her and says: “If you like stories, maybe I can tell you some over a cup of coffee some time?”
‘She looks me up and down and says: “So long as I can get a donut too.”
‘I couldn’t believe it. We met an hour later and we drank coffee and ate donuts. Leona ends up telling me all about her life and I just listen, soaking up her voice like it was pure
gravy. She’d come to New York from LA when she was sixteen. She’d always meant to go back, but New York kept finding new ways of keeping her occupied. She worked as a clerk in a bank in
Manhattan and loved riding the subway. I liked the way she touched her hair as she spoke. I told her some of my better fight stories and her eyes dazzled as I told them. She said she loved tales of
the old boxers.
‘“These new guys,” she says to me after I told her a story about Sugar Ray Robinson, “they’re not real fighters. They’re like machines with muscles, or
something. It’s like they’re wearing battle suits. Gimme the old guys any day.” I couldn’t speak for about a minute. I was expecting Allen Funt from Candid Camera to
step through the door. She was perfect. Perfect in every way.
‘I saw her the next week. We met for coffee again. She asks me if I’d like to come round to hers for dinner. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t understand what a
thirty-five-year-old black woman would want to do with an old fool like me. She apologized and we sat and watched our coffees go cold.
‘“Is there something wrong?” she says. “I thought we were getting on real well.”
‘And I say, “Sure,” and then give her a compliment.
‘“So, are you afraid of my cooking? You expecting polk salad and chitlins and molasses?” she says to me just like that. And I start mumbling, that it’s not that at
all.
‘She puts her hand on mine then and starts saying about how age and all the rest of it means nothing to her. She likes me, is all. Likes my gentle hands and my muscles and the way I bob my
head as I speak. Then she kisses me. The next day I go round to her place for dinner. Six weeks later she’s moved her stuff in here and she’s talking about redecoration.’
Charlie paused and went to refill the glasses.
‘I don’t need to go into all the details. They’re not important. All you need to know is that I was the happiest I’ve ever been. It was like something out of dreams, or
off the movies or something. It was like we were fused together. We understood each other so well we didn’t need to communicate. We were just so happy that it seemed nothing bad could ever
happen to anyone.’
He laughed then and looked longingly for a moment at my cigarettes.
‘The only punch you never see is the one that puts you on the canvas. You can’t ever see that one coming, that’s what they say. About three years ago, things became a little
strained, somehow not quite as special. And it hit Leona real hard. She couldn’t understand it, couldn’t get herself excited about anything. She stopped coming to the fights, stopped
making dinner. She just watched television and cried sometimes in the night. It was strange. It was like someone had thrown water on a fire. She just seemed to run out of spark.
‘She was usually so active, but now she just wanted to stay home. She’d look at me with those beautiful eyes when I got home and she’d say: “I’m losing you. I
don’t want to, but I’m losing you.” And I didn’t know what else to say but: “No. No, you’re not losing me.”
‘This went on for a few months. She would read these books with titles like You Can Change Your Life and The Seven Stages of Success and Happiness . Y’know that kind of
Oprah stuff? They did nothing and she’d throw them across the room after just a few pages. “These people know nothing, Charlie,” she’d say, “they don’t have a
clue how bad it feels.” One day I came home and she’d been drinking. She spent two whole days throwing up. A month
‘She looks me up and down and says: “So long as I can get a donut too.”
‘I couldn’t believe it. We met an hour later and we drank coffee and ate donuts. Leona ends up telling me all about her life and I just listen, soaking up her voice like it was pure
gravy. She’d come to New York from LA when she was sixteen. She’d always meant to go back, but New York kept finding new ways of keeping her occupied. She worked as a clerk in a bank in
Manhattan and loved riding the subway. I liked the way she touched her hair as she spoke. I told her some of my better fight stories and her eyes dazzled as I told them. She said she loved tales of
the old boxers.
‘“These new guys,” she says to me after I told her a story about Sugar Ray Robinson, “they’re not real fighters. They’re like machines with muscles, or
something. It’s like they’re wearing battle suits. Gimme the old guys any day.” I couldn’t speak for about a minute. I was expecting Allen Funt from Candid Camera to
step through the door. She was perfect. Perfect in every way.
‘I saw her the next week. We met for coffee again. She asks me if I’d like to come round to hers for dinner. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t understand what a
thirty-five-year-old black woman would want to do with an old fool like me. She apologized and we sat and watched our coffees go cold.
‘“Is there something wrong?” she says. “I thought we were getting on real well.”
‘And I say, “Sure,” and then give her a compliment.
‘“So, are you afraid of my cooking? You expecting polk salad and chitlins and molasses?” she says to me just like that. And I start mumbling, that it’s not that at
all.
‘She puts her hand on mine then and starts saying about how age and all the rest of it means nothing to her. She likes me, is all. Likes my gentle hands and my muscles and the way I bob my
head as I speak. Then she kisses me. The next day I go round to her place for dinner. Six weeks later she’s moved her stuff in here and she’s talking about redecoration.’
Charlie paused and went to refill the glasses.
‘I don’t need to go into all the details. They’re not important. All you need to know is that I was the happiest I’ve ever been. It was like something out of dreams, or
off the movies or something. It was like we were fused together. We understood each other so well we didn’t need to communicate. We were just so happy that it seemed nothing bad could ever
happen to anyone.’
He laughed then and looked longingly for a moment at my cigarettes.
‘The only punch you never see is the one that puts you on the canvas. You can’t ever see that one coming, that’s what they say. About three years ago, things became a little
strained, somehow not quite as special. And it hit Leona real hard. She couldn’t understand it, couldn’t get herself excited about anything. She stopped coming to the fights, stopped
making dinner. She just watched television and cried sometimes in the night. It was strange. It was like someone had thrown water on a fire. She just seemed to run out of spark.
‘She was usually so active, but now she just wanted to stay home. She’d look at me with those beautiful eyes when I got home and she’d say: “I’m losing you. I
don’t want to, but I’m losing you.” And I didn’t know what else to say but: “No. No, you’re not losing me.”
‘This went on for a few months. She would read these books with titles like You Can Change Your Life and The Seven Stages of Success and Happiness . Y’know that kind of
Oprah stuff? They did nothing and she’d throw them across the room after just a few pages. “These people know nothing, Charlie,” she’d say, “they don’t have a
clue how bad it feels.” One day I came home and she’d been drinking. She spent two whole days throwing up. A month
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