At 147 pounds, Kid Dynamite fought as a welterweight. He had recently advanced through the semifinals in the open class of the Chicago Golden Gloves, but made the finals only just barely. Two of these victories were split decisions. In his last fight on Friday, he suffered a slight cut under the left eye. The opponent had pushed him to the limit and he knew that from here on in the competition would get much rougher. Four of the boxers from the Steelworkers’ Hall had made it to the finals. They were all sky-high that night, driving back to Aurora on the Eisenhower Freeway in Juan’s junky-ass Cadillac. But after Juan dropped Kid Dynamite off and he came into the house with his gym bag, Cancer Frank was lying on the couch watching TV and didn’t bother to even look up at his stepson. The Driver was already in bed and it was too late to call his girlfriend, Melanie. So he went upstairs and woke up the Driver. “I won. I got him good,” he said.

The Driver’s face was covered in a luminescent green mask. “Did you knock him out?” she said wearily. There was a bath towel on the Driver’s pillow and flecks of cracked green paste dropped from her face as she spoke.

‘Jesus. The creature from the Green Bog,” Kid Dynamite said.

“It’s a wrinkle mask. Did you knock him out or what?”

“My guy? No, I won on points. Chubby knocked his guy out. I won on points. Cuba and Eloise Greene won.”

“What about your homework?” she said.

“What about it? It’s Friday night. Man, I was feeling so right tonight. It was the best thing. I’m going to win the tournament,” Kid Dynamite said.

“You’re just like your father and where is he now? He’s in the nuthouse. You’ve got to study. You’ve got geometry problems.”

“I’m talking to a lima bean. Screw geometry. When was the last time you had to whip out a slide rule to solve one of life’s problems?”

“You hang out with those lowlife boxers and you act crude. What will you do with your life? How can you hang out with such scrums?”

“They’re my friends. Jesus! I come in here feeling great. Can’t you just say, ‘Good, I’m glad you won. You’ve made me a happy lima bean.’ Is that too much to ask?”

The Driver stuck her hand out groping for the alarm clock. “I’ve got to get up at the crack of dawn, what time is it?” she said.

“Midnight. I’m going to take an aspirin. I’ve got a headache. Shit!”

As he left the bedroom his mother said, “I don’t want to take the wind out of your sails, but you better pass or you’ll end up in the gutter.”