Prize Fight
by Harris Tobias
I went a couple of rounds with old
Block today. He had me on the ropes until I
managed to poke a haiku in his eye. “Take
that you old scoundrel.” How he hollered
when I slapped him a good one with a song lyric
right across the mouth. Man that felt good. But
it takes more than a bit of doggerel to get that
gorilla to behave, so I gave him the old one two
with a flowery metaphor followed by a sparkling
simile. The bell rang and we went to our
respective corners. We were both bloodied but
still in the fight.
Round two was much the same. I hit him with a
string of adjectives which he batted aside like
so much fluff. He hit me hard with a bad critique
and a negative posting on FaceBook. I could feel
the black curtain of despair descending. In
desperation I tossed him a hail Mary, I gave him
a dynamite book title and a pretty good opening
sentence. But I couldn’t follow up. Block
shook it off and moved in for the knockout. I was
saved from total humiliation by the bell
signaling the end of round two.
“Come on kid, you can do it. All you need is
one good story idea. There’s gotta be
something. C’mon kid, think!” That was
the coach in my head. He was always on my side. I
reached deep down in my imagination for an idea.
It felt like groping in an empty barrel. I gave
an anguished cry and could hear the echo from
that dark emptiness that was my soul.
The Block came on like a freight train. I hurled
a shitty screen play idea at him. He flicked it
aside and smote me with a triple whammy—lack
of confidence, self doubt and low self esteem. I
ducked under his haymaker of ridicule and,
miraculously, came up with a solid short story
idea. And that did it, Block was down for the
count. Take that you bully. I might have won that
match but I knew it wouldn’t be long before
we fought again.
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