There are those among us who must destroy others as they do themselves. I was unlucky enough to experience this as a child, and to still believe this the human condition as a man.
I explored this idea last week with my wife over breakfast, offering my typically provocative writerly stance that the local bareknuckle boxing league that recently opened would serve as saving grace for some of our city’s violently afflicted. Sandra disagreed, clearly bothered. I doubled down, threatening support of the league via donation. Sandra shot me a glare I’d rarely witnessed in our marriage, a look so primal I can only describe as it as lion-like.
“You know how I feel about violence, Nick, so I’d rather not get into that. I’m not one of your writer friends.”
“Sandra,” I said, “I was only pointing out the nobility of institutionalized fighting as therapy for victims. I didn’t mean to offend you. And Jesus, you don’t have to be so condescending. You know that’s toxic for me.”
The last part was dishonest; Sandra knew some of my best work was brewed from toxicity.
“It’s always about you, isn’t it?”
“Me?” I raised my voice. “Jesus, speaking of victims, look around you. Everything you see, I’ve done for you. Us.”
She raised her hand to halt me, as though an SS officer cutting short explanation.
“Everything you’ve done? Like I haven’t agreed to go half on everything.”
No longer was I commensurate with reason.
“You want credit, Sandra? You want an award? Is that it? Well here’s your award. Congratulations. I can’t think of a more deserving person than—”
She splashed her half-full glass of orange juice on my face. My eyes burned. Disoriented, I heard stomping around upstairs. Then Sandra was back downstairs with her gym bag strapped on her shoulder.
“I’m off to my mom’s,” she said coldly, wholly unconcerned with what she’d done. “I’m probably staying the weekend, so do whatever you need.” She slammed the front door before I could say a word.
How long I sat at the kitchen table, I’m unsure. After I finally got up to wash my caked face, I played a Sharon Jones record to calm my nerves. Entertainment seemed the only sensible thing to do.
Later, I swung by the used bookstore off Broadway. I browsed through the fiction shelves first, then poetry, then philosophy. Displayed eye-level on an endcap was The Communist Manifesto. Its positioning, coupled with the realization that my old copy had been lost—its contents long forgotten—persuaded me to grab it. Plus, it was only three bucks.
Behind the front counter, Mr. Torres must’ve whiffed enough foul air to play detective.
“Everything afloat, Nico?”
“Yeah. Doing fine.”
“And the missus?”
“She’s, uh, she left for the weekend.” My tongue clicked harshly, irrespective of my control.
Mr. Torres smiled knowingly.
“The Manifesto, huh? Good choice. Have you read it?”
“Twice in undergrad, once in grad school,” I answered. “But I don’t remember a single word.”
“I’m afraid that’s the case with most books, my friend.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Tell you what. Since you’re a fine patron, and an even finer writer, it’s yours, no charge. I could use the money, but Karl Marx sure don’t.”
I left the bookstore with Mr. Torres’ flattery putting me in the mood for Culver’s, where I ordered a cheeseburger and a large chocolate concrete, which amounted to a stomachache. I wondered how I might have felt if an angel of death had let slip that that had been my last supper on Earth.
Once home, I took two Tums and brewed a pot of coffee to help with digestion. Meanwhile, pacing around the kitchen, I opened The Communist Manifesto and became enthralled by its opening line:
A spectre is haunting Europe—the spectre is communism.
Three pages later, I shut the book, disappointed by its form as a manifesto—by what it was not: a tale of specters.
Truth be told, the world of history and facts didn’t interest me when life wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
That night, I dreamt I was a specter—the Spectator of Bareknuckle Boxing. I was me and not-me, hovering over the missions and poorer neighborhoods of San Antonio like a vulture, senses attuned to action. Where dirty crowds gathered, I descended into. I placed bets on brutal fights. I swigged malt liquor and scarfed down nachos. I cursed bloodied losers. I flicked three middle fingers at the sky—one for my abusive father, one for my fallen wings, and the last one for Sandra.
The next morning, following a couple cups of coffee, still dwelling on the bizarre dream, I grabbed a stack of yellow Post-it notes on the dining table and jotted down words, then sentences. After some time, I filled eight Post-it notes with tiny handwriting. Surprisingly, what developed was a declaration, a manifesto, to Sandra. Despite my belief in the evolutionary function of violence, and despite my upbringing—Sandra’s, too—I wrote that I would always protect our future children from that poor, nasty, brutish world right outside our loving home.
Then, as if on cue, a text arrived from Sandra. She’d return in the evening. I prepared our dinner: spaghetti with sliced chicken.
As soon as she walked in, I pulled her to me and, with Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings serenading us from the record player, danced with her to a few songs. Dinner passed comfortably.
In bed, I awaited Sandra’s reaction to the mini manifesto I’d positioned on her jewelry case. She clipped coupons robotically, not once indicating intent to speak. Since it wasn’t uncommon for me to initiate conversation, I did.
“So, did you see my notes?”
“Mhmm,” she answered, clipping away.
“You read them all?”
“I did.”
“And?”
Without stopping her activity, she replied, “It was very nice.”
It was very devastating, really.
“That’s all you’ve got?” I inquired, trying to sound unhurt.
My desperation warranted a concentrated glance from her.
“Oh Nick,” she said, stroking my chin. “Always the writer with your questions.”
She kissed me on the cheek and soon shut off the lights.
“Goodnight,” she said.
“Goodnight.”
Sandra was instantly asleep, I wide awake. It was only nine o’clock on Sunday. It was all too much.
I went downstairs with my Post-it Manifesto and started typing it out from my MacBook.
After additional editing and further plot development, a magazine would publish it, and in a few months, I’d have a bonafide meta-novel in my hands. It was, after all, my responsibility to sharpen my craft, to write everything down and to pay most of our bills.