at six and ten and sometimes once more at eleven-fifteen, Murray hoping for news, any news about the boy, something he might confess to a prosecutor or judge. It was early August and the heat was worse than ever, and he hadn&amp;#039;t really slept. He&amp;#039;d get up in the morning and find silver hair in his beard. Long hairs. Perfectly white. He showed them to Shorty. The man was sitting next to him on the futon one Friday evening, sundown, a sitcom on the television he couldn&amp;#039;t really follow, couldn&amp;#039;t concentrate, and Shorty turned and asked him how long since he&amp;#039;d been to Fu. &amp;quot;Been awhile,&amp;quot; Murray said. &amp;quot;How long?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Few weeks.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Where&amp;#039;s your punching bag?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Attic.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Where&amp;#039;s your sticks?&amp;quot; Murray shook his head. Shorty stared at him a long moment. He asked was this about the fight. &amp;quot;Something like that,&amp;quot; Murray said. Shorty seemed to be struggling with that. He sipped his beer and balanced it on the futon&amp;#039;s arm. &amp;quot;Listen,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;You might feel a little better you got yourself a workout. Go down, put on the gear. Sweat it out with Dan.&amp;quot; And he was right, Murray knew. He&amp;#039;d been avoiding his Sifu, didn&amp;#039;t know why, didn&amp;#039;t want to talk about it. The man had left him several messages on the machine. Where was he. Was he doing all right, and the next morning, Murray woke early and showered and drove out 99 to the gym. The day had turned cooler and he rode with the windows down watching fog evaporate out of the hollows, in the fields of hay bales and winter wheat. The oppression began to lift, he could feel it lifting, and he felt like he was awakening from a dream. It&amp;#039;d been a bad fight was all, the boy was probably fine, probably learned himself a lesson, teach him not to run his mouth. He turned off the highway and pulled in to the gravel parking lot of the old country western club that had been converted to a gym, large aluminum-sided structure, The Circle W, it&amp;#039;d once been called. He parked his truck next to Jim Bailer&amp;#039;s Honda, stepped out and fetched up his duffle from the bed. The front door was open, the fan set just inside, and in a few hours all the regulars would be coming in to spar or for the jiu-jitsu class they&amp;#039;d started, cordoned off a section of the building for the mats. Murray went through the door and past the desk and he could see the full-size ring was empty, maybe he&amp;#039;d get in there after he got a sweat. He walked along the cinderblock wall into the bare concrete room where bags swung from chains attached to the girders, speed bags against the far wall, mirrors, a monster truck tire you could hit with the sledge. Sifu was on the Thai bag at the edge of the room working his switch. Short man with a shaved head and goatee, eyes set back in his head like the amber eyes of a dog. He had on black sweats and an old cotton shirt, and he was throwing the kicks so hard the room shook slightly and the report was like a gun. Murray stood a moment watching him, and then the man seemed to sense him, and turned around with a surprised expression and smiled. He ripped the Velcro flap off his right glove with his teeth, and was walking over removing the left, when he glanced again at Murray and his face darkened and he took a step back. &amp;quot;Jacob,&amp;quot; said the Sifu, &amp;quot;who is it that you&amp;#039;ve killed?&amp;quot; They sat out back of the gym on a concrete stoop, a field of milkweed and thistle blurring into trees. The cicadas were buzzing up and though it had cooled considerably and was still early, Murray had begun to sweat. He told Sifu about the fight and Shorty. Told him about the knee and how he&amp;#039;d pushed forward from the hips, extended, hit the blonde boy center mass. Sifu sat there, studying a patch of earth between his feet. &amp;quot;Show me,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;Show you what?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Where you hit him.&amp;quot; The man turned slightly. &amp;quot;Show me on my back.&amp;quot; Murray looked at his Sifu a moment and then reached and touched the man&amp;#039;s spine about halfway down. He traced his index and middle fingers one vertebrae higher, two. He massaged a small circle against the backbone. Sifu nodded. He reached back with his right hand \u2014 incredibly agile \u2014 and touched himself in the spot Murray had indicated. &amp;quot;Thoracic vertebrae. T-Five. The nerves there aid the intercostals. The muscles control breathing.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Okay.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Light damage interrupts it.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Okay.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Blunt trauma or serious damage \u2014 &amp;quot; &amp;quot;I get it,&amp;quot; Murray said. They sat a few minutes. Murray watched a grasshopper walk the length of an oak sapling and sputter into flight. &amp;quot;So it could&amp;#039;ve killed him?&amp;quot; Sifu ran a hand across his scalp. &amp;quot;Look at you,&amp;quot; he said. Murray thought a moment. &amp;quot;You can&amp;#039;t know that,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;Know what?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;That he died. I pay respect, Sifu \u2014 but nobody knows anything like that. Not unless you&amp;#039;re there.&amp;quot; They sat there a full minute, listening to the bugs.  Sifu said: &amp;quot;I do know, Jacob. It changes you.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Yeah.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Changes you don&amp;#039;t expect. There were ten years I couldn&amp;#039;t sit.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Couldn&amp;#039;t sit?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; said Sifu, &amp;quot;had to keep moving. Keep myself distracted. It wasn&amp;#039;t just the thought of prison. Other things were happening.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Like what?&amp;quot; Murray asked. Sifu looked down and appeared to be studying his forearms braced against his knees. &amp;quot;I was going gray.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Gray?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s right.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You mean, like your hair?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I mean everything,&amp;quot; Sifu said. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t follow you,&amp;quot; said Murray. &amp;quot;You will,&amp;quot; Sifu said. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re starting.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Starting what?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;The gray. It happens. It happens to your hair, but it&amp;#039;s not just your hair. It&amp;#039;s your hair, your complexion, your eyes.&amp;quot; Murray looked away. The man&amp;#039;s voice kept going. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s like a lens lowered across the world. Everything begins to dim. It takes this silver sheen. It&amp;#039;s like \u2014 &amp;quot; Murray raised a hand to stop him. Since they&amp;#039;d started talking, the panic had begun, once again, to rise. There was that burning in his chest. He stood from the concrete stoop and ran his hands across his face and pressed his palms against his eyes. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t want to talk about this anymore,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;I pay respect, Sifu, but I don&amp;#039;t want that happening. I don&amp;#039;t want to live my life like that.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; Sifu said. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t think it has to be that way.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t think I have to end up like that.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;You don&amp;#039;t,&amp;quot; said Sifu. &amp;quot;You could turn yourself to Buddha. You could turn yourself to Christ.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; said Murray. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s not what I&amp;#039;m talking about.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I didn&amp;#039;t think so,&amp;quot; Sifu said. Murray exhaled and then inhaled deeply. The panic was rising higher. He had trouble getting his breath. &amp;quot;I mean I don&amp;#039;t think I killed that boy. I don&amp;#039;t think you can look at me and tell something like that. Respect, Sifu, but I don&amp;#039;t.&amp;quot; Sifu stared at the ground. He smoothed his hands across his shins. Murray watched him. His chest was growing hotter and the air around his ears was beginning to crackle like fire. He stared at Sifu and it was like his vision shifted and he saw the man in an entirely different way: small and pale, his head shaved like a mental patient&amp;#039;s. Not something tough or vicious. Something damaged. There was a pity to the feeling and then a kind of anger. Like he&amp;#039;d allowed himself to be taken in and tricked. That this man could even think Murray was anything like him. He stood there another moment and then he reached down and picked up his duffle. &amp;quot;I won&amp;#039;t be back here,&amp;quot; he told him. &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; said Sifu. &amp;quot;You won&amp;#039;t be seeing me.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I know that.&amp;quot; Murray just looked at the man and snorted. He didn&amp;#039;t apologize or pay respects. &amp;quot;Really,&amp;quot; Murray told him, &amp;quot;you&amp;#039;re half-crazy.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; said the Sifu: &amp;quot;All.&amp;quot; It was close to midnight when he pulled into the gravel lot across from the club. It had been, for the last two years, Buck Wild, but the ownership had changed that summer and now it was called Amped. Murray sat there with the pickup idling, watching the people stand in line. Early twenties, most of them. Men in their thirties in expensive shirts and denim looking utterly out of place. It was a Saturday night so the line was long. He asked himself was he ready. He glanced up into the rearview and then he turned off the engine and stepped from the vehicle. He didn&amp;#039;t make for the line. He made right for the doors. It was likely the bouncers standing there would recognize him and immediately call the cops. Then it would be over and he&amp;#039;d take the rap for all of it, learn the blonde boy&amp;#039;s condition, get himself some rest. He crossed the street without looking left or right and approached the two men \u2014 one white, one black \u2014 standing there in tight shirts and dress slacks with walkie-talkies on their belts and clipboards in their hands. Murray stepped in front of a couple, caught the eye of one of the men and nodded. The man nodded back to him, lifted the velvet rope to let him through. That had never happened. He kept walking on down the narrow black hallway, the music loud and thumping in his chest. He emerged into the main hall among the dancing bodies, techno, industrial, smoke and flashing lights. It was precisely the place you wouldn&amp;#039;t expect in Oklahoma and he was precisely the person you wouldn&amp;#039;t expect in it. It had used to be a country and western joint, but when it changed owners the first time, Murray thought they ought not to get run out of their own club, so it was stand your ground like always and Shorty liked the bass. He liked when it was loud and they didn&amp;#039;t have to worry about talking. They could just sit there and drink and look at women, and they looked different enough, the three of them, that eventually a guy would mouth off. Murray stood beside a wall watching people dance. He&amp;#039;d expected to be recognized immediately, but no one seemed to be recognizing him at all, and the men who made eye contact quickly looked away. Finally, he walked over to the bar and ordered a beer, and it was the same with the bartender \u2014 the man glanced up at him and then quickly glanced down, got him the bottle, called him sir. Murray didn&amp;#039;t know what to do with that. He had cash, but he pulled out his credit card and handed it to the man who swiped it and handed it promptly back. Murray stood there, signed the receipt and then walked through the crowd, up a flight of spiral stairs, and stood there by the railing, watching the throng of bodies down below. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink, and then he upended it and killed the beer in one long pull. By his fifth drink, no one had recognized him, and he wasn&amp;#039;t getting drunk. It didn&amp;#039;t seem like he was able. The alcohol did nothing. He leaned against a table a few minutes. Monday, he&amp;#039;d be back on the rooftops, pushing tar. If he pushed it hard enough, maybe he wouldn&amp;#039;t think. If he kept moving like that, working himself dizzy, breathing the fumes and baking in the heat. He was getting too old for that kind of work, but he was getting too old for a lot of things. He placed the empty bottle on a nearby table, went down the staircase and then outside. People still in line. Groups of young men milling about, some standing in clusters. Murray went across the brick street toward the parking lot and his boot had just hit gravel when a voice called out behind him, yelling, &amp;quot;there he is!&amp;quot; Murray stood there. It felt like release. He tucked his keys in his back pocket and slowly he turned. There was a group of boys standing there at the curb, dressed the way most the boys were dressed, Polos and ball caps, and it wasn&amp;#039;t until he spoke again that Murray realized who had called. It was a kid, maybe nineteen or twenty, though he looked even younger. There&amp;#039;d be no way he&amp;#039;d have gotten in the club, short and pale and still chubby in the cheeks, ruddy-faced and blonde. He gestured to Murray and threw back his head. &amp;quot;Yeah!&amp;quot; hollered the kid. &amp;quot;Bad-fucking-ass.&amp;quot; Murray took a step back. The kid was a full head shorter than him, his arms thin-looking, frail. The kid slapped one of his buddies on the shoulder and pointed to Murray. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s the guy,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;That guy right there.&amp;quot; The kid smiled and came staggering forward. He looked to be drunk. The boys standing behind him watched Murray nervously, a look on their faces that was almost contrite. One of them said for the kid to shut up. &amp;quot;Fuck no,&amp;quot; the kid told them, &amp;quot;this is the fucking guy.&amp;quot; Murray retreated another step. He&amp;#039;d never retreated a step in his life. The kid came forward. &amp;quot;I saw you the other night. Saw you, those guys.&amp;quot; He paused a moment and threw an awkward knee at the air. He stood, laughing. Murray watched. He didn&amp;#039;t know what to do. One of the kid&amp;#039;s friends came up and gripped him by the arm.  &amp;quot;Dennis,&amp;quot; said the friend. &amp;quot;That guy. Will whip. Your fucking ass.&amp;quot; Dennis turned and pushed his friend away. &amp;quot;Fuck yeah, he will. That&amp;#039;s an ass-whipping motherfucker.&amp;quot; Murray raised his hands and presented them, palms out. The kid watched. &amp;quot;Teach me,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;I can do that shit.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Hey,&amp;quot; one of the friends shouted to Murray, &amp;quot;he&amp;#039;s drunk.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Ain&amp;#039;t drunk,&amp;quot; Dennis said. &amp;quot;So what if I am? Learn some of that shit,&amp;quot; and again kneed the air. Murray stared at him, backing several feet. He turned and started for the truck. He was almost to it when the kid slapped him on the arm. Murray spun and put his back to the door panel. &amp;quot;C&amp;#039;mon,&amp;quot; Dennis said, &amp;quot;come and teach me.&amp;quot; He had his hands raised in imitation of a boxer&amp;#039;s and he came forward and flicked a jab that caught Murray in the chest. There was nothing behind it and it didn&amp;#039;t even sting. Murray fumbled the keys out of his pocket and turned and tried to unlock the door. His hands weren&amp;#039;t working and he dropped the keys on the ground. When he bent to fetch them, the boy slapped at him, saying to teach him. Teach him some shit. Murray turned. Several of Dennis&amp;#039;s friends had come hesitantly forward and were standing around. Murray looked at one of them, taller boy, brown hair, very thin. He pointed to Dennis. &amp;quot;Get him away from me.&amp;quot; The boy palmed his friend&amp;#039;s shoulder, &amp;quot;c&amp;#039;mon, Dennis.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Get him away,&amp;quot; Murray said. &amp;quot;C&amp;#039;mon,&amp;quot; the friend told Dennis, &amp;quot;dude&amp;#039;s not playing around.&amp;quot; Dennis shook the other boy off. &amp;quot;Fuck no, he&amp;#039;s not playing. Dude does not play. Should&amp;#039;ve seen him other night. Straight-up killer.&amp;quot; Murray had just managed to get the truck door unlocked and open, but he heard and turned back. &amp;quot;What did you say?&amp;quot; he asked. &amp;quot;Dennis,&amp;quot; said his friend, starting backwards, &amp;quot;we&amp;#039;re gone.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Stone-cold,&amp;quot; said Dennis. &amp;quot;Learn some of that killer shit.&amp;quot; Murray stood there. The ground under his feet didn&amp;#039;t feel steady. It didn&amp;#039;t feel like ground.  &amp;quot;How do you know that?&amp;quot; Murray asked. The boy just stared, his eyebrows rising. Murray took a step towards him. &amp;quot;How do you know? Do you know that happened? How do you know what happened to him?&amp;quot; The boy&amp;#039;s brow furrowed. He took a step back. &amp;quot;Tell me,&amp;quot; said Murray. He took another step and the boy watched him, blinking. He raised his hands slightly, and then he turned to run. Murray was quicker. He sprang forward and took the boy&amp;#039;s back. He snaked his right arm beneath the chin, his biceps pressed to the right side of the boy&amp;#039;s neck, forearm cinched against his throat. Murray cupped his hands together, squeezed them, the boy&amp;#039;s neck caught in the crook of his arm, his carotids closing. He put his mouth to the boy&amp;#039;s ear, demanding he tell him, tell him what he knew. The boy hissed and Murray squeezed harder. He lifted and the boy left the ground, feet kicking against his shins. The fingers of both hands were clutching at Murray&amp;#039;s forearm, the nails digging into Murray&amp;#039;s flesh. Murray didn&amp;#039;t feel it. It was as Sifu had shown: you could strangle or mangle. You could do them both. &amp;quot;Tell it!&amp;quot; he said. There were cries around him, hands fetching, a blur of faces and the blood rushing in his ears, his heart slamming against his sternum and everything closing, growing tight. People were pressing into his back and his shoulders, and when Murray turned loose and stepped backwards, he was standing in a kind of ring \u2014 blue jeans and ball caps and all colors of cotton, the limp boy on the gravel, folded upon himself. Shins underneath and his torso slumped over, arms extended and bowing like a slave. No one spoke. Murray said nothing. He turned and the crowd parted and he went gliding through it. He was behind the wheel of his pickup and then he was slamming the door. He could hear the rev of the engine, tires slinging gravel, and the truck bounced from the lot and he went up the brick street in a squeal. He turned once, turned again, and when he hit the on-ramp to Interstate 40, he was doing seventy-three miles an hour and he was headed east. Back in the lot, the boy would be rising. Murray knew he would rise. The choke he&amp;#039;d applied was a blood choke; it cut off blood to the brain. Cinch it, they go to sleep. Release it, they come right round. He didn&amp;#039;t scratch the esophagus or crush the trachea. He hadn&amp;#039;t held it long enough to smother. He only had to persuade his body of what his mind knew it knew, and he could do that, thought Murray, keep moving, driving, always traveling east. It was only his body that was dim like this, only his limbs could feel it. Late night and early morning, and then the sky would turn to gunmetal, and his body would awake. Aaron Gwyn&amp;#039;s first novel, The World Beneath (W.W. Norton, $24), was published this month. He teaches fiction writing at the University of North Carolina-Charlotte.  Browse Esquire fiction&amp;#039;s greatest hits online! "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/books/a5847/the-gray-aaron-gwyn-042409/>