The Prize

Copyright 2008 by Jay Matthews

Buchanan Bridges was not easily offended because he took things in the best way. He was "Bucky" for most people that knew him so far, but he suddenly became "Buck" as he walked the deck of the river boat Tempest. A dog-eared dime novel protruded from his pocket. He patted it down deeper.

The Colorado River cut the land and took Buck with it. When he arrived at Plenoth, he would figure out how a logger walked. But for now, he was a river boat man. The music on the boat raised spirits and made it seem like you were dancing just by walking around and taking in all the sights. Buck stood and watched a poker game for a while. No one asked him to join in the game, but maybe that wasn't how you got started.

He made his way to the highest deck, which opened up wide -- wide enough to contain the roped-off prizefighting ring. The festive draperies of red, white, and blue were becoming whiskey-soaked as the onlookers cheered. Buck nudged his way in towards the ropes. Two men fought bare-knuckle -- and by the looks of their swollen, simean brows, this was not Round One.

One fighter, a black man, was earning every bit of his pay and fighting like he had to win to get it. The white one rained savage blows, but he moved backwards and forwards, in and out, never really satisfying. Buck's hand clenched absently in time with the punches. Buck looked left; the men who were watching next to him were yelling and punching the air, some with drops of spittle flying from their lips.

The black fighter moved in an altogether different fashion. A lateral fashion. Always to his right, away from the power of the white man's right fist. Each exchange was a transaction that the black fighter got the better of. He peppered the white man's face with jabs, and rocked him with a punch to the temple. Buck figured the black man as a slave, at least when he was a boy. Probably fought for fun on the plantation at night, with his own people.

The bell sounded the end of the round, and the sweaty crowd audibly wheezed, exhausted. The men looked at each other, with noise and talk of the fight. "I tol' ya!" said an older man, drunk, in Buck's vicinity. A redhead in a bowler hat said "Sweet Lou is a mighty one! He's never lost!"

Buck squared his shoulders to the men, smiling. "That nigger sure can fight!"

The bowler hat man's eyes cut away, towards the ring. He nodded and breathed out, halfway laughing, and halfway forming the word "yeah."

The older man grinned and touched Buck. "That's right! That's right. I tol' ya! You owe me a round!"

Buck smiled and glanced over to see if there was beer for sale nearby. The older man was mistaken or more likely joshing, but it was Buck's instinct to check. Maybe the man in the bowler hat would have one, too. But he needed to conserve his money as much as possible. The new job would pay, but he had to get by for now. When he started earning money in the logging camp, he could buy beers for the other loggers. Some of them would probably buy him beers, too.

The bell rang. The crowd turned and resumed cheering in a wave, like a big hot breath. Buck was part of it now. Sweet Lou circled right, closing in a tightening circle on the man who stood between him and the prize.

I love these slice of life tales. Insightful and humanizing. You don't need to know how they end - it is all about the moment.

Good job!

Nice one, Jay. I like how the character appears to mold himself to his settings, a mimic who
seems to be on a mission, perhaps only to experience life in all of its forms.

Really well done. A good solid sense of character.

Great character story. He's a bit of a nerd studying everything around him in order to fit in, and you get the idea that he's always done this. Love the details on the riverboat and the description of the boxing match, too.