El Presidente - A Short Story (Part 1)

This is the first part of a short story I wrote for a local literary magazine. I have yet to hear if it will be accepted for publication. 

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“Marcus?”

He looked up amongst the sea of patrons in the marketplace. It had always hosted its usual share of diners around rush hour, but tonight, of all nights to be recognized, Marcus had been spotted in the crowd. The November sunset glinted through the windows and flickered across the dark tile floors and the historic wooden trim along the walls, dancing in purple and orange hues as he stood up from his table. He buttoned up his navy-blue wool blazer as he swiveled, anticipating the direction of the noise.

“Marcus? What are you doing here?”

He looked to his left. A tall woman in a dark overcoat was spotted weaving her way past the checkout line, toward him. As their eyes locked, the woman’s face broke into a grin. She waved and picked up her pace, a slight bounce in her step, as lively as he remembered her to be.

He knew that voice sounded familiar. 

“Of all the days I end up here…!” Marcus exclaimed before meeting her in a hug, narrowly avoiding the wooden banister that separated the dining area from the buffet.

“I needed to get out so badly, you don’t even know,” she sighed in exasperation. 

“What? Ministry’s not interesting for you anymore?” Marcus asked, picking up a pastry from the nearby display.

“Yes and no.” She grabbed one for herself and followed him to the checkout line, pulling out her credit card and paying for both. “Everyone expects you to have all the answers, and I’m just as lost as the rest of them.” They left out the door, still talking.

“The world’s changing too fast for me, Marie.”

Everyone was fighting against the brisk chill that bit through their coats and whistled between the gray high-rises. They started down Main Street, and Marcus looked back at the Midland theater, still stately in its stature, its ancient fluorescent bulbs illuminating the freshly painted road. The trolley tracks still curved over the hills of the cityscape, but its sleek finish spoke of efficiency that now took precedence over preservation. He became painfully aware that every step he took down the brick sidewalk followed the same path as so many before his time, yet the lay was smoother, newer. Even the glossy, black lampposts were stripped of any posters or advertisements, a far cry from when he had last stepped out onto the streets of Kansas City. The square had always filled him with such awe, and he imagined how one who had lived here a hundred years ago would stop and stare at the sights and sounds permeating the atmosphere. 

Weeks didn’t need to pass to see the change.

Marie adjusted her glasses and pulled her hands into her gray turtleneck, poking out from underneath her coat. “So, what brings you back?”

“How’s that?” Marcus chuckled. “You say that like it’s not amazing here.” He gestured to a high rise in the distance.

“It has its perks, but you can’t pretend like it blends in.” Marie looked around. “All I see are people hiding something.”

“Well, of course. It’s the city.”

“That’s just it, though. Chicago’s a city. New York’s a city. Even Albuquerque. This is barely even a town to me. We fade into the prairie. Everyone here seems to be either running from the flatlands or trying to disguise it by way of hustle and bustle.”

“And which one are you?”

She exhaled. “I wish I could fool myself into thinking I was one or the other, just so I could make sense of why I’m here.”

“You’re really hating seminary, huh?”

“I want out. There’s no future for me here. But it’s the only thing I’ve ever known.”

“What changed from last year?”

Marie looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “I could say there’s no money in ministry, but that’s too easy. I feel like once I step off the stage with my degree I’ll be branded. There are so many roads I want to take, and my tuition money is becoming the impossible toll I can never pay. I’m stuck.”

“But…” She looked at him. “…watching you changed everything. It’s electric, seeing you at work, doing what so many would be scared to do. I couldn’t imagine living the life you lead, but your drive…most people give up life to make a living, but you’re one of the only people I know making a living out of life.”

“Well, thanks. But I’m paying that toll too. I don’t think I’ll do it forever … just until I can sleep easy at night.” He opened and closed his sore fists, breathing into them and shaking them out. “What’s driving you away?”

She paused. “There’s a difference between visions and callings. Ministers always have a vision. Churches never do.”

A phone buzzed. Marcus quickly pulled his phone out and glanced at his text.

HOTEL PRESIDENT BALLROOM. 2200. RING EXECUTIVE SUITE.

He slid his phone back into his pocket without a second thought. The trolley sauntered by lazily, still bringing with it a breeze that made Marie shiver. Marcus turned to his right and gazed at the faded brick building a block away, a sore thumb amidst high glass ceilings and tempered steel. He stopped. Marie followed his gaze and began to cross the street, pulling his arm, a familiar grin glowing across her face.

“Let’s put our callings to good use and grab a drink, shall we?”

* * *

The cold, modern air quickly gave way to a warm, elegant mahogany bar room. Marcus could almost hear the big bands of old as he pushed through the revolving doors and took off his and Marie’s coat, hanging them on a rack near the curved counter. The old smell of bergamot and leather wafted up from every crack in the tile floor as their shoes clacked toward the bar. Marcus breathed in slowly as he looked around the circular room. He took his focus off the chatter of patrons as he sat on the nearest barstool.

Marie grabbed a menu and began flipping through it. “You never told me what you’re doing here. Care to spill?”

Marcus snickered. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

“Come on. It’s been months since I’ve heard from you, and suddenly I spot you in the market as conspicuous as can be.”

“You’re not getting anything out of me,” he taunted. “Not this time.”

“Fine.” She leaned towards him, a glint in her eye. “Your knuckles are raw. You have bruises all up your arm and on your side. You winced when I hugged and when I pulled you across the street. You’re always zipping off to exotic places on a spare weekend. And now Kansas City is the best destination you could book? What gives?”

“It’s business, dear.” He chuckled, waving a hand in exaggeration. “None of your sweet concern.” 

“Oh, hell.” Her booklet shut with a loud snap. The bartender turned, waiting, watching the two of them. Finally, Marie faced the bartender, credit card in hand. “Smoke on the Water, double, please.”

The bartender hurried off, and Marcus was still grinning, browsing the selection. “Have you ever considered therapy?”

“Are you kidding?” Marie raised her eyebrows. “I love it. It’s the one time a week I tell the truth.”

“There’s the man I want to see!” The revolving door suddenly whirred to life, revealing a hurried, stocky man in a dark gray suit. He barreled into the room, bumping hips with a few disgusted gentlemen and sweeping back his black hair with a swift hand. Locking eyes with Marcus, made his way to the bar, hopped up next to Marcus, and slapped him on the back jovially. With his right hand, he shook his hand, and with his left, he whipped $20 out of his suit jacket and slid it toward the bartender. “Bourbon on the rocks. Keep the change.” The bartender handed Marie her card and cocktail, letting out a short laugh before sweeping up the money and turning to the man in the grey suit. “I get paid to smile. Don’t flatter yourself.”

The man’s mouth continued to move. “Fancy running into you here. When’d you get into town?” 

“Just this afternoon. Already grabbed dinner.”

“Aw, just missed ya. Hopefully, this joint has something good.” He glanced over at Marie, then looked again and squinted. “Marie?”

“Oh, dear,” Marie laughed and put down her glass. “You two goons together can only mean trouble.”

Marcus let out a confused sigh before Ted chimed in. “Oh, we’ve met at functions.”

“Funny, I never fancied you a churchgoer.”

“What are you talking about?” Ted grabbed his glass. “I haven’t stepped foot in a chapel since my mother dragged me out of a confessional for shaking the booth and scaring the priest.” He took a long sip, giggling to himself.

“So…” Marie dropped her voice low, shifting her gaze to Marcus. “What did you say brought you into town again?” He stared at her and sat, still, for a long moment before rubbing the bridge of his nose and producing a wad of cash. He never took his eyes off Marie as he slowly turned to the bartender. “An El Presidente, please.”

Marie shook her head slowly, her jaw dropped, smiling in disbelief. “I knew it! I always wondered if I’d ever get to see you in action again.”

“Oh, now you’re interested?” Marcus leaned back and chuckled to himself. “Well, don’t go shouting it from the rooftops. The fight’s at ten, on the top floor.” He pointed to the ceiling.

“Do you know who you’re squaring off with yet?”

“You know, that’s a good question,” Marcus replied. He turned to Ted, planting his feet. “Who am I fighting tonight?”

Ted leaned forward. “I got you the best looker west of the Mississippi, and he’s a local here. Long-range, in-and-out, lightning-fast jab. I’ve seen this kid’s right hand, and you do not want to be in front of it.”

“Sounds like every other kid. What’s his name?”

“Off the top of my head, I don’t know.” Ted looked through his phone. “I booked him about a week ago when I organized it. You’ve never had a problem with improv, eh bud?”

“Well, I’d at least like to have a strategy in mind before I enter the ring.” Marcus took his drink and began to sip.

“They sent me this. Take a gander.” Ted turned his phone around, revealing a video of two men in the middle of a crowd of people. The noise was deafening and distorting, but the image was crystal clear. A hulk of a man, if a man could be more muscle than skin and bone, pummeled a hailstorm of punches on his opponent. The fighter opposite from him stood no chance as he raised his gloved hands in defense, trying desperately to protect his face. The video lasted no more than a few seconds before the mass took one final swing, crumpling his adversary and sending him to the ground. Ted put his phone away smugly, but Marcus’s expression did not change. He continued sipping on his drink and stared at the wooden shelf framing the wall.

“You gonna say something, kid?” Ted asked, but Marcus held up a finger, continuing to drain his glass.

“If you’re scared of him, then let’s talk strategy-”

“I’m not scared.” The glass slammed down on the counter, empty. “You’re just a very brave manager.”

Marie leaned forward now. “What is going on?”

“Dante Lewis. They call him ‘Six Heads’ because if he hits you…”

“You’ll be seeing six of him,” Ted interrupted gleefully.

“He’s the only person I’ve ever lost to.” Marcus jabbed at Ted with his thumb. “And this guy had the audacity to pit us against each other again.”

“I didn’t know the underground had title matches.”

“They’ll go on after the amateurs get their licks in,” Ted explained. “But this is what the people really wanna see.” He turned to Marcus. “You won the poll and everything. Underdog of the year!”

“Fantastic.” Marcus looked at his watch. He flagged the bartender down.

“Watch yourself, buck,” Ted warned. “You’ll be falling before you’ve been hit.”

“Well, I blame you for this. If I go down, I’m suing you for liver damage.”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for you is all. Did I mention the prize money?”

“Is it enough to pay my hospital bill?”

“Come on, don’t do that to yourself. You still have your secret weapon. This time, you can flatten him good.”

“You have too much faith.” 

“I told you, I don’t go to church anymore.”

“Who said anything about church?” He thanked the bartender and finished his drink with little more than a gulp. The glass knocked against the wood as he stood up and motioned to Ted. “Where’s the executive suite?”

“Top floor, right across from the ballroom.” Ted slipped Marcus a key card. “But don’t worry about ringing.” He winked. “I’ll meet you up there in half an hour.”

Marcus patted him on the back and turned to Marie as he stood. “Nice to see you again.”

“I’ll be there.”

He weaved his way through the crowd and walked through a wooden doorway on the opposite end of the room. The man that walked into the bar was not the same man that now strode through the grand lobby of the hotel. Before the sun had set, he was unassuming in the dress clothes he had boarded the plane with, merely blending with the pedestrian city-slickers crossing the street. Now, he seemed to only grow bigger as his steps echoed from the golden pillars. Adjusting his sleeve, his eyes were on guard, scanning first the room, then his watch, then the front desk clerk, whom he gave a nod to before turning his gaze towards the elevator doors. He entered and let the doors close on him. Now, as the elevator rose, his strength followed suit, his drive, his confidence. His heartbeat slowed, but he did not waver. His mind focused only on the difficult fight ahead. His armor was on. All jokes and jesting were cast aside and left on the ground floor. He opened and closed his fists, calloused and ready. He was unstoppable.

* * *

When Ted entered the suite, Marcus was already warming up. His presence was not acknowledged, the only noise being loud grunts as he stared himself down in the mirror. His fists flew inches from his reflection in rapid succession, each punch in tandem with quick steps from side to side.

“Can it, kid,” Ted exclaimed as he walked in. “I could hear you the second I stepped off the elevator.” He took off his suit jacket and draped it over a padded chair, sitting down and wiping his brow.

“What are you worked up about?” Marcus finally stopped and turned to face Ted.

“You. You’re wearing yourself out already.”

“It’s called a warmup.”

“Since when did I teach you that warmup?” Ted shook his head and went to the large closet near the doorway. He pulled out a bag and revealed a pair of training mitts. “You wanna warm up? You’re gonna do it right.” Marcus wrapped his wrists and slipped on his gloves. They took their stances, grounded their feet, and Ted raised one padded hand. Marcus replied in kind, a vicious jab. They circled each other for a few moments, Marcus jabbing and Ted ready to meet him. Ted swung his right hand and Marcus ducked, springing up and returning the favor with a hard cross. The two moved back and forth across the room, in stark contrast to the quiet aristocratic air of the furniture and Versailles drapes, each thud of the glove reverberating off the suite’s golden walls. They could hear people shouting excitedly through the door.

“You hear that?” Ted asked, holding his hands up once again to meet Marcus’s fists. “They’re cheering for suckers. But they’re your crowd. They’re yours.”

Three hooks met their mark. Ted swung again and Marcus easily weaved around the mitts and delivered a series of quick punches.

“Remember how you started? You were one of them, scratching your way up. Tonight, you change all of that.”

 Marcus circled Ted and calculated his next hits. With short exhales, he let loose a barrage of strikes, finishing with a loud right hook.

“Tonight, you take your spot. You take the title back. You hear me? No mercy.”

Finally, Marcus heaved and flung his entire weight into his right hook, walking away the instant the glove made contact. He didn’t make a sound as he went to the window and opened the curtains. The gentle city lights greeted him then, shining, it seemed, just for him.

“You still scared?” Ted asked from across the room.

A long pause followed. The crowd grew louder, their cheers slipping through the walls of the suite and echoing in his ears. “Yeah.”

“Me too, kid.” Ted looked down at his watch. “You’re on.”

Marcus took a long moment to leave the window. He finally wheeled around and made his way to the door, facing it. His nose was almost plastered to the wood as he listened to the countless voices murmuring as the last fight ended and his was about to begin. He steeled his breathing. He began to bounce on his toes, shaking out his gloved hands as he waited. He could hear the referee beginning to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to bring you tonight three rounds of boxing for the middleweight championship of the Midwest. This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. It’s champion versus champion.”

The noise began to swell. Ted reached for the doorknob, grasping it firmly. Marcus bumped his hand with his glove. 

“Fighting out of the far corner, weighing in at one hundred and sixty pounds, his record an excellent thirty-nine victories and zero defeats, twenty-seven knockouts, the reigning, defending, undefeated middleweight champion of the Midwest, Dante ‘Six Heads’ Lewis.”

Marcus gritted his teeth against the excitement of the crowd right outside his door. He reared back and pounded the door with his gloves, repeatedly, relentlessly.

“And making his entrance, weighing in at one hundred and fifty-six pounds, standing at an astounding forty-nine victories and one defeat, with forty-one knockouts, the former middleweight champion of the Midwest, and the reigning, defending champion of the West Coast, Marcus ‘El Presidente’ Alvarez!”

A tsunami of screams washed over him as the door opened, but Marcus’s face showed no emotion as he barreled out the doorway, through the line of people cheering him on and following him into the ballroom. Ted followed closely behind, closing the gap between the fighter and the spectators. Marcus rounded the corner and, slowly and menacingly, Lewis came into view. Approaching this mountain and making eye contact with the bear at the top made the hairs of his neck stand on end. He did not falter in his glare; he had prepared for the trek. The two men came face-to-face with each other in the middle of the swarm. The chapel-like ceilings and hard ballroom floor were not enough to overpower the onslaught of boxing fans, some noisy onlookers, and some shrewd businessmen, who lingered around the outskirts of the room. The temperature of the room made the two men cast their shirts aside to their coaches, which the crowd responded to in praise. The referee approached the two fighters, their stare unbroken. He began to speak, but Marcus did not hear. It was routine; it had pierced his ears countless times before. He knew the rules, and he was ready to go down with them. 

The referee stepped back, and the two put their shoulders into bumping gloves, quickly returning to their respective corners. Ted slapped him on the back and handed him his mouthguard. As he positioned it in his mouth, he found himself lost in thought. He found there was an infinite cycle of action: when someone lets their guard down, people do one of three things in response: fortify themselves, seize an opportunity to attack, or tear their walls down further. It was beginning to seem like the defense of those he thought he knew was always mounted, and when the smoke cleared, they were no longer the person he once knew. He looked around the room. So many guards were up, and yet not a single opportunity presented itself to let his own down in response. 

He locked eyes with Lewis again as he stood up. One of these days, he thought, the cracks in his defense would prove a shaky foundation.

But not now.

The first bell rang. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

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-JDH