Fighter Once?
I walked down the marble stairwell of an old building and saw an old man mop a lonely hallway with twisted misshaped hands. It was late at night and it was just me and him. I was in my summer business suit and he was a night cleaner in dirty overalls. He worked his sinewy arms in a grimaced rhythm.

"I had my knuckles busted in both hands," he said to me as he held still his mop. I stopped and listened.

"My nose has been broke. My eye socket, too. I had a cracked cheek bone twice, and I dislocated my shoulder. I had ointment burn my eyes, and razor blades hid in gloves cut my skin so bad I thought I'd bleed to death."

"You were a fighter once?" I asked.

"Yeah, mostly just a nobody. I fought that time in Mexico where I got cut with the razor blades. Now I get the headaches bad. Sometimes, everything seems in slow motion, and I see sparks in my brain. I should a been a better fighter. I should a been a better fighter. You don't make no living washing floors."

I looked at him for a second, and said Good Night. That's it, Good Night.

When I got home, I noticed some dirty water from the mop stained the cuff of my pants. But I didn't care so much. I made a good salary, I could buy a new suit.

Lucky me. I didn't see everything in slow motion. I didn't see no sparks and my face had never been cut. But there have been days lately where life feels like a grimaced rhythm. Like somehow I busted up my knuckles, and hurt myself bad.

Good Night, I said to myself. Good Night is all I could say.