404 Not Found

"Mr. Mendoza?" Dr. Kinninsky's medical assistant was a blonde. Yellow. Yellow hair. She also spoke Spanish with a distinctive accent, from some country he couldn't place. Something South American for sure. Not his Jalisco twang.

"Could you please name fifteen animals? Fifteen animals in sixty seconds."

"Sheep."

She smiled politely.

"Sheep?...I mean...wolves."

She kept smiling.

"Rams." Jose glanced at his face in the mirror and didn't recognize the man there. He kept going.

"Ewes?"

"Those are all sheep, Mr. Mendoza. Try some other animals."

What was related to sheep.

"Goats."

His wife smiled at him in encouragement. Jose Mendoza and Maria Villalobos. Her middle name was Juanita but no one ever called her Juanita. They'd married at high noon in her parents' townhouse deep in the Sierra Madre Occidental. June 1964. She'd worn a beautiful red and yellow back then. Her mother was from America and she insisted that at least one child have an English name. Juan was born in 1965, Juliana in 1966, Carmen in 1967, and Chelsea in 1968.

Maria wanted a summer wedding.

He remembered it all.

"Mr. Mendoza, I need twelve more animals."

"Ma'am, I hope I'm not being too much trouble, but may I request some sparkling water and a little walk? I do feel rather dizzy -- perhaps we can continue this exercise in a few minutes."

He got his Perrier, he got a wonderful view of Mauna Kea's seasonal snowcap, and he named fifteen animals: rabbits, monkeys, horses, piranhas, eagles, deer, sheep, wolves, foxes, ferrets, sharks, jaguars, lions, bears, and iguanas.

It took eighty-three seconds.

Joe is coming for me.

Joe is who knows where.

He didn't know where Joe was. His right eye was a bruised eggplant on his puffed-up pumpkin face. Joe did it. Joe was coming for him.

The crowd was happy Joe did it. That Joe was coming for him. He could hear Carlos giggling and pumping a fist in the air. Carlos was happy Joe did it. That Joe was coming for him.

He didn't know where Caballero was, either.

"Don't worry, Jose," Caballero tried to say. He didn't know where Caballero was, either. He can't hurt you anymore now."

"How do you know that?"

"The match is over. That's why."

The referee had the head of a sheep-wolf and Jose was sprawled face down on the mat at Joe's feet.

Caballero was lying.

The referee started counting down.

Name fifteen animals in sixty seconds, Mr. Mendoza.

Sheep.

One...

Wolf.

Rams.

Three.

Ewes...

Five.

Lambs!

Seventy-seven.

There was no way you could suddenly jump from five to seventy-seven. But Joe had taken a million corkscrew punches from his hands, and was coming for him. He was immortal. He was a sheep-wolf. Joe was coming for him.

Sheep.

Eighty.

Sheep.

Eighty-one.

Sheep.

Eighty-two.

Sheep.

Eighty-three.

Wolf.

The bell rang.

For the first time in his life, Jose Mendoza was counted out of the match.

The moon was shining through the curtains, and Maria snuffled slightly in her sleep.

Mexico. Not Japan. Mexico.

Home.

"Please stop calling me in the middle of the night," Caballero muttered through a yawn. "There's no way Yabuki is in Mexico. Just count sheep or something to fall asleep."

In the past six months, Jose had taken to using his wife's Miss Clairol for himself. Every morning. He'd stand in front of the mirror and lather his scalp with it. It took a full hour of the day, and his daughters grumbled that he was hogging the bathroom.

They were looking into buying a new house with more bathrooms.

By the time he was done, a full bottle would be used up, and the floor would be slippery with water and suds. The mirror would be foggy, a great relief to him.

Then he'd check his Acta de Nacimiento.

He had been born in 1942. It wasn't that long ago. Just thirty-one years. Thirty-one.

He tried to avoid looking at his shoulders, but in a few hours he inevitably would. Little black spots of flaky skin always dotted his shirt. Miss Clairol did work. Just only on his skin.

Excavating his life post-Joe was like crawling out of debris. There used to be thoughts. Coherent thoughts that led from A to B. You had to get back there, so you tried to squint so the dust and grit wouldn't get in your eyes, but your armpits ended up soaked in sweat, and your shirt stuck to you, and your fingernails had loads of dirt stuck under them, and the dust got in your eyes anyway.

And you tried not to look at the dirt under your fingernails, but it was just like the black dandruff dotting the shoulders of your shirt. It's not that you looked against your will. You didn't have a will in the first place.

Excampeón de peso gallo bajo escrutinio de una asociación hawaiano-japonesa por comentarios insensibles.

"Dad dad dad dad dad -- "

Jose tried to smile. He ran his tongue over an empty tooth cavity and he glanced at the mirror that he swore he removed from...

"Carmen bit me."

"Don't bite your sister, Doña Carmenita."

He looked like a white-haired, black-dandruffed ghoul with a sagging face. A grandpa zombie playing dress-up in a bathrobe stained with hair dye.

"Dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad dad -- "

Juliana waved a hand in his face. She was holding a paper. He blinked.

Carmen was around somewhere.

"There's a field trip at school. They wanna take us to Campeche and Mom is with her friends so she told me to make you sign the form."

He signed it.

"Not the newspaper! The permission form!"

He signed it again.

"Thanks, Dad!"

Why did I keep the belt?

He blinked.

Who did he sign the paper for? Carmen or Juliana?

His thought tried valiantly to push itself out of the Yabuki debris. It got stuck, struggling with one hand to squirm into a brighter corner of his brain. It wasn't a knockout. There was...a scorecard, wasn't there?

It didn't feel like a win, so he decided not to call it a win. He kept the belt. Because there was a scorecard. He believed.

His nightly battle approached every time his toothbrush scrubbed over the hole Joe punched into his mouth.

His arms and legs never moved the way he wanted them to in these nightly battles. And the scorecard never, ever mattered.

He decided to keep the piece of paper with the 1942 birth year at his bedside table.

Then Joe beat the living daylights out of him again and he knocked a glass of water over it.

The yellow-haired assistant was on vacation. That was good. His eyes hurt a lot. He hadn't glanced at Maria's head or his own in a week.

That was good. His eyes hurt a lot.

"Mr. Mendoza, wel -- "

Dr. Kinninsky took one look at Jose's head and leapt back.

"D-don't scare me like that, Mr. Mendoza," he murmured, massaging his chest. "What is wrong with your scalp? Why is it -- "

"Dr. Kinninsky." Maria's voice was friendly. Maria's voice sounded strong. That was good. "He just had some mishaps with hair dye. Please don't mind it."

Dr. Kinninsky gaped at the reddish scalp dotted with black patches.

"After all that, it's still white."

He thought it was him who spoke, but maybe it was Dr. Kinninsky. The crowd was happy Joe did it. That Joe was coming for him. Carlos Rivera was happy Joe did it. That Joe was coming for him. Why should Dr. Kinninsky have been any different?

Dr. Kinninsky's voice was like static on a glitching radio a hundred miles away from the nearest tower. The tapes were from Miss Yoko.

Miss Yoko must have been happy Joe did it. That Joe was coming for him. After the match.

He'd barged into her office. He didn't knock. Asked her why she let Joe do it. Let Joe come for him.

Maybe she was off enjoying her honeymoon with that wild mutt.

"Miss Yoko is not yet married, Mr. Mendoza, despite tabloid rumors about her and Joe." Static. "And besides, her personal life is immaterial at this moment."

It was very material. She got to have what Maria didn't. She was happy Joe did it. That Joe was coming for him.

I look at him every night. What more do you want from me?

Some psycho-babble, apparently. He would have cared in 1970. If you faced your fears, your fears would leave.

The earliest tape was from 1969, and Jose decided not to look at Joe's face.

"You have to look somewhere, Mr. Mendoza. At least start with his knees," Dr. Kinninsky said, and that was the only way Jose knew he'd spoken at all.

To look at Joe's knees meant to look at Joe's trunks. Blue trunks with a "J" stitched into them.

Those were the same trunks he had worn to the title match.

Joe was lying. There was no way you could somehow keep the same pair of trunks for six years.

Joe didn't believe in footwork. He stood there and let his opponent hit and hit and hit.

Why don't you sway back?

Joe laughed.

Jose puked into the trash can.

Next week, Joe was wearing the exact same blue trunks.

Next week, Joe still didn't believe in footwork.

Next week, Joe still laughed.

Next week, Joe moved his ankles just a little. He rested against the ropes like he enjoyed the punches. No one enjoyed punches. Joe was a freak.

Jose kept staring at the red and the blue and the sometime pearly white on the mat because Miss Yoko somehow got color tapes when even Caballero got only black and white at the best of times.

Joe definitely enjoyed the punches. He kept laughing.

It sounded like it didn't hurt.

Doesn't it hurt, Joe? It hurt for me. You were a super hard puncher.

Exposure treatment was lying. Joe still didn't leave.

"Dr. Kinninsky, why is he wearing the same trunks over and over? Is this..." He swallowed. "Is this a hallucination I'm having?"

Dr. Kinninsky gave him another strange look.

"He's wearing the same trunks because his gym was poor. That was all he had."

Next week was Juliana's field trip to Campeche. They needed a chaperone and unearthed Jose's corpse for the occasion.

"It would be good for you!" Maria said. "Living in the spontaneity of life!"

A campfire was a funny thing. The base of the flame was blue, then it radiated out into a thick, flickering orange, and then into tiny sparks of sparks, merging into the constellations above.

Stars. If you looked at them from a distance, you could pretend they wouldn't digest you. Jose chose to pretend. There was the Big Dipper, and the Little Dipper, and then Orion's burning Betelguese head. Betelguese could probably eat Jose.

"Juliana, what's your grandpa doing?" It was some boy, whether Enrique or Fernando or Hernando he didn't know. "He's getting all the food black spacin' out like that."

"He's worried about his damma-titis," Juliana said primly. "Mom doesn't say so but I can tell she's mad he's using her hair dye. Our bathroom sink is really really black all the time."

The boys broke into raucuous laughter.

"Mister..." A hand waved in front of his face. Why were people always doing that lately?

"Are you Jose Mendoza? The former world champion?"

Jose grunted.

The boy was chestnut-haired and had a tooth missing. Maybe it was Hernando. A long-dead paternal urge wanted to enquire about the missing tooth and tell him to floss -- somehow his eyes latched onto the food stuck between the teeth and nothing else about the boy's face registered.

Joe had beaten it out of him, though, so he didn't.

"I think...that other guy should have gotten the belt. You were okay, though. Sorry."

"Hey, stop making fun of my dad!"

"Your dad is eighty years old?"

They all squealed and giggled and played tag and then another father, a hardware shop owner -- lucky man -- shooed the boys into their tents, leaving just Juliana and some other girls. Don't ask me their names, Dr. Kinninsky.

In his dreams that night in the square jail that was the ring, Joe looked like Joe under the yellow lights. Not the sheep-wolf that he was. Still smiling, still laughing. Must you always, Joe?

"Hey, mister!" Fernando called out to dream-Joe-real-Joe. "I think you should get the belt."

Are you happy, Joe?

He beamed at Fernando -- ah, yes. The chestnut-haired boy was Fernando, after all.

He beamed at Hernando, too. Why are all you children here past your bedtime?

And then Joe turned his gaze towards Juliana --

Don't look, Julianita, he's dangerous...

Joe beamed at Juliana, too, caught her punch in his outstretched palm, and vanished into the wind.

Was it worth it, Joe? Eating me?

Joe laughed.

Weight...one hundred five pounds.

Jose stirred. He was supposed to be one hundred eighteen. One hundred eighteen minus one hundred five was thirteen. Joe was coming for him.

The belt slipped past his waist like water.

Jose held his nose as he staggered through Caballero's gym into his office. Don't look at the men jumping rope. Don't look at the men hitting the sandbag. Especially do not look at the red gloves.

Jose's nose was lying. He could still smell everything. Caballero's office reeked of sweat, rosin, and dried Vaseline.

He had not set foot in this office in months. Back when he had Caballero write to the boxing association to request thinner gloves against Joe. Of course, that meant he had let Joe use thinner gloves against him.

I need to take a shower when I get home.

The bathroom's pipes couldn't take the hours and hours of scalding heat. They had broken. Joe did it.

You should say hello.

Say hello to Caballero. He hasn't seen you in months.

But, well, Joe had beaten that out of him, too.

"Why did I keep the belt?" he croaked. It was the longest sentence he had uttered in three weeks. Maria would have been thrilled. Maria would have been horrified.

Caballero didn't leap back in his chair like Dr. Kinninsky had. Jose had chosen to wear a wide-brimmed hat for the occasion, so he didn't know.

"Jose, it's been a while! Say, how about we go out -- "

"Don't care about that. Just tell me why I kept the belt."

Caballero squinted. "Why...you kept the belt? Jose, you kept it because the judges ruled in your favor! It's true, I was sweating buckets, you've never gone to a decision before, but the volume of your punches in the first thr -- "

"Did you bribe them?" Jose moistened his lips. His voice was like a creaky door hinge finally opening after months of disuse, only to slam into someone's forehead and leave a bruise.

"Bribe them? What are you saying? You fought perfectly, landed more punches, and demonstrated more efficient technique. Of course we knew that Judge Gutierrez would probably spring for you, but that's just expected, you know, that your own countryman would rule in your favor. No money we needed for that. Japan's Otaka was a surprise, he went for you, too -- turns out that he and Yabuki's coach had big issues back in the day -- "

Jose stared.

" -- he's being investigated for corruption for unrelated issues -- but we had no interaction with him at all and by all accounts, he scored the bout with no bias. You objectively landed more blows! They have it on camera!"

Jose stared.

"Referee Sasaki went for Yabuki, though. Well, he was Yabuki's Gutierrez, I suppose, a Japanese for a Japanese. It was a tough call, but you earned..."

Joe stared.

"Really, I know Yabuki's fighting style made him Japan's darling, but just grinning at your opponent while he hits you isn't going to add up in the point tally. You of all people should know that..."

Jose stared.

"Gutierrez thought you won seven rounds to Yabuki's six and two rounds were a draw, Otaka thought you won nine rounds to Yabuki's six, and Sasaki thought you won seven rounds to Yabuki's eight. It was difficult to decide for the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth rounds, and if that bell had rung a split second earlier in the fifteenth -- but you put up a strong, strong performance and you have nothing to be..."

"Joe ate me." A gust of wind blew the door hinge of his voice back out.

Caballero looked like he didn't like the feeling.

"Joe...ate you?"

"He ate me," Jose confirmed. "He was starving that day and completely ate me."

"Don't be ridiculous. You fought wonderfully. Perfect offense, defense, a seasoned veteran of over thirty matches -- "

"Why didn't they throw me out?"

"What?"

"In round -- " One hundred eighteen minus one hundred five. The round Joe stared, and stared, and stared. The round Joe's blind right eye stared at him with full sight and dilated pupils.

Joe's right eye shouldn't have been working. Joe's punches shouldn't have landed. He was blind in that eye.

Joe punched extremely hard when he was half-blind. A brutal sledgehammer with none of the restraint that a blinking eye, watering and teary, gave a fist.

He moistened his lips again and his tongue fell into the Joe-punched-crevice of his upper teeth.

Caballero chuckled. "Ah, the unlucky number! I admit, if you were a lesser ranked boxer, they probably would have, like they did with some Malaysian some months prior to yours, but -- "

"Joe ate me," he repeated. "Why didn't they throw me out?"

Caballero scowled for the first time. "Look, like you, I thought they would, so just count yourself lucky that they didn't."

And then, abruptly, he brightened, mopping his shiny bald head with a handkerchief. "Jose! Just take it easy in your retirement! I know how tough that match was on you. No one bribed the judges. Yabuki's fighting style was just too knockout-heavy. He had too much of himself out there. An efficient and neat fighting style is what they look for. Your white hair -- I was as shocked as everyone else when that happened. But I think I know why. It's the symbol of you giving your one hundred percent at the pinnacle of your career to wi -- "

And for the first time in over a year, Jose laughed. It was only the second-ugliest sound he had ever made. The ugliest had been in round one hundred eighteen minus one hundred five.

Jose had been counting himself in those dreams with the sheep-wolf referee who ruled in Joe's favor all this time. And after a hundred eighty-three countdowns --

"Caballero," he laugh-croaked. "Stop lying."

"I am not. You really did win fairly -- "

"I have never, ever in my boxing life, given one hundred percent of my effort. You always told me to only use fifty percent."

"Jose -- "

"Even less than that, if I could manage it. Save some of your energy. Keep your matches under nine minutes. Knock them out, laugh about it later. That's what you always told me."

"Jose -- "

"Because giving your one hundred percent is too risky in boxing. Bad things could happen. It's scary. You need to grab your opponent's shoulders and let them land weak punches so they think you're stronger than you are. That way, you can see your family the next day. You don't let them hit with your arms dangling at your sides."

"Jose -- "

The door of his voice was blowing in and out. Jose was out of breath. Talking this much was hard.

He kept going.

"Only fifty percent of my effort at any given time. And over the years, that became all I could ever give. A fifty percent man, eaten by a hundred percent sheep-wolf."

"Jose, you make no sense -- "

"Joe ate me. But then why should I keep the belt afterwards? It doesn't make sense. Are you sure that I really -- "

Caballero slammed his hands against Jose's shoulders, shoving him out the room with a gale force that Jose's one hundred five pound body barely withstood.

"That's enough, Jose! You may insult yourself all you please, but don't drag me into your nonsense. I've never seen a champion complaining about defending his title until now. What a crybaby."

The door slammed shut.

That night, the battle took place in the Arena Coliseo. Maybe his mind had gotten sick of being stuck in the Nippon Budokan.

If you want a nightmare, Señor Mendoza, don't drag me all the way to some stadium in the Orient for it. Have your mental breakdown at home.

But a change in scenery didn't change the scene; the scene was still dream-Joe-real-Joe grinning as he took punch after punch.

The judges were all Venezuelan, each and every last one. He promised Chelsea a summer trip to Caracas; Carlos Rivera was wandering around somewhere there; I'm sorry for making fun of you, Carlos, so please stop scoring every round for Joe. Didn't you see how hard I hit? Three punches to one.

Joe knocked his tooth out and grinned. Every last speck of Jose-food was stuck in his teeth. He could see Joe's reddish-blue gums, the tiny veins running through. Joe needed to brush his teeth.

Joe was ten years younger than he was, and still wore the same boxing trunks he had as a boy.

Joe, please, I have a question. Why did I --

Harry Robert read the scorecard. Each and every Venezuelan voted for Jose.

Carlos grinned at him. His eyes were pitch-blue.

Jose woke with his tongue in the Joe-cavity of his mouth.

Somehow, deep in his heart, Jose Mendoza knew that Joe never dreamed of him at all. Not a moment after the final bell rang.

If there was anything he gained from Caballero, it was this: after such a big Jose-meal, there was one thing certain.

Joe was not coming for him after all. There was no need. He sat in Joe's stomach, half-digested like an alligator in a python somewhere in the Amazon.

Joe? Joe, if it isn't me, what do you dream of?

Juliana stirred in her sleep. Jose lightly stroked her forehead.

The next night, they fought in Valencia. Catatumbo thunder cooked Jose's brain.

Joe, he coughed after a punch sent Jose's molar to the ground. Carlos picked it up at ringside like it was a shiny coin. Joe, tell me. Why did I keep the belt?

Another punch to his sternum.

He grabbed Joe's shoulders and let him punch and punch and punch. It wasn't that different from that arm-hanging thing he did in those color tapes Miss Yoko sent. It hurt like hell. Joe was insane to enjoy it.

Joe, Joe. Tell me. Why did I keep the belt?

The bell rang.

Joe laughed.

Summer came, and Caracas went. Maria's lips pursed one morning when Chelsea brought up a potential vacation to Hawaii again.

"Absolutely not."

"But Mom -- "

"Eat your breakfast, Chelito," she said, wiping her hands on a light green dishcloth. It had yellow stripes, but those had been discolored millions upon millions of times, and now it was a brown Jose could rest his itchy eyes on.

"I really liked Hawaii," Juan piped up. "Miss Yoko was really nice. Wasn't she nice, Dad?"

"Juanito." Maria's voice was swollen like the eggplant that was Jose's face in round fifteen. "Please do not mention that woman again."

"But she gave me that cool spinning helicopter thing."

"Juanito, if you don't finish your cereal in five minutes -- "

"Ugggh. FINE."

The Acta de nacimiento was gone. The only proof that Jose's hair had ever been black was in the old albums of the Sierra Madre Occidental and the gaps in his childrens' teeth one sunny day in Hawaii. Maria kept it far from his tremulous, water glass-knocking grasp and hence it was never at the bedside table.

There was Jose, there was Maria, and there was Carmen, gleefully burying her brothers in a sandy grave as Julianita cheered the bullying.

Miss Yoko's face was clumsily blotted out with Miss Clairol, in each and every painstakingly shot Polaroid, the one and only reason yellow-haired Maria had ever bought the hair dye.

Miss Yoko never needed Miss Clairol just as Joe Yabuki never needed medicine to help him through dreams. Her hair was pitch and he just punched through them.

Joe and Miss Yoko.

That night, Carlos was in a Santa hat and singing jolly carols, and Joe patiently let pigtailed girls and stout boys climb all over him.

Joe? 

Jose gazed at him from across the river. Joe barely gave him an eye-corner glance.

You're still here? Go home.

They were fighting in Manila the week after Chelsea finally bullied his mother into agreeing to a trip to Cozumel. No Caracas. Sorry, Carlos, but you probably weren't in Caracas in the first place.

The president of the Philippines was the judge, jury, and executioner this time. It was the Thrilla in Manila Part II and Carlos had come by flying carpet to Quezon City to giggle at ringside again.

How are you affording the flight tickets, Carlos? I thought everything's expensive now, with the OPEC crisis.

The bell was stuck in round one hundred eighteen minus one hundred five again, and half of Jose's front teeth were missing. Carlos gazed with wide eyes, nodding as Miss Yoko clasped her hands and whispered about the wedding ring Joe got her, made from Jose-teeth --

Jose tuned it all out. The shoulder-grabbing strategy. He couldn't really grab Joe's shoulders this time. It hurt too much. Real-Jose-dream-Jose had gotten a nasty scald on his hand -- someone had to boil water for tea and coffee and he was sick of Maria having to do it each and every time --

He grabbed Joe's arms. Grabbing someone's arms logically should have made it impossible for them to land any blows at all.

Joe's arms were terrifyingly muscled yet slender. A tree branch in drought.

He has ideal bantamweight reach packed into a featherweight height.

Joe broke free and swung.

A tooth in the bottom row cracked.

Joe. Tell me --

Crack.

Why.

Crack.

His mouth was now full of gaping Joe-stalactites crashing down into the earth.

I.

Crack.

Tree branch limbs swung around wildly. Jose didn't even bother to get out of the way.

Kept.

His eye was swollen, but he thought Joe looked pleased.

He blinked hard. It hurt. He did it again six times. Joe was pleased.

Why are you happy, Joe?

It wasn't because Joe was coming for him. There was no need.

The bell for round fourteen rang and didn't rang. Maybe it was just Jose's ears.

The.

Crack.

Jose's last tooth fell to the ground and his voice breached his agonized gums.

Belt?

Joe was definitely pleased. Looked proud, even. Was definitely opening his mouth. To form words.

Who are you proud of, Joe?

Jose's arms hung limply at his sides for the first time. His heart thudded, gazing into Joe's eyes. They were proud. Proud, proud, proud.

Finally, you're going to give me the answer.

The crowd roared in delight.

Joe mirr --

No, he was the one mirro --

The bell rang and three identical copies of the president of the Philippines congratulated him on the unanimous decision.

They never took vacations to Hawaii anymore. They took medical appointments. Jose still hadn't picked up his fight money. The house with more bathrooms was still a floating castle.

All passengers who took a look at his ruined scalp gave him a wide, wide berth, including one man who had whimpered and scurried away, leaving a three day old Honolulu Star-Bulletin in his seat.

HAWAIIAN LEGEND SAM IAUKEA 'LAUGHED LIKE MAD' WATCHING BANTAMWEIGHT BULLY MENDOZA RECEIVE A SOUND WALLOPING:

"GLAD YABUKI SAW THROUGH THE SHOULDER TRICK, THE VENEZUELANS WERE RIGHT TO MAKE HIM A HERO"

Jose nodded.

Finally, someone who wasn't lying.

Tell me, Joe, he gurgled in Times Square. Why did I keep the belt?

Slam. Slam. Slam.

This no-guard stance was torture.

Joe actually talked sometimes when Jose did this stance. This stance was slow death, but Jose was a corpse anyway.

Last week, they were back in the Nippon Budokan, and Joe had giggled and danced around the ring while Jose tried to clinch him in an embrace that meant nothing from a hundred five pound old man.

Two days ago. That's cute, Joe had murmured when the belt slipped off Jose's waist.

What's cute? A grandpa zombie wearing a belt that doesn't even fit?

But Joe didn't answer.

Maybe this week he would.

Does no one worry about you, Joe? That you're doing this to yourself. I'm worried about you. This isn't fair.

But back to the question.

Why did I keep the belt?

Caballero didn't know. The newspapers didn't know.

Do you know why, Joe. Because --

The bell rang.

Jose growled as he woke.

"Do you ever smell things when you dream? I don't. But I can taste. Joe's fist tastes like..."

His wife's eyes were as swollen as his face was in round fifteen.

There was no reason to buy a full year's worth of Miss Clairol just to blot out one woman in one photo album.

Jose dropped the subject.

They were in Barranquilla when Joe finally spoke his first complete sentence that wasn't a creepy wolf-giggle.

That's a cute little belt.

Are you blind in your other eye, too, Joe? It doesn't fit me. Why do I even have it?

You worked hard for that cute little belt. Keep it and cherish it.

But you worked hard for it t --

And Joe wolf-giggled again, like the thought of working hard for a championship belt was a comedy skit.

The bell rang again.

Is this all fun for you, Joe?

All he got was a fist to the teeth again.

Joe would have been good at playing the piano.

Joe? he asked, wide awake. If it wasn't for the belt, what did you fight for?

He didn't know why he ever expected an answer.

Joe? Would you have liked being a father? I think you'd be a good father. You caught Juliana's punch and just smiled. You let those children climb all over you. You're really a young man, though, there's still a lot of time for you.

And maybe this whole thing was stupid.

Joe?

He fell asleep, and there were no dreams this time, none at all.

Jose woke with a horrible ache in his ribs.

There was no reason to buy a full year's worth of Miss Clairol just to blot out one woman in one photo album. The trip to Cozumel came, and Maria must have brought the Miss Yoko album along, because every single pose she had the children recreate was a full Xerox copy of the ones they'd taken in Hawaii. The tilt of a striped green umbrella, the glistening of sunscreen on tanned skin, and perhaps she would have forced the water to sparkle in just the right angles if she had the power. She didn't have that power, though.

She gently brushed Jose's coarse, thin, white hair. It didn't hurt. Put some lotion on the blackened scalp. She tried her best. Maria tried her very best.

It almost worked.

Joe and Sam Iaukea laughed at Maria that night.

Is this all a game to you, Joe? Back in the Nippon Budokan.

Silence.

Last week he'd done the no-guard stance and let Joe punch and punch and punch for every single round.

The week before, he gnawed on Joe's shoulder. Joe's shoulder tasted like soot.

Joe, why does your shoulder taste like soot?

That's a cute little belt. You worked hard for it. Keep it and cherish it.

Why?

Silence.

Joe wasn't there. Caballero wasn't there. The crowd wasn't there. Not even the sheep-wolf referee was there.

Silence.

You can't do this to people. It's not fair.

Silence.

You won't let me live, but you won't let me die either.

Silence.

Just let them disqualify me.

Silence.

Carmen's report card came. She was awful at math.

"Look, Carmenita," Maria said one night, poring over the addition and subtraction homework with their daughter. "Don't just skip question thirteen. What's wrong with question thirteen?"

Jose was in charge of geography.

His dreams didn't have any anymore. No bells, no round one hundred eighteen minus one hundred five.

Joe?

Maria scowled at the next newspaper some terrified passerby had abandoned to the Mendozas' devices. Jose's scalp was a free newspaper collector.

The New York Times, headlined with Harvard doctors make breakthrough with new 'Marie Antoinette' theory of ultra-rapid terror-induced aging from boxing match.

"I suppose they'll make that Yabuki the Time magazine's man of the year," Maria muttered. She determinedly flipped to the news about Watergate and gazed at the dot of an i. Her gaze remained there for a full three minutes.

"You know, Mr. Mendoza," Dr. Kinninsky said. The potted plant that wasn't there with Mauna Kea's seasonal snowcap was pencil-thin and vaguely skeletal. "I'm not at all sure what's going on with your body. The hair dye alone is..."

It's because Joe won't let me.

Dr. Kinninsky stopped abruptly upon seeing Maria's expression.

"But we have a possibility of fixing your nightmares. There's this new medicine, it's called prazosin. Miss Yoko -- "

He stopped again upon seeing Maria's expression.

"Well, it lowers blood pressure and seems to have good use in the treatment of shell-shocked veterans."

"Fix...my nightmares?" Jose was a bullfrog now. A stupid little frog in the well, thinking it had seen the world. What gullibility possessed you to go to Tokyo to wish Joe good luck? You stupid frog.

"But doctor -- "

Only in those dreams have I ever given one hundred percent effort.

Not even the actual match. Just those dreams.

"Thank you so much," Maria said. She was a bullfrog, too.

The potted plant had been there the day he thought Joe was lying about the blue trunks.

We're all stupid little frogs here, doctor.

"But doctor -- "

"We really appreciate you, Dr. Kinninsky."

The wallpaper wasn't this rose-colored paisley, though. It had been green last time.

Swollen little eggplant bullfrogs.

"But doctor -- "

The medical assistant was back from her vacation. Her accent had been Colombian. He'd fought in Barranquilla. In a dream. Just a dream.

I haven't even seen Joe's world yet.

You stupid frog.

From here, he could hear the waves sloshing along against the shore, like rhythmic fabric being ironed out. Push and pull. Heave and ho.

Dream-Joe-real-Joe's footsteps were wobbly in the sand, snaking here and there in the silver light. Dream-Joe-real-Joe didn't care at all.

Didn't care about being punched. Didn't care about fifty percent.

Dream-Jose-real-Jose had to run up to catch him and even then, he was still about ten steps behind.

Ha. A grandpa zombie playing dress-up in a bathrobe stained with hair dye.

Joe?

Joe ignored him.

Joe, this might be the last time I see you before the medicine kicks in.

Joe ignored him.

Joe. Joe. Are you listening at all, Joe?

Joe knelt down on the sand and tenderly stroked the shell of a crab.

Joe. Joe. Please tell me, Joe.

Joe really would have been a good father.

Just tell me. Please?

Joe finally glanced up, his lone functioning eye holding complete indifference. He wore the white-black marble of that unblinking eye like an afterthought. Just random clothes he'd thrown on one day. No contacts. No guard. No tinted glasses to hide it. Here I am. Take me or leave me.

Jose gasped for breath.

You're only twenty-one, Joe.

Poor Joe, being dragged from Carlos Rivera and those children to look at some grandpa zombie he didn't even dream of.

Just one last time, Joe. Tell me why I kept the belt. Then you'll set me free.

Jose gasped for breath.

Joe closed his blank eyelid like it was his very own child, not an afterthought. There you are. I'll accept it all.

Joe?

That's a cute little belt.

Joe?

You worked hard for that cute little belt.

Joe?

Keep it and cherish it.

Joe?

I don't need it.

Joe?