Free Cash Out by Greg Bardsley Page B

constricting mass of legs and arms. My defense instincts take over, and I flail my arms, trying to hit him.
    He laughs. “There we go,” he says. “That’s what we want.” He releases me, and I gasp for air. I stagger to my feet, the anger from yesterday surging like an electric current into my arms and legs, taking control.
    â€œHit me,” he pants.
    This is what he wants. He wants me to take a swing. This is what he had me do all those years on the football field. It’s what they pay his sparring partners to do all day at his gym.
    I’m practically wheezing, and suddenly I feel the pain in my crotch. It’s like someone snaked barbed wire through my scrotum and down my legs. God almighty.
    He snarls. “Just hit me.”
    The anger has my chest heaving. In my mind I hear Dr. Heidi’s voice: Are you acting like a man, Dan? I see Detective Bryant yelling at me in the interrogation room, calling me scum. I hear the laugher of the geeks. I see that look on Baldy’s face just before he knees me in the crotch. I’m ready to explode, and I know Rod won’t let me go until I let it out, so I throw a hard right. He deflects it, slaps me hard across the face, picks me up and body slams me onto the grass. My insides rattle.
    He growls. “Faster next time.”
    We get back up, and I know what I have to do. He won’t stop until I do it.
    â€œNo more half speed,” he snaps. “Faster.”
    I go for it. I throw everything I have at him. Rights. Lefts. Kicks. He deflects the punches, steps away from the kicks. Finally, he catches my left foot and spins me off-balance, and doesn’t let go until I’ve crashed to the ground. He comes at me with a cocked fist, stops, opens his fist, and slaps me hard on the face, grinning.
    I’m panting so hard, I see stars.
    â€œGod, that brings back good memories.” His eyes water as he pulls me back up. Sniffles. “Remember how hard you’d work just to land one punch?”
    I don’t think I’ve ever landed a punch on Rod. “I’m too old for this,” I say.
    He laughs, slaps me on the back, and brings me in. “I love you, Danny.”
    â€œLove you, too, man.” I swallow hard. “Just glad you’re here.”
    He looks away and nods. “Come on,” he says, “we need to meditate.”
    W e’re sitting cross-legged in a field of toy trucks, plastic T-Rexes, and a dozen Wiffle balls. Rod’s eyes are closed, and it looks like he feels The Light: head cocked, an eyebrow arched, corners of the mouth up, eyelids nearly fluttering.
    â€œJust listen to the nature.”
    Rod isn’t someone who’s always loved animals, insects, and plants. I have friends like that, people who’ve been true naturalists since grade school, guys who’ve been camping and fishing all their lives. Rod, on the other hand, is a relative newcomer, which is fine with me because he’s not doing it to be cool. He’s doing it because he really feels it at the core of his heart. And yet something saddens me about Rod’s newfound love for nature, about his determination to find authenticity and meaning.
    Rod says, “I want us to think about this bald guy.”
    My eyes are closed, and Baldy’s big nose and narrow-set eyes flash before me. I breathe out hard. “I don’t know, man. This is . . .”
    â€œTrust the Zen process,” Rod says. “Find your answers within.”
    I try my best to let go, the Zen meditation way. At first I keep getting the same images: Baldy kneeing me in the frozen-food section; playing with my kids; pulling a knife on me.
    â€œTry to imagine him as a little boy, a kid someone loved.”
    I try, and all I get is the image of Baldy’s adult head on a child’s body, pushing another boy around. I shake my head and try to let go, and just like that I get an image of a little boy cuddling with his