The worst part of boxing class was that I had to watch myself in the inescapable wall mirrors. I had negative stamina. Just getting into correct boxing stance and holding up my hands in blue, sixteen-ounce gloves was enough to almost kill me. We did pushups and stomach crunches, shadowboxed, and worked the heavy bags. When the teacher wore focus mitts and I had to punch him, I pretended he was President Bush. Eventually my stance became more fluid and my punches got meaner. I never did get the hang of jumping rope, though. There was just too much of me that had to land.
I rolled the yellow hand wraps between my fingers, taping up my hands, and wrote “Sugar Rat” on a few T-shirts with permanent marker because I decided that would be my boxing name when I turned professional. After my third week, having no sense of proportion, I felt ready to take on anyone. I thought the already-in-shape people should have to wear weights so they’d have to work as hard as I did just to remain standing.
As I hit the floor, having collapsed on my face while doing pushups, I realized it was time to get the hell out of America. I was in my thirties and had the stupidest job in the world. As Guantanamo Bay opened for business and the United States government fine-tuned its acceptable level of torture, I lay awake nights wondering when the American people would rise up against their fascist government. Now that I wasn’t completely exhausted from those debilitating, soul-crushing, unabridged mental breakdowns any longer, I wanted to return to England where my happiest memories and the voices in my head were from.
Even though it was expensive, I wanted to be in London because that’s where the women in my head lived. I just had to figure out how to get there. And what to live on once I got there. And how to get my medication. I talked my psychiatrist into giving me prescriptions with six months of refills. But then, he said, I would either have to come back to see him or find another doctor to prescribe my meds. I called a cousin by marriage who was a doctor in Leeds. He promised to be a backup in case I had trouble filling my prescriptions, but under no circumstances would he write me out new ones when mine ran out or treat me as a patient. I wasn’t terribly worried because six months seemed like a long way off. I was sure I’d figure out something, and I had my doctor in the States as a safety net. In order to enter the UK, I had to purchase a return ticket to show I intended to leave when my six-month tourist visa was up. I wasn’t planning to use it, but I’d have it in case of an emergency.
To raise money, I sold my car and a few guitars, including a battered 1965 Fender Mustang with a red tortoiseshell pickguard. I sold my TV, VCR, and stereo. Everything else I packed up and stored in my dad’s garage. If I lived cheaply, I could survive for six months without supplementing my income. I would earn extra cash by playing on the streets for money, never mind that I’d never had the nerve to do it before. I decided I’d be braver playing music in front of people in another country. I said goodbye to everyone at the boxing studio and promised my teacher I’d find somewhere to train in the UK. I could only carry one guitar with me on the plane, so I chose my white Gibson. My father promised to take care of the rest. Then I packed up my other most important possessions, my bootlegs. I had found someone from Britain with connections who worked in a local record store, and he managed to get me unofficial live recordings of concerts that we listed as “imports” when I purchased them.
As we drove to Los Angeles International Airport, I couldn’t believe I was actually returning to England for an extended stay. I couldn’t visualize what the future held for me in London, and with my OCD, uncertainty and instability were especially hard on me. But I couldn’t visualize any happy endings for myself in the United States either. I was nervous but excited as I headed for international departures. I kept looking back and waving at my dad as he stood behind the security checkpoint. As I walked into the open mouth of the plane, I felt like a whale had swallowed me whole.