Roscoe

Champ can’t fight no more. Short Fiction by JD Clapp

Photo by Johann Walter Bantz on Unsplash

Roscoe sat on the edge of his single bed. His pug, Miss Daisy, ran across the cold floor and jumped on his leg. Roscoe patted her head and grinned. He loved the little bitch. His Gambling Anonymous buddy, Andy, gave him the dog years ago after Roscoe flushed his life down the shitter gambling. Andy, God rest his soul, named her Miss Daisy because Roscoe looked like Morgan Freeman and drove a limo at the time, and she was “a yappy bitch like the lady in the movie.” Roscoe hadn’t wanted a dog, but Andy knew he needed something. “Me and Miss Daisy are your family now,” Andy said when he handed him the puppy. 

Roscoe opened the blinds to a rainy day. He looked over the tops of the Embarcadero warehouses to the bay. A band of fog hung just over the whitecaps. Ocean view on ghetto prices. He looked at the clock—6:07 AM. I managed to sleep five whole hours.

“Hold on, girl. Let the old man get his legs,” Roscoe said, as he got up.

Roscoe shuffled the handful of steps across his small rent-controlled studio apartment to the kitchen area. He turned on his coffeemaker, then went to the small pantry cupboard and grabbed the bag of dog chow. He filled Miss Daisy’s bowl, returned the bag to the cupboard, picked up the Cheerios box, and shook it before setting it back in its place. It was full, but the box was two years old. Better get a new box soon.

***

That night, Roscoe stood just inside the doorway of the men's room at Pete's Chop House, as he had for the past eight years, his attendants' tray of gum, breath mints, cologne, combs, and condoms on a small folding table next to him. His tip jar sat on the counter by the stack of freshly washed terry cloth hand towels. Although his main duties included opening and closing the door and offering hand towels, he dressed like a patron—gray wool flannel trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, a blue silk tie, and a blue herringbone tweed vest. He kept his gray Afro cropped close and his gray beard bushy, but not unruly. He liked looking professional. He took pride in his work.

But at 71 years old, Roscoe yearned to retire, to get the hell off his feet every night, to walk Miss Daisy in the park, sit on a bench, and watch the bay. Even with Social Security and Medicare, he lived on a shoestring—just enough for rent, food, and a bottle of whisky a month. Early on, when he was getting his life back together and working the steps, it helped keep him from hitting the ponies or calling the bookie. Now he needed the damn job.

Roscoe only half-listened to the two drunk men pissing in their respective urinals, a three-foot steel privacy wall between them. Every night he heard the same old shit—juvenile banter about the hostess’s perfect tits, quick negotiations of how to split the dinner bill, debates about the likely outcome of that night’s game, or whether their dates would put out. And he could listen and hear anything, with no fear of being called out for eavesdropping. Ain’t nobody paying attention to an old man selling breath mints? Shit, I might as well be a piece of furniture.

As Roscoe started daydreaming about sleeping in on his day off, his ear caught something. He started listening.

“You took care of it, right?” said the man in the blue suit.

“Yep. Wired half tonight, he’ll get the other half after the TKO,” said the man in the charcoal pinstripe suit.

“I hate to see him do this,” said Mr. Blue Suit.

“It’s good business. It helps the kid—he’s his protégée after all—and Champ’ll get a piece of everything the kid makes moving forward. Plus, no harm to his legacy—it’s an injury, not a knockout. Win-win-win.”

The men finished, zipped up, flushed, and moved to the sink. Roscoe recognized Mr. Blue Suit—Jackson Fletcher, boxing promoter, a modern, corporate version of Don King.

Roscoe stood ready with hand towels, handing each man one as they finished washing. Neither man acknowledged him.

“Fourth round?” Fletcher asked.

“Yeah, fourth. Champ’ll win the first three rounds.”

Fletcher grabbed a mint from Roscoe’s tray, peeled a $5 off from the bottom of his money clip, and stuffed it into the tip cup. Both men headed back into the dining room without muttering a word to Roscoe. Like I ain’t even here…

Roscoe wondered if they were talking about the Hanley/Miller fight or the undercard fight that also featured two former champions. Oh, man…Shit…I better go to a meeting…this is tempting…

Roscoe hadn’t wagered a dime in nine years. Still, he had an addict’s mentality. Not knowing which bout was being thrown by which fighter had Roscoe’s mind churning. If it’s Hanley taking a fall in the fourth, I’d net at least 60 to 1…Shit…Shit…Andy if you up there listenin’ send me a sign, buddy.

As Roscoe pondered his fantasy betting strategy, he handed out towels, sold a couple of spritzes of Polo and Drakkar Noir, and a condom to a guy so drunk he pissed on his own shoes. Eventually, he heard two guys chatting about The Champ, Hanley, partying in the private dining room with his entourage.

Around 10:00 PM The Champ waltzed in, completely blotto, to use the shitter. He nodded at Roscoe, slurred, “How’s it going, pops?” and then staggered into the handicap stall. Roscoe heard a loud thud against the wall of the stall, followed by a groan, and the Champ mumble, “Motherfucker.”

“You okay, Champ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just struggling to get this fuckin’ jacket off.”

A few minutes later, Roscoe heard the flush and the Champ emerged. He set his suit jacket on the sill, and washed his hands. As Roscoe handed him a towel, the Champ asked for help putting his jacket back on.

“Right side first. That shoulder is trashed…er, I mean sore from training. Yeah, training.”

Roscoe could see the Champ had almost no range of motion in the shoulder.

He finished helping the prizefighter, who thanked him by pulling two Benjamins off his fat cash roll and handing them to Roscoe.

“I appreciate your help, my man,” the Champ said, then patted Roscoe’s shoulder as he walked out.

Better than the two-hundred-dollar tip, Roscoe had his answer.

Champ can’t fight no more…It’s time to sell the watch…Just one more play and I’ll be flush and done.

The night he found it, Roscoe had been working at Pete’s for only a couple of months. After closing each night, Roscoe dumped the dirty terry cloth hand towels from the bathroom collection basket into the laundry bin with the dining room linens. That night, his eye caught something shiny and gold amid the sea of soiled white napkins, tablecloths, and towels. He reached in, grabbed a gold watch, and quickly stuffed it into his pocket with his tips. Roscoe didn’t look at his find until he was safely locked in his apartment. He hid the watch inside a bag of cereal in a Cheerios box.

Roscoe decided he’d return it if it was claimed. He waited two months, and when nobody returned to Pete’s looking for it, he figured it was fake or stolen. Eventually, Roscoe took the watch to a little shop off Union Square. The old horologist looked at the timepiece through a loop. He took the case back off and examined the movement.

“This is an authentic, solid gold, Rolex Day, Date model. Collectors call it the “Presidential.” It’s worth about $8,000. Would you like to sell it?” the jeweler asked. That kind of cash is trouble.

“No, I think I’ll hold on to it.” 

Roscoe decided the watch would be his retirement fund and a symbol of his willpower and commitment to recovery. It sat in its hiding place for eight years.

Two weeks after he’d helped the Champ struggle into his suit jacket, Roscoe called off from work. He fed and walked Miss Daisy. He filled her water dish and food dishes.

“See you late tonight, Miss Daisy. You be a good girl and guard the apartment.”

Roscoe headed to SFO with a round-trip ticket to Vegas and $22,000 in his pocket. If the fog didn’t roll in, and nothing went wrong, he’d be home around 1:00 AM with a big check.

After landing, Roscoe moved through from the gate to ground transportation as fast as he could walk. The cling-clang bells and electronic bloops, the flashing lights and shiny machines, and the sounds of gaming beckoned him like some cruel temptress. His stomach churned as the taxi drove past The Strip to the Golden Nugget downtown. I gotta get in and out or this gonna be trouble. He headed straight for the sports book.

“Twenty-two thousand on Miller to win in the fourth. Miller at +800,” the teller said, as she counted out Roscoe’s cash on the counter and handed him a ticket with his bet.

“Yes ma’am!” Roscoe said.

“Good luck!” the teller said.

Roscoe made his way out of the casino. He grabbed a cab and headed to a café off The Strip in a little strip mall near UNLV. He lingered at his table until 1:00 PM then walked across the parking lot to a small bar populated by students. He sat at the bar, nursing whisky and chatting with the bartender until happy hour. Then he headed back to the café for dinner.

All day, as he waited for the fight, he alternated between imagining finally being done with work and a nagging worry the thing might go south. This is a one-and-done bet that became his internal mantra. He felt some guilt, but worse was the anxiety. What if it’s a Pulp Fiction double cross? What if the Champ takes a shot to the shoulder too soon and can’t make it to the fourth? What if…What if…It was a long day of waiting, not gambling.

When the undercard started, Roscoe left the bar and headed back to the Nugget.

Miss Daisy stood on the bed looking out onto the first rays of sun shining through the window. The wind blew big puffy white clouds across the sky above the choppy bay. She cried and pawed at the window. She ran to the door and wagged her tail as Roscoe turned the key.

Roscoe tossed his coat on the bed and lay down. Miss Daisy jumped up and licked his face.

“Easy girl. I need some rest. Then we can take a long walk to the bank. Tomorrow, we gonna spend the whole day at the park just resting on a bench and watching the boats.”

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JD Clapp lives in San Diego, CA. His work has appeared in Cowboy Jamboree, Bristol Noir, Revolution John, and numerous others. In 2023, he was a Pushcart Prize Nominee in nonfiction by Thirty West’s Afterimages) and had a fictional story selected as a finalist in the Hemingway Shorts Short Story competition. He is a regular contributor to Poverty House.