Tap Out
We were vicious. Swollen cheekbones, bruised jaws.
Forearms chafed raw and weeping. The Boston
Crab. The Texas Cloverleaf. The Cross-
Face Chicken Wing. One time, Ant wrenched
my shoulder so hard I couldn’t lift my arm
for a week. Another time, Mike’s brother Daryl tried
a front-flip slam off the back steps and landed
face-first in the dirt. Wrist-bone shot clear
through the skin and gleaming. Mike’s dad worked
second shift at Pratt, so if we were loud he’d holler
out the bedroom window, but there was nothing
he could do to punish us we weren’t already doing
to each other. And we knew it. Like that time
Daryl showed us his pistol, a .22 he lifted
from a friend’s house. We passed it around,
weighing it in our palms. It was heavier
than it looked, but it felt good. He put the barrel
in his mouth and when we jumped up
he laughed and laughed Priceless! he said red-faced
and gasping. You pussies almost wet your pants!
We learned new moves, new ways to shock the body
into miracles of pain. The Figure-Four Lock.
The Vise Grip. Every muscle trembling.
The Tarantula. The Camel Clutch. Mouth
pressed against their ear, hissing Tap out dickhead
you’re not getting out of this you’re mine kid
tap out and it’ll stop. The Sharpshooter.
The Hammerlock. That sour-hot breath in your ear
and knowing you won’t give in, you won’t give him
the satisfaction, even when it hurts more
than anything, more than your dad’s belt
blistering your backside, more than the night
when Daryl put that gun in his mouth and the sound
of it woke the whole block, so much you grit
your teeth against the pain, sharp kneecap
bearing down on your chest, your elbow torqued
past its limit, and you swear you could bust
out of yourself and look down at your body, helpless
and small and trembling, press your mouth
to your own ear and whisper Not you. Not you.
Forearms chafed raw and weeping. The Boston
Crab. The Texas Cloverleaf. The Cross-
Face Chicken Wing. One time, Ant wrenched
my shoulder so hard I couldn’t lift my arm
for a week. Another time, Mike’s brother Daryl tried
a front-flip slam off the back steps and landed
face-first in the dirt. Wrist-bone shot clear
through the skin and gleaming. Mike’s dad worked
second shift at Pratt, so if we were loud he’d holler
out the bedroom window, but there was nothing
he could do to punish us we weren’t already doing
to each other. And we knew it. Like that time
Daryl showed us his pistol, a .22 he lifted
from a friend’s house. We passed it around,
weighing it in our palms. It was heavier
than it looked, but it felt good. He put the barrel
in his mouth and when we jumped up
he laughed and laughed Priceless! he said red-faced
and gasping. You pussies almost wet your pants!
We learned new moves, new ways to shock the body
into miracles of pain. The Figure-Four Lock.
The Vise Grip. Every muscle trembling.
The Tarantula. The Camel Clutch. Mouth
pressed against their ear, hissing Tap out dickhead
you’re not getting out of this you’re mine kid
tap out and it’ll stop. The Sharpshooter.
The Hammerlock. That sour-hot breath in your ear
and knowing you won’t give in, you won’t give him
the satisfaction, even when it hurts more
than anything, more than your dad’s belt
blistering your backside, more than the night
when Daryl put that gun in his mouth and the sound
of it woke the whole block, so much you grit
your teeth against the pain, sharp kneecap
bearing down on your chest, your elbow torqued
past its limit, and you swear you could bust
out of yourself and look down at your body, helpless
and small and trembling, press your mouth
to your own ear and whisper Not you. Not you.
“Tap Out” was original published in Redivider and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.”
