Brent Peters grew up in a small farming town in southern Ontario, Canada. Writing and literature have been his passion since childhood, leading him from the fields to the classroom. His ultimate goal is to become a traditionally published author and join the world of publishing. He currently lives and works in Japan. 

 

 

“Oh, come on! What are you doing? Just give him the — come on!” Jared yelled at the TV. He waved his hands like a malfunctioning animatronic trying to conduct an orchestra. Through the passionate flailing, he never lost a drop of his vodka and orange juice.

“You’ve got a lot to say for someone who’s never been in the ring,” Don said. He stayed seated, his eyes fixed on the screen. He savoured each bite of the cheese-drenched pizza for which he’d been homesick.

“Exactly, it’s frustrating as hell when the pros are dumber than me.” Jared waved at the TV.

Despite their different reactions, both watched the fight with equal concentration. They observed each step, wind-up, block, and impact. Years of watching had given them an informal education on the sport. They read the footwork and strikes by instinct and familiarity. Yet, when watching two greats in the ring, they became children at a magic show. Anything could happen. Knowing the tricks only made it more compelling.

“Come on,” Jared cheered his favourite fighter. “Round’s almost up, you got—” Suddenly, his fighter charged forward. He landed an uppercut that snapped his opponent’s head back, creating a mist of sweat and blood. The opponent crumbled against the ropes, straining to remain on his feet.

“Whoa!” both men shot to their feet.

“There we go! Like that! Keep up the— what are you doing? Don’t let him go when you have him!”

The bell sounded, ending the round. Jared gulped down the last of his drink. “Refill,” he announced as the screen cut to commercial.

Jared’s gestures and nods continued as he moved to the small kitchenette behind the ugly sofa. The sofa, the centrepiece of the room, had a pale tan colour that might have once been brown. Beer stains dotted the sofa like birthmarks, rubbed into place by lazy wipes of a hand towel.

“You see that?” Jared said, “That’s what gets me worked up, right? He had the guy. Could’ve ended the match, right? Did he push? No. He let the dude get free. Wasted a chance. Drink?”

As usual, each sentence flowed into the next when Jared talked. Regardless of changes in tense or tone, whether he moved from explanation to question, he spoke it all as if it were a unified thought.

Don said, “I don’t drink, remember?”

“Shit, forgot. Habit. Anyway, you only got two days before you head back to campus, right? Tell you what: we finish the fight and play some Tekken. You can have the couch.”

The thought of playing Tekken into the early morning with his uncle brought on a wave of nostalgia.

As a child, Don had always loved spending time with Jared. Most of the time, they played games together. Don had watched the then-nineteen-year-old Jared practice combos. Jared had been Don’s idol. One day, when Don had been seven, Jared had checked for their parents, swapped discs, and said, “You gotta see this, right? It’ll blow your mind.”

He had thrown in Resident Evil. Before long, Jared offered the controller. When Don played, Jared acted like his favorite boxer was winning a match. He’d sit only to jump back to his feet, yelling half-sentences between whoops and cheers. With each boss battle or difficulty spike, Jared would lean forward, hands on knees, and speak as if intoning a mantra: “You got this. Don’t overthink it. There we go!”

That shared euphoria made some of Don’s favourite memories. A cheerful “you got this” still motivated him.

The scene hadn’t changed much. Jared had cultivated a beer belly, married twice, and landed in jail once, but he didn’t change. He’d been in the same factory gig for over a decade. Each of his apartments looked the same: small and cluttered with punk posters, game consoles, and 90s action figures. The TV always stood as the centrepiece, the one thing he cleaned with regularity. Even Jared’s girlfriends looked the same, no matter how many came and went. Jared’s life moved around him.

The thought of this monotony terrified Don. The calendar passed with metronomic regularity. Work was punctuated by weekend drinking sprees and all-night gaming binges. Life could be measured by game titles and the current heavyweight champion. Seasons could be substituted with the name of the newest girlfriend.

Jared weathered it all. He was an immovable object, impervious to the passage of time and the demands of life. At least for now. Don could not imagine this for himself. He craved new experiences and new stimuli. The idea of life on a circular treadmill made him feel sick. Yet, Jared anchored him. In a big and terrifying world, at least Jared was consistent. Whenever Don hadn’t been sure if he could take the stress of workload of his studies, Jared had always responded the same way: “You got this. Don’t overthink it.”

Jared still acted like the twentysomething who’d given Don his first drink – spiked eggnog at Christmas dinner. The biggest difference was that he’d abandoned his frosted-tipped hair. While Don dedicated his life to the future, this man rooted himself in place.

 

#

 

Jared stood in his tiny kitchen alcove. He opened a cupboard, revealing a line of mixers where most people would have kept spices. Aside from the drinks, the cupboard was bare. As he opened the fridge for orange juice, Jared saw its almost bare interior. The interior only contained beer, ginger ale, juice, and some leftover Chinese takeout.

After he finished making his vodka and orange juice, Jared lifted the juice jug. “You want some OJ? Ginger ale?”

“Ginger ale, please.”

“Sure thing.”

Don relaxed. He hadn’t had a drink since Jared’s DUI, but his family kept offering. They seemed to forget that this charge had led to the dissolution of his first marriage. It’d drained his account. Don had witnessed his uncle break down in that time. In the moment, when the man who’d offered him more encouragement than anyone else need him most, he hadn’t been able to honestly say, “You’ve got this.”

That feeling of powerlessness stayed with him. The sight of a broken Jared still frightened him. That awful moment was tied to the taste of alcohol.

Yet, whenever he refused a drink from the rest of the family, they always seemed disappointed when he said, “I don’t drink, but thanks for the offer.”

“Looky here,” his father had said the day before. “College boy’s got too good for a beer with his old man.”

Only Jared seemed cool with it. Sure, he kept forgetting, but Don only needed to give a gentle reminder. Jared was also the only guy who didn’t give him hell for being vegetarian. At the previous day’s gathering, he’d been the first to try the stuffed portobello mushroom caps.

Jared had given a loud “Mmm! Tell you guys what: you can miss out if you want. More for me.”

The smile never went. The family called Jared a disappointment, claiming they were only ribbing him, but they loved talking with him. The man with no future – the guy who brought homemade jello shots to Thanksgiving – had natural charisma. This ‘deadbeat’ and ‘dropout’ made questionable financial decisions and concerning romantic ones. Yet, they loved him.

Don stood opposite: a med student. Studious, serious, and awkward. He could navigate the textbook, classroom, and kitchen, but felt out of place among people. When with his family, he felt like a boxer in a wrestling ring. They had scripts, but he didn’t. Don heard the family brag about him in third person, but hardly felt the praise directed at him. They loved talking about “the future doctor”. They didn’t care about Don.

Jared was a beloved flop, while Don was an unlikeable treasure. Don was the first in the family to go to university, and the first to bring outside ideas into the insular community. They didn’t understand that he didn’t want to live there. There were no opportunities here, but to say so was taken as an insult against the family.

Jared, meanwhile, was fun. His unstoppable optimism kept made him great company. Jared read people, knowing how to talk his way through anything. People loved to talk to him, but not about him. He was just another loser. With his job and record, he might have been the biggest in the family.

This was Don and Jared’s oldest joke: “Put us together and we’re the ultimate disappointment.” When Don was at school, they spoke to each other more than anyone else in the family. They shared news about boxing. They watched matches together online. They anticipated games and set challenges for the fastest completion time.

The commercial ended. As an aerial shot of the venue filled the screen, Don’s attention snapped back to the TV. “Fight’s back!”

Jared returned to the sofa with two drinks. He passed a ginger ale to Don and stayed on his feet. Don stood to take it and remained standing as the fight began.

They drank in unison. The two connected on a wavelength of uncomplicated enthusiasm. They spectated and whooped through two more rounds.

As soon as the match ended, Jared said, “Alright, we gotta do a round of Tekken.”

“We play all the time,” Don laughed.

“In person it’s different, come on.”

“Alright,” Don said, “I can do a few rounds.”

They did as they’d always done. They bantered as they chose characters and selected a stage. Unconsciously, they leaned forward as the match began, falling into a zone of comfort and focus.

Jared said, “You’re gonna— I’ve got—”

Don countered, “No, you don’t! Here we go!”

Eye and hand worked together. The self-taught fighters tried and performed every combo they knew. Decisions came and went by the millisecond. For a while, the two were alone in an uncomplicated world. Nothing mattered except the game. Don stopped worrying.

Jared leaned forward as he locked Don into a combo. “Take it! Yes! Yes! No!”

“Don’t get cocky.” Don turned the game, breaking a hold and unleashing a devastating counter.

Jared dropped his controller and bolted to his feet. “Oh, holy— I had you! I had you right there! How’d I lose that?”

“Maybe I’m just better than you,” Don said as he glowered in victory.

“No,” Jared waved away the idea. “Can’t be that.”

His mock seriousness fell away in a sheepish laugh.

Meanwhile, Don chose a new stage. “Seriously, though, I should get going soon-ish. Just a few more rounds.”

“What’s the rush?” Jared said. His tone caught Don by surprise. The monotone bombast slipped away. Something quieter slipped in. The smile vanished as Jared scratched his head, his sign that there was something he didn’t want to say. His words would’ve sounded normal from most, but from Jared, it felt sombre and vulnerable. He didn’t even add gestures. “We’re not gonna be able to play much once you head back, right? You’re gonna have your hands full. May not even have time for games. May as well enjoy it while we can.”

Don didn’t respond at first. This blunt sincerity threw him off. “We’ll…” he tried to speak. “We’ll play.”

Jared looked sideways and smiled. Don had never seen that expression on his uncle. It looked like a smirk, but something belied it. Don knew it meant don’t pretend, we both know better. At the same time, there seemed to be something just under the surface.

Jared said, “Just try not to forget you’re gaming buddy, alright?”

Don forced out a chuckle. The sound came out mangled and nervous. “We’ll keep playing.” As they chose new characters, with eyes on the screen rather than his uncle, Don repeated it, “We’ll keep playing.” He nodded and rolled his shoulder muscles like a fighter psyching himself up for the next round. “We’ll definitely keep playing.”

Jared didn’t reply. He took another drink and started their next round.