There were fists up. The man, Randy, was on his knees, moving around, his darkish red lips saying something but the boy was confused. Randy slid his thin legs across the dull beige carpet.

His fists were swollen and purpled, like he was wearing oversized mittens the color of flesh.

Higher, Randy said.

The boy didn't really understand what this was all about but he liked Randy most of the time.

Randy scooted in. The boy backed up.

Higher, Randy said.

The boy put his fists up higher, almost over his head.

Not that high, Randy said. Randy hit the boy's left hand, which smacked into the boy's face, making his head light and causing the boy to stumble back into the green couch.

See, Randy said. Too high and you're hitting yourself.

The boy lowered his fists slightly and his head cleared. He put his hands down.

Don't you quit on me, boy, Randy said, moving in again and the boy, tired of this, wanted to watch "Hogan's Heroes" and tear into a fat bag of Doritos, but Randy lurched toward him, himself off-balance because of the bottle he'd already had, not to mention the bottle of wine he'd had before he'd come over to visit the boy's mom.

The boy thought it was funny that Randy was off balance because Randy was what they called a lineman. He worked for the phone company and the boy thought that anybody who was able to climb those poles that easy and that fast shouldn't be off balance. Since the boy had trouble himself getting up the rope during gym class because he was a bit heavyset, called fat by some of the other kids, he thought that Randy would be more graceful, like a superhero or an Olympic athlete, mounting his pole in record time, his tools around his belt jangling as he cut and spliced and worked so dangerously close to the live wires of electricity.

Come on, boy, Randy said.

The boy's mother was cooking in the kitchen. She wasn't a very good cook. She was better with boil and serve, and the boy wondered what the inside of the oven was really for since he'd never really seen her use it.

Don't hurt him, Randy, the boy's mom said.

I'm not hurtin' him, Randy said. I'm teachin' him how it is.

Don't you hurt him, she said.

Randy reached over with his right hand, his left arm still extended, fist front, and grabbed his glass of wine and drank it down. Without looking, he put the glass back on the cheap octagonal side table where the glass fell over, purple drops of wine rolling out onto the cheap wood veneer.

It had been this way since the boy's father left.

The boy never knew why the father left. His father never told him. Never sat the boy down and said, Son, I'm leaving. Here are the reasons. Reason #1: Your room is never clean. Reason #2: You don't bathe enough. Reason #3: I just don't like you or your mother anymore. Sorry. That's life.

No, the father never made a list for the boy as to the reasons for his leaving. In fact, no one really consulted the boy at all in regards to this matter, which irritated the boy; they used to ask him what kind of milk he wanted; wouldn't the leaving of the father also qualify? And the boy wasn't sure if the mother was even included in the decision-making process since every time the boy asked her why the father left, all she could say, when she was choking up all red-eyed and crying, was that she didn't know. Which the boy thought was kind of silly since if the father left, the mother should at least know why.

It was better than the answer he received when he asked, when is he coming back, to which he never received an answer. No matter how many times he asked. He would hear about the weather, how it might rain or what was going to be on TV tonight or how his grandfather's gout was doing but this was an unanswered question that hung in the air like dust that when shaken would, in the glow of the sunlight, float around the room, gently, drifting, to eventually settle somewhere, only to be shaken up, stirred again, by another movement, and sent back into the air.

Since the mother and the boy had moved after the father's departure, from the yellow house on Cheshire Road to this small two-bedroom apartment, the boy assumed that the presence of the father was no more, that the presence of the father had ceased to be and the boy was actually occasionally happy with this fact since he wouldn't be taken down next to the furnace and whipped with the belt when he misbehaved or the time the boy accidentally set the couch on fire or turned on the garbage disposal while his father, hand sunk deep into the drain, was trying to get the dime, that the boy had thrown in to see what would happen, out of it.

The boy was merely curious.

Unlike the father.

Randy seemed to have dozed off, falling facedown onto the floor, but still on his knees and the boy wondered if this was merely a ruse, for Randy was a tricky man, or if Randy had really tired of this event.

The boy stood and looked at Randy for a few seconds, debating on whether he should put down his fists or not. With his back to the front door, the boy didn't really have any other place to go. Randy's body was blocking the way to the kitchen and to the entrance of the short stairs, seven steps only, that led upstairs to the boy's room where his comic books were, where heroes like Superman and Batman were.

Lowering his fists, the boy stealthily tried to pass around Randy, stepping over his splayed legs but Randy, sensing something in his midst, jerked back up, awake and alert again, sending the boy backpedaling away.

Not that easy, boy, Randy said.

This time Randy chugged from the bottle and wiped his mouth on his arm.

From the kitchen, the boy's mother called out, You boys having fun?

We're just playin', Randy said, smiling at the boy, and the boy believed that Randy believed that they were playing, that Randy was just a big kid even if he was in his mid twenties, same age as the boy's mother, and that this was a lark same as if they were playing on the swing set, with Randy pushing the boy higher and higher into the air or if they were on a carousel with the boy hanging on tight in the middle while Randy spun the metal carousel faster and faster and the boy having to close his eyes as the world swung violently around him, quickly, scarily, out of control.

The boy realized that he was sitting on the floor, his little fists still out in front of him, but he didn't know how he'd gotten there.

I told you, boy, to pay attention, Randy said.

The boy didn't really want to fight Randy. He didn't want to fight anyone. He wanted to go play with Randy. Maybe throw the ball. That would be fun. Throwing the ball with Randy. But Randy didn't like throwing the ball. In fact, the boy didn't think that Randy even liked going outside except to sit on the stoop and drink from the wine bottle. The boy once brought Randy a red plastic ball to throw and Randy looked at it as if it were something wrong and dropped it to the ground where it rolled a few feet away as Randy sucked on his cigarette and made the boy's mother laugh. And, of course, in the spirit of things, the boy grabbed the ball from where it had rolled a few feet away and brought it back to Randy and Randy had said to the boy, Are you retarded or somethin'? and dropped the ball to the ground again, and the boy, so excited by the prospect that they were throwing the ball around as he'd heard other kids do with their own parents, again picked up the ball and handed it to Randy who promptly threw it over the neighbor's high chain link fence to where the boy couldn't get the ball while saying to the mother, You better have that boy checked out cause I'm not sure he's all right in the head.

It was like the last time Randy was trying to teach him how it was and the boy was paying close attention and trying to follow all the directions and Randy said to him, looking over the boy's shoulder, Hey, look at that, and when the boy looked back over his shoulder, Randy popped the boy right in the head causing the entire room to light up for the boy as he fell back with a crash onto the floor and Randy, like some ghostly figure, hovered over the boy and said, I told you to never, never turn your back on an opponent.

The boy's mother wanted to call 911 to have the boy looked at because his eyes weren't coming together right but they never did.

Despite this lesson the boy still turned his back because he just didn't know any better and he managed to drag himself up again.

The boy was really getting tired of this.

Don't be a quitter, boy, Randy said, weaving and bobbing, still on his knees like a Munchkin gone bad.

Quitters never win, Randy said.

Oh damn it, his mother said from the other room.

What? Randy asked.

The boy stood there, his fists still out, ready. Despite Randy's momentarily distractedness, he could still be tricky and the boy wanted to be ready for when Randy turned back on him.

I burned my spoon, the mother said.

What spoon?

The really big wooden one I use on him, the mother said. I had put it in the bottom of the oven.

That's the broiler, Randy said.

I didn't know, she replied. Our last oven it was just an extra storage space.

Throw baking powder on it, Randy said. Guess you'll have to use your hand now to punish him.

The boy could smell the burning wood and he wouldn't miss that spoon that his mom used on his backside when he was misbehaving. He wanted to smile and jump up celebrating but he knew it was not the right moment for it since Randy was ready across from him. He didn't want Randy to misinterpret.

The boy heard glass breaking in the kitchen. His mother laughed.

Do we have another bottle of wine? she asked.

On the counter, Randy said.

The boy liked Randy. It was nice to have him around but Randy wasn't always around. He was as bad as the boy's father. Sometimes Randy would disappear for weeks even if he said he was coming over, even if he told the boy himself that he'd be there that night and both the boy and his mother would wait for Randy to pull up in his truck that the boy loved riding in the front seat of, looking down on all the other people in their little cars, and eventually his mother would make the boy go to bed because it was late and Randy wasn't there and sometimes from his little wooden bed with the Snoopy sheets he'd hear Randy come in, making up excuses of where he'd been and why he was late, and sometimes Randy wouldn't come at all and the boy could hear his mother crying in her room right next door, since the new apartment was not as large as their old house was, she would be crying like she had been crying when the father was causing them problems.

What? the boy's mother said.

Randy turned his head toward the kitchen.

What? he asked.

What'd you say? the boy's mother asked.

Randy dropped his left fist, his head turned toward the kitchen, his words a little slurry. The boy stepped up with his left foot, brought back his right hand, and smacked Randy square on the bridge of his nose.

There was a cracking sound.

Hey! Randy yelled as blood gushed out of his nose.

What the fuck! he said, placing his hands over his nose trying to staunch the blood which was pouring through his fingers, onto his white t-shirt, and onto the floor.

The boy's mother ran into the living room.

What happened? she asked.

He broke my nose, Randy said.

The boy was sent to his room, which wasn't so bad because that's where he wanted to be to begin with. His mother didn't spank him since she had burned up her wooden spanking spoon and, while trying to staunch the rapid flow of unending blood from Randy's broken nose, it didn't occur to her to use her hand on the boy.

Randy was storming around the kitchen, holding paper towels to his nose, while she also tried to hold them on to stop the blood.

From up in his room, he could hear them talk.

Do you want to go to the emergency room? she asked.

Fuck no, he said.

I think it's broken.

Are you sure?

It's turning purple, she said.

I don't want to go to the emergency room, Randy said.

Well, it won't stop bleeding, she replied.

The boy could hear Randy yelp as his mother crinkled more paper towels against his nose.

Damn it, he said. That hurts.

I'm sorry, she replied. Let me take you in.

No, he said. I'm not going in just because your retarded boy got a lucky shot at me when I wasn't looking.

Eventually, the boy grew bored listening to them and their talking got softer. The boy knew that Randy would have to go to the emergency room if something was broken but it had to be on Randy's time.

The boy got out of bed and crossed over to his comic books. Superman, Batman, and a couple others lay scattered across the boy's desk.

He picked them up and took them back to his single bed with the Snoopy sheets. He looked through them, putting one down and picking the other up.

Downstairs he could hear his mother and Randy talking.

Finally, the boy took all of his comic books and threw them in his trash.

He put on his coat and got ready for the call from them to go to the emergency room.