Free Fight Song by Joshua Mohr Page B

mercy.”
    “I’m going to teach little Schu to throw a spiral tonight,” Schumann says.
    Björn says to Coffen while he points at Schumann, “You shouldn’t spend time with that guy. I can tell you have at least one redeeming quality, maybe two. But that guy’s off his rocker.”
    “Off my pigskin rocker.”
    “Here’s one last trick,” Björn says, “to show I have a heart and won’t kick a man who’s in the middle of a midlife crisis. Look in your jacket pocket.”
    Coffen does as he’s told, and there are two tickets to Björn’s intermediate show on Sunday evening: the night Step 2 is laid out for all in attendance.
    “How did you do that?” Bob asks.
    “I’ll never tell.”
    “Why would you help me after what we did?”
    “Please, I did something much worse than you when my wife left me.” Björn shakes his head. “It’s all so fragile, right? I mean, we’re all so fragile.”
    The magician walks away from the SUV and Coffen thinks: We are brittle beings, easily breakable, buried under circumstances. Maybe these circumstances snow down in flurries, except the flakes are made of fluorescent orange, the bright color pocking Bob’s skin so everyone knows how lost he is. He staggers the streets slathered in the stuff, a fluorescent orange monster making things worse.

Cops and monsters
    It had been a silent ride home, post-Björn. Coffen couldn’t find any words to talk about how disappointed he was in himself so he stewed in self-disgust, every now and again basting every bit of his psyche in the juice of Jane walking out of the ballroom, leaving him alone on their thin ice . Schumann couldn’t do much of anything except drive well under the posted speed limit and periodically peep to himself, “Little Schu … little Schu … little Schu … ”
    Now, he drops Coffen off at home, and Bob’s scourge of a mother-in-law is out on the front steps, waiting for him with her wicked, diabetic smile. She drums her fingers on her knee.
    Erma says to Bob, “It’s my esteemed honor to alert you that you are not welcome here until after Jane goes for the world record. And, maybe, you might not be welcomed back then, either.”
    “Wait, what?”
    “For now, assume you can come back after her record attempt. Probably.”
    “That’s not until Monday.”
    “What’s that thing around your neck?”
    “It’s a dental bib.”
    “Why?”
    “Long story.”
    “We think it’s best for Jane if she’s not burdened with the sights or sounds of you.”
    “Who’s ‘we’?”
    “Me, Jane, and Gotthorm.”
    “You, Jane, and Gotthorm.”
    “Yes, we’re concerned that your being is like an anchor around her neck. You pull her to the bottom of the pool.”
    “I’m not an anchor.”
    “Agree to disagree, Bob.”
    “Can I please talk to her? I’ll leave right after, but I need to talk to her, explain what happened back there at the magic show.”
    “She made it crystal clear that speaking with you is the last itty-bitty thing on earth she wants to do.”
    “Where am I supposed to go?”
    “Motels are lovely this time of year,” says Erma. “Entire guidebooks are devoted to their panoramic beauty.”
    “Can I get some things first?”
    She hands Coffen a plastic bag with his toothbrush, no toothpaste, nothing else at all.
    “What about clothes?” he whines. “I’m still wet.”
    “I’ll bring a suitcase by your office on Monday, before she goes for the record.”
    “It’s Friday night. What am I supposed to wear?”
    “Don’t raise your voice with me.”
    “Can I at least see the kids?”
    “Of course. They’re obviously asleep now, but you can see them this weekend. Call me first. We think notice is important. We are advocates of respected boundaries.”
    “Listen, I know you don’t unconditionally love me,” says Bob.
    “We do not love you.”
    “But I’m the father of your grandchildren.”
    “Uh-huh,” Erma says, a look on her face like Bob’s asking for directions to a