The Didactor Page 2

  The Rubys lived in an outrageous collection of self-built concrete block houses, mobile homes, and converted school buses. Considering their antipathy toward anything and everything school connected, the buses constituted a perverse feature.

  The eye-jarring collection of living places lay scattered without apparent plan over a three or four acre mountain tract adjacent to a local highway. Rusting car bodies vied for attention with large shaggy dogs chained in runs between scrub trees.

  To stop a car in the vicinity of Rubyland was to set off a cacophony of barking, baying, and howling that was invariably silenced by equally raucous shouts of "Shut up" And "Quiet dog!" laid on by the Ruby closest to each offending animal. Since the women were as loud as the men, the quieting was itself a disconcerting experience.

  Ruby plumbing was about equally divided between outhouse and septic system. Coupled with the inevitable canine effluvia, the Ruby acres exuded a powerful and gamey essence that repelled visitors but left Rubys unaffected. The acrid odor mixed with sour milk, baby pee, and stale sweat scent invaded and became part and parcel to all Rubys. It was strong and it was repugnant. Some claimed the distinctive odor was in their clothing. Others insisted the smell was Ruby all the way and came from inside somewhere. All agreed: Rubys stunk.

  Still, the girls married and so did the boys. They brought their families onto the Ruby plot, along with their new dogs and old cars, and began to produce a new crop of Rubys to intrigue and harass the townspeople of Newport.

  Tom was the oldest Ruby now in school. He was typical of the Ruby boys in his distaste for school, his exceptional athletic ability, and certainly in his personal appearance. "Seen one Ruby, you've seen 'em all!" Tom weighed just over two hundred pounds. He stood six feet tall on his large peasant feet, and his hands hung closer to his knees than his hips. His reflexes were quick and he owned the aggressiveness necessary to compete successfully on the gridiron.

  Most teachers found Ruby's athletic ability small recompense for his classroom presence but the football coaches offered regular prayer that he would stay in school until the season was over. Without Tom Ruby, Newport football had little to offer. With him, the school stood an outside chance of winning a few games. They needed Tom Ruby, a need completely understood by Tom that allowed him to edge even closer to the Line without being severely punished or suspended.

  +++++

  Ruby had waited until the right moment. He put all his effort into it and the sound rolled above Mr. Troop's voice and left a shocked silence behind.

  When Tom Ruby farted, everything stopped. In some classrooms there would have been hilarity, but Mr. Troop's room was somehow different. The students, first stunned, became embarrassed. It was like doing it in church or in front of your best girl. The class sat silent, letting their soundless disapproval fall heavily on Tom.

  As soon as he had done it, Ruby was mortified. He recognized a horrid mistake. Embarrassment flushed his face and he could feel himself physically sinking into his seat. If just one student had laughed or made comment, but there was only stonily silent rejection. The disgust of the world seemed centered on Tom Ruby.

  The teacher carefully replaced a paper on his desk. He faced Ruby and approached him slowly. Ruby started to say, "I'm sick today, Mr. Troop," But he saw utter distaste in the teacher's face and discomfiture flamed to white hot anger. It shot through his mind, narrowing his vision until only Troop's hated features filled his awareness.

  As if from a far distance he heard Troop's voice say, "Stand up!" The order, coldly impersonal, triggered the rage and embarrassment sardined into Tom Ruby's soul. He exploded from his seat. The hatred, sullenly nurtured and stored, erupted in a tide so blinding he could hardly see. He knew he said something and thought it might have been, "I'm going to kill you." He didn't care what he said; he wanted only to smash those despised features. He lunged and smashed wildly into the middle of them with his left fist and then, drawing far back, he drove his right fist straight and true at Troop's face.

  Something detonated against Tom Ruby's right jaw. Agony sliced through him and he half turned, trying instinctively to protect himself, when another gigantic blow smashed into the middle of his face. A deepening well of darkness enveloped him and cushioned the stunning impact that would soon become pulsing, soul-sickening pain.

  +++++

  Troop found himself mentally standing aside and watching the performance. Almost academically he observed the Ruby boy lunge from his seat. He distinctly heard him say, "I'm going to kill you." He watched the wildly thrown left hand approach him and allowed it to slip past. The tremendous right hand blow was another matter. It was thrown with the awful power of a two hundred pound athlete's maximum effort. Troop's left arm cocked itself, and as he moved the few inches necessary to let the blow sail harmlessly by, his body leaned behind a short, jolting hook that appeared to detonate along the boy's jaw. Without conscious volition, a second hook followed the first, again exploding with concentrated power squarely on Tom Ruby's nose.

  To the dumbfounded class, the actions were almost too swift to record. Tom Ruby jumped up and swung at Mr. Troop, who seemed to merely stand there as the blows went past, and then Mr. Troop hit Tom Ruby twice so fast and terrible that Tom was stopped in his tracks and collapsed onto the floor. Blood flew everywhere, a girl screamed, and then people were dragging Tom from the room—to the nurse's office, they guessed.

  Some remembered Tom Ruby saying something as he jumped at Mr. Troop. There was uncertainty as to what he said, but there was no disagreement that everyone thought Mr. Troop was going to get half-killed. They didn't see how Tom could have missed, and if either of those punches had hit Mr. Troop, it would have been all over for Troop. Instead, old Tom missed and it was lights out for him. One boy kept insisting that Mr. Troop's punches had sounded like his father slapping a big beef steak on the cutting block.

  Some wondered if Tom Ruby was dead. Some thought his neck twisted kind of funny, and when the boys who carried Tom to the nurse's office came back, they only shook their heads and said nothing. Mr. Troop didn't even ask. He just nodded them into their seats and said, "Thanks, fellas," just like they'd emptied the waste baskets or something.

  It seemed as though the period would never end. They wanted to rush out to tell their friends and they wanted to know what had happened to Tom Ruby. When the buzzer finally sounded and Mr. Troop had dismissed them with the same slight smile he always used, they hurried from the classroom without the usual hanging back to have a last word with their teacher.

  No one lingered and Ben Troop was grateful. He too needed to leave the classroom and have time to think a bit.

  +++++

  Newport, Spring 1932

  "Ok, son, keep that left up. Attaboy, Ben! Jab, jab, jab. Always straight, Bennie boy. Only bums swing.

  "Let's see it again. Jab, jab, jab! Good going! A jab goes straight out and straight back, son. Not bad for seven years old. Someday you'll lick every kid on Fourth Street."

  +++++

  Newport, Fall 1935

  "Dad, I'm going to have a fight."

  "Yeah, who with?'

  "Mickey."

  "Thought you and he were big buddies."

  "He thinks he can lick me."

  "Who cares what he thinks?"

  "He makes me look bad in front of the kids."

  "Oh?'

  "Some of 'em laugh at me."

  "If I told you to forget it, could you?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Ok then, go to it, but don't crybaby if he hangs some on you."

  One day later . . .

  . . . Arthur, you've got to control that boy of yours!"

  "Yeah, I heard,"

  "He beat my boy Mickey something awful."

  "Yeah, I heard."

  "Why, Mickey has a black eye and one tooth is loose. He's going to lose it for sure."

  "Front or back tooth?'

  "Back, but that's not the point and you know it! Why I saw the
whole thing. Mickey never hit Bennie at all."

  "Did he try?'

  "Of course he tried, but you know how quick Benny is."

  "Yeah, he moves pretty good."

  "Children shouldn't be fighting, Arthur."

  "I fought a lot, Willet, and I don't feel bad about it."

  "Humph! What about Benny?"

  "I'll talk it over with him."

  "Well, I hope you do. We've always had a good neighborhood here, Arthur."

  "Keep calm, Willet. I'll talk to Ben."

  One hour later . . .

  "Hi, men!"

  "Hi, dad."

  "Hi, Mr. Troop."

  "Nice eye, Mickey."

  "Yeah, Benny nailed me a beaut."

  "You get any licks in?'

  "Naw, he's too fast,

  "Hey, Mr. Troop?"

  "Yeah, Mickey?'

  "Do you think you maybe could show me some of those neat moves like you did Benny? I mean, I'm a year older than Benny; I'm almost eleven and I could use the trainin'. I'm thinkin' of being a race car driver and that's a tough racket."

  "What would your dad say?'

  "About me racing cars? He wants me to be a doctor or somethin',"

  "No, about you learning to box."

  "Couldn't we just not mention it?'

  +++++

  Fort Benning, Georgia, 1943

  "Jab, then hook, hook . . . that's the secret. Look at my right ear; flatter than hell, ain't it? Well, that comes from left hooks, an' look at my right eyebrow. See that scar tissue? Hooks mostly.

  "Now look, Troop. You hit nice an' you've got good combinations, but there's one you ain't got and it's the big one. Straight left jab, then two left hooks so fast an' hard they'd blast through a girder.

  "Now here's all you gotta do. When the jab goes out, it only comes back part way. Your shoulder stays up protectin' your jaw. Your weight's already shifted onto your front foot an' now comes the hook.

  "Elbow down, baby! Elbow out is just a swing. Keep it down and short. Bam! Just like that. Then, Bam again. Take his skull clean off.

  "One more thing: Practice, man! Practice on the heavy bag with a lead bar in your fist. Those two hooks have gotta be so fast, so automatic you don't even know you throw'd 'em till they're pickin' the guy up"

  +++++

  Fort Dix, New Jersey, 1947

  I told you, damn it! I told you watch out for his hooks. So you leave your chin hangin' out like a hat rack.

  "Jesus, you knew Troop could hit like a truck. You listenin' to me, boy? Good! Then hear this: Troop is now welterweight champ of the First goddamn U.S. Army an' you are goin' back to cleanin' pots an' pans in the mess hall. Damn! A couple of hooks an' you're out colder'n a first sergeant's heart.

  +++++

  Fort Dix, New Jersey, 1949

  Mugsy Moran prided himself on talking straight to his fighters. He'd always put the good of his fighters ahead of everything else and he knew it was time to give Ben Troop the word.

  He scrubbed absently at the heavy mass of scar tissue over his eyes, an old fighter showing the sag of aging muscle and a spare tire brought on by too much beer and no road work.

  It had been many years since Mugs Moran had stepped through the ropes, hands tightly taped, conditioned muscle rippling beneath the sheen of warm-up sweat. It had been longer since his glove fist had been raised in victory as all Army heavyweight champion. The later fights, as his reflexes slowed, as new and rugged boys came along, he rarely mentioned. Those were the years of torn flesh and growing scar tissue and of seeing other men's arms raised in triumph.

  So, Mugsy became a trainer of other men. He stayed in special services and as a sergeant first class lived a life he found full and satisfying. Sergeant Moran rarely left the gym except to belly up to the non-commissioned officers' club bar. He issued basketballs and organized volleyball schedules but mainly he trained fighters. A generation of Army boxers had sweat and bled under Moran's tutelage. It was not uncommon to find both fighters in the ring had once trained under Mugsy's direction.

  When the Army assigned Moran to duty in the states, it was always at Fort Dix. One reason was that Mugsy had picked up a German wife after the war and there still weren't many areas in the land of the free that tolerated mixed marriages.

  If ever a man was black, it was Mugsy. There seemed no shade of brown on him, just a vast expanse of coal black skin, short kinky hair, and an acre or two of great white teeth—except for the two gold ones in front that replaced a pair butted out in some half-forgotten bout.

  The other reason Mugsy was always at Fort Dix was the boxing. Dix was close to New York and New Jersey. Tough city boys entered the Army through Fort Dix, and First Army Headquarters wanted the fighters among them singled out and trained to represent them in the ring. Mugsy did that training. He created fighters and improved others. Sometimes he produced a champion. Ben Troop was one of them.

  While he waited for Troop to shower and dress, he thought some about what he had to tell the boy. Christ, Ben Troop was probably twenty-five years old, but to Moran, Troop was still a boy. Mugsy remembered Ben in the beginning, a classy boxer, jab, cross, and hook. Then Troop the fighter, always working, developing the combinations that battered and smashed him to the Army's European middleweight championship. He remembered the jolt of pleasure he'd felt when he got word of Troop's victory. Not that he and Troop were buddies or anything, but he had trained Troop. He, Mugsy, had brought him from YMCA boxer to top amateur fighter. Mugsy's own skill and know-how were in there with Trooper, and Moran's pride in that was great.

  No, he and Troop were not buddies, but there was mutual respect. Seeing a good boy in action was life blood to Moran and in Ben Troop he saw a real fighter, truly an All-Army champion.

  Now he had the bear's tail and he didn't like it. He again rubbed at the scar tissue wondering if he was doing it right and doubting that Ben Troop would listen anyway. Fighters seldom listened, he knew from hard experience. With their strong, muscular bodies and razor-edge reflexes they considered themselves special. Knock a good fighter down eight times and he'd think he slipped eight times and would expect to get you any minute. Moran shook his great head in memory; young and tough, how good it had been.

  Troop came into the gymnasium office on the bounce. He tended to walk on his toes when not marching. The neatly tailored OD's set off his muscular frame, making him a walking recruiting poster.

  Moran crushed a twinge of envy at the double row of service ribbons sprinkled with battle stars on Troop's left breast wishing, as he often did, that he'd gotten a taste of combat. He guessed he'd die wondering how he'd have done.

  "Wanta go a few, Mugsy?" Troop bobbed and weaved, flicking a left hand in Moran's general direction. "Always watch out for the Troop right to the jaw," He said, hooking a low driving blow that would obviously have connected with an opponent's groin.

  "For Christ sake, sit down, Trooper. I'd tap your lights out in thirty seconds."

  Troop dropped into a battered lounge chair then hopped up to drink noisily from the bubbler and again collapsed into the chair, mopping at his wet mouth with a jacket sleeve. He finally seemed ready to listen, and Mugsy let him have it straight out like he always did.

  "Trooper, you're one of the best fighters I ever trained so what I'm tellin' ya now ain't easy." Troop's startled expression brought him quickly to the point.

  "I want you to hang up your gloves an' quit fightin'! No, I'm not kiddin'." He stopped Troop's exclamation of disbelief with a raised hand.

  "I been watchin' ya ever since ya got back from EUCOM and I been thinkin' about this."

  Again he shook his huge, wooly head. "It ain't that you're slippin' or anythin', kid. Ya look better'n ever. It ain't that."

  He seemed to hesitate, finding the right words proving difficult. "It's a whole lot o'things, Trooper." He rose to his feet, a giant of a man, and took his own drink from the bubbler.

  "One thing is what you did to Leery a little while ago."<
br />
  "Oh come on, Mugsy! He isn't hurt."

  "'Course he isn't; that ain't the point. What is the point is that you went right ahead and belted hell out of him after you had him set up."

  "Well . . ."

  "I ain't done yet, kid! Now listen, I'm not blamin' or faultin' you at all. I'm tryin' to tell ya somethin'."

  He slumped back against his desk, his size dominating the room. "I seen it before, kid. Mostly it's good in a fighter but it's not in you. You're gettin' automatic, Ben. You can't spar, you can't train, you can't perform any more. You go for blood, man!"

  He continued, "So, Ok. In most boys I'd love it an' they'd be better fighters for it, but in you it ain't good."

  Troop jumped up himself, "Oh hell, Mugsy. I can ease off if that's what you want," He paced, concerned by Moran's thoughts.

  "That ain't what I want, kid. I want you to knock it all off. I want you to quit fightin' all the way: no sparrin', no exhibitions, no coachin'—no nothin', man."

  Before Troop could respond, the old heavyweight continued. "I seen you headin' for the PX the other night. Know what you were doin' walkin' down the road? Dodgin' punches, man! No, I'm not kiddin', I seen ya!

  "Now, I'm not claimin' you're gettin' punchy, Trooper. I know what was goin' on. You were thinkin' about fightin', thinkin' about moves, an' your body was goin' along, that's all, but it ain't good."

  Troop said nothing, waiting for it all.

  "The big thing is this, Trooper. You're staying all tied up in boxing. You don't work for promotion, you don't go to the field. You don't do nothin' but box. Ok, for a lot o'other pugs, that's plenty. Most of 'em wear a size three hat anyway."

  He turned away, perhaps a little embarrassed. "I know I'm a fine one to talk. All I ever did in this man's Army was fight an' train fighters, but you got something more in you, boy. You got brains! You could be somethin' more than a canvasback with a lot o'brass cups an' old watches."