Pugs
by Nik Korpon

I dodged his jab, but dropped my stance and caught his right on my cheek, sending squares of blood across the screen. Lime-green spirals shot from my head as Coach barked syllables and clapped his hands. A hummingbird pulse on the jab button, but I was too tired, or hurt or something. Hands swayed by my waist like Everlast pendulums and left Kieran to finish me off. For three seconds his fingers danced over the buttons, then he said Sorry, Dad, right as his glove turned into an anvil and connected with my jaw. On the screen, I rocketed around the moon, green men snickering at the Xs over my eyes.

‘Wanna play again? I’ll go easy this time.’ His doe eyes could disarm Jesse James.

‘I only see you one blastin’ day a week,’ I said, thinking no decent pug would’ve opened their shoulders like that. I grabbed a drumstick from the bucket sitting on my door-and-cinderblock coffee table. ‘You sure you want to spend the whole time playing videogames?’

He looked up at me and Jesse James fell again; I gave into my eighth ‘last game.’ My fingertips burned like I’d been rubbing them over sandpaper, thumb and forearms cramped from pressing the buttons so hard, even though the boy kept telling me they’re not pressure sensitive. Seven years old, and tossing out phrases like pressure sensitive.

‘Pop,’ he said during the second round.

‘What?’ I tried to jab but kept hitting block, either because of my frequently-broken sausage fingers or the grease on the controller. He landed a cross that sent me to the tarp. The health bar under ‘Kieran’ was full blue; the one under ‘Dad’ laughed at me. I readjusted on the couch and a spring poked me through my work pants. ‘What, Kieran?’

‘Are you letting me win so I tell Mom I had a good time?’

‘What are you talking about? Did she say that?’ I wobbled to my feet and as soon as the ref dropped his arm, Kieran sent me right back to the tarp. TKO. At least I didn’t go into orbit that time.

‘No. I was just asking.’

‘Eat some chicken. Need some meat on you.’ I drank water from a mason jar, selected rematch before he could ask. ‘Just don’t know how you can play for so long.’

‘It’s easy. When I try to punch you like this—’ my head flew black, red squares on the tarp—‘press the start button and you’ll block it. See?’

‘I get it, Kieran.’ By some freak chance—meaning he let me—I landed a two-one combo and he kissed the boards, only to pop back up like a spring.

‘Don’t worry. I told Neil you were better than him. He’s not very good at this either.’

‘That so?’ Kieran landed five straight. Stars circled my head. Coach barked and clapped.

‘Mom says it’s because he’s darn Irish and they can’t fight.’

I laughed to myself and chewed on the inside of my cheek.

Kieran adds, ‘But he can hit a baseball really far. He’s a good pitcher, too.’

‘Seems you like him pretty well.’

Kieran shrugs. ‘He’s nice. I don’t like it when his dog is over. She eats my shoes and I stepped in her piss three times and once her slobber got into my controller and I couldn’t play. But she’s nice.’

When Carol and I were getting divorced, we took Kieran to see a shrink, make sure he’d adjust. He said Kieran seemed fine, but showed some signs of internalization. Since then, I had a hard time figuring out what Kieran actually thought and what he was tying to make himself believe.

Somehow I’d worked Kieran down to a quarter health, but he rallied with a flurry of shots. Even when I was a top-flight pug, I couldn’t’ve held it, and my computer version was no more fortunate. He went down, stayed down.

‘Dad, are you even trying?’

‘Dammit, Kieran. Yes, I’m trying.’

‘You should be good at this, dad. You did it in real life.’

‘Boy, what the hell you know about boxing?’ I dropped my controller to the carpet padding and retreated to the kitchen. Hanging over the sink, I ran water over my fists and forearms. Inhaled, held it, let it out slow. Beeps in the other room, and Kieran was probably beating my guy to a pulp. I turned the water colder, breathed. Got my head straight. If only I’d learned to do that years ago, I wouldn’t be in this situation, defending myself against some law clerk patsy. I took my work home with me like most men, but I was in the wrong business.

Another breath, then I poured juice and soda water into a Transformers glass for Kieran, grabbed a Coke for myself. The shrink told us to limit his sugar, too.

Kieran was drawing shapes in dust with his finger. I set his glass in front of him. He looked up at me, whispered thanks and held my wrist. His finger ran over a scar on my forearm, leaving trails of grey. Post-fight bar brawl: fighting one of my football buddies, and my aim was off. Bone jutted just like a tree through a frozen lake.

‘Was this from when you were a puta?’

I coughed on my soda, bubbles up my nose. ‘What did you just say?’

‘Did you get this when you were boxing as a puta?’

Laughing, I wrapped my arm around my boy. Me and Carol used to fight in Spanish so Kieran wouldn’t pick up any curse words.

‘It’s pug, Kieran. Like the dog.’

‘Oh.’ He took a bite of my drumstick, set it down on the door. ‘Can we do one more then play football outside?’ He handed me my controller.

Halfway through the first round, he fell. When the bell rung, he was on the ropes, pulling himself up. He hadn’t hit me once. Four uppercuts in the second and he’s wobbling, ready to get sent into orbit. And it wasn’t until he confused me, trying to tell me what buttons to hit, that I noticed. His boxer was now tall with red hair. ‘Neil’ under the flashing health bar. He’d changed it when I was in the kitchen.

‘Get me, Dad! Knock my blastin’ head off!’ His fingertips, white from pushing button so hard. Eyes squinted, face flushed and contorted. Like he’d just gone eight rounds and missed the decision by a few points. Missed the payday by a few points, and his boy was going to have to eat more Wish Sandwiches.

I pressed pause, set the controller down, lifted my boy up by his armpits and carried him out into the sunshine.