Start Reading Now

THE JOB

A Weston Story

They say you never forget your first job. The hard, honest day’s work, the smell of dollar bills as you cash your first paycheck, the expensive dates you take your girl on because you’re a working man now, and that means you can blow your money on anything you like.

At least, that’s how I always imagined my first job would be. A cliché to live up to my childhood dreams of the struggle for the legal tender. Sweat and pain. Demanding bosses. Coming home at night and grumbling about work like a grownup.

And by “work,” I don’t mean The Rockford Chronicle. By “demanding bosses,” I don’t mean my dad (although he can be demanding sometimes). My weekly summer visits to help at the newspaper felt less like work and more like a get-out-of-jail-free card for something else I didn’t want to do. It was fun to see where my father spent his days, toiling over ad copy and problematic margins and editors’ editorials that still needed editing.

When I was a kid, my dad seemed larger than life—the William Randolph Hearst of upstate New York. A visionary, a dreamer, a legend who would occasionally put his hand on my shoulder and say, “One day, Weston, you’ll be the boss of this entire operation.”

I always knew the job was mine if I wanted it.

But when you’re seventeen, working for your dad isn’t exactly what you call a job. For one thing, you can’t complain about it to anyone at home unless you want to trigger Armageddon.

For another thing, it doesn’t feel earned.

It feels handed to you on a silver platter with your name on it.

Call it pride, call it ego, call it whatever you like—I don’t want a favor.

I want a job.

A real, hard-earned job.

A job I have to impress someone to get and work my ass off to keep.

Like every other seventeen-year-old before me.

And that’s why I stop dead in my tracks halfway down Main Street at six forty-five p.m. It’s an ordinary late-spring night—cold enough for jeans and a hoodie, but warm enough to make the crickets scream extra loud. I’m headed for Anthony’s on the corner, to pick up a pizza and bring it back to Tessa’s house, but everything slams to a stop when I see the sign.

HELP WANTED

Taped to the window of Bruiser’s Boxing Gym.

Surprisingly, I’ve never been to this place before. It’s one of those pay-to-be-a-member deals, which automatically disqualifies any guy without a steady income who has a girlfriend to keep happy with what little savings he’s accumulated from odd jobs.

I’ve always wanted to train at Bruiser’s. There’s something about those rows of scuffed-up heavy bags, those shiny wood floors, those walls dripping with MMA posters and boxing memorabilia. You can almost smell the sweat and blood and victory, just looking through the windows into the lit-up gym. It’s closing time, and there’s only one person left in the place: the owner, mopping down the floors.

I recognize him because I’ve seen his truck parked on the street outside the gym—a beast of a lifted Chevy pickup with US Marine stickers all over the back window. The guy himself is like a human version of a lifted pickup: boulder shoulders, tattooed biceps the size of Everest, a ferocious buzz cut, and a permanent frown carved onto his face.

Not exactly the most approachable dude in the world. I can see why they call him Bruiser. But I’m not scared of the guy. What’s the worst that could happen?

I decide to try my luck.

He’s got his back to me when I step inside, setting off the door chime. “We’re closed,” he mutters in a gruff New York accent, aggressively pushing the mop back and forth.

“I know,” I holler back over the ’80s rock music blasting from the radio. “I’m not here to train. I… wanted to ask about the job.”

That’s when Mr. Bruiser finally turns around to look at me. He squints, giving me a once-over, and I’m suddenly glad I wore pants instead of shorts tonight. At first glance, I look like just an average high school grad in red Jordans and a UFC hoodie.

“I’m Weston,” I say, because now seems like a good time to get on first-name terms.

Mr. Bruiser apparently doesn’t share this opinion. He sets the mop aside and walks over to the radio, cranking the volume down low.

“You got any experience in boxing, Weston?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve done a lot of training over the past five or six years. Sparring with friends, that kinda thing.”

“Where’d you learn?”

“Uh…” I shrug, rubbing the back of my neck. “I just picked it up, you know? I watch a lot of fights and try to learn technique. Practice on my best friend until he gets sick of getting his ass handed to him.”

Bruiser grunts a dry laugh. I’m well aware of how unqualified I sound—an amateur enthusiast at best, talking up to a guy who was probably a heavyweight champion back in the day. I try to ignore the glint of trophies tucked in a glass case beside the benches. The guy’s military tats are intimidating enough.

“Look, sir, I know I might not be the most qualified person for the job, whatever it is. But I love fighting. I love just… being in a place like this. And I’m a quick learner. I could do anything you want. Mopping the floor, for one thing. Uh, fixing stuff, cleaning up, keeping the equipment straight—”

“I don’t need a janitor, kid.” Bruiser cuts me off with a hard look in my direction. “I need an instructor.”

My eyebrows rise. “An instructor?”

“That’s right. Business has been picking up lately. I lead the classes, but it’s been tough to keep up with everyone. The more students I’ve got in a class, the less time I can spend with each one of them. I need an assistant—a right-hand man who can do exactly what I would do without me having to train him, too. You catch my drift?”

I nod. “Yes, sir. And I think I could do that.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yeah.”

The way he squints at me makes my palms sweat. “How the hell old are you, kid?”

“I’ll be eighteen in September.”

A half-amused smirk twitches one side of his mouth. He’s either about to laugh at me, or he’s about to say, “You got the job.”

But to my surprise, he doesn’t do either of those things. He just steps up to me and taps his chest with one hand.

“Throw a punch.”

I hesitate.

Throw a punch? At this dude who’s twice my size?

Somehow, it’s not the job interview I was expecting. In my imagination, there was going to be a civilized discussion with résumés and weak coffee and questions about dedication and work ethic. But there’s only one way to respond to an ex-Marine boxer called Bruiser who tells you to throw a punch.

I throw a punch.

And God, the pecs on this guy. It’s like hitting a rock wall.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Come on, that’s all you got? Throw a punch.”

I try again, driving my full weight into it.

BAM.

No flinch.

No response.

He just shakes his head and mutters under his breath, “Pansy-ass.”

Okay, that pisses me off.

Who does this guy think he is, calling me pansy-ass?

He has no idea who I am.

This time, I throw. Hard.

But before my fist hits that iron chest, his hand shoots up and blocks my punch. Bone-on-bone—ouch. A sizzle of pain numbs my forearm. I flow with it, ducking to miss his jab at my face, upper-blocking to knock off his right hook. I don’t think about what I’m doing. It’s all instinct, primal. In one fluid motion, I lurch forward and uppercut him in the stomach as hard as I can.

This time, he grunts—jerking back a step and rubbing his rock-hard abdomen where I landed my shot. His gaze is cold as ice as he stares at me, wordless, muscles wound tight.

Ohhhhh shit.

I stagger backwards, my life flashing before my eyes. I think about Tessa, how I’ll never get to eat that pizza with her tonight. How I’ll never get to make out with her again. Will she be at my funeral? Or will this guy dump my body in the woods to be eaten by vultures?

That’s when he takes me by surprise, cracking a grin. “Not bad, kid.”

I’m speechless. “Really?”

“Come back tomorrow morning before we open. I’ll run you through a few drills and see what else you’ve got. Then we’ll talk about the job.”

It’s impossible to keep the grin off my face. “Sounds great. Thank you, sir. I-I appreciate it.”

The civil thing to do at this point is to reach out for a handshake, right? I go for it, but Bruiser doesn’t move. Just stands there looking at me like I’m the world’s biggest idiot for thinking I could shake his hand.

I clear my throat, hands retreating to my pockets. A nervous laugh stutters out of me as I walk back to the door. “I’ll… uh… see you tomorrow morning.”

***

Tessa looks like a dream come true when she swings open her front door and finds me standing on the porch. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, which is way too big for her, but somehow, it’s the sexiest outfit I’ve ever seen.

“Pizza delivery,” I say, extending the boxes.

She smiles, taking them and stepping back into the house. “Thank you, delivery boy.” She pushes the door shut, but I stick my foot in the crack at the last second.

“OW! OW, MY FOOT! YOU JUST BROKE MY FOOT!”

Tessa gasps and whips the door open, her eyes wide. It usually takes her a moment to get jokes like that, which is amusing for me because my brothers don’t fall for my fake-outs anymore.

Tessa bursts into laughter when she sees me laughing. Next thing I know, she’s pulling me inside and kissing me, ditching the pizza boxes on a side table. I twirl her around, pushing her back against the closed door and squeezing her hips as I kiss her deep and slow, kiss her like a guy who just won the lottery.

“Mmm, you smell so good,” I murmur against the curve of her neck, pulling her into a full-body hug. “You feel so good.”

“Weston, my mom is here.” She hisses it like a warning, so I back off. Her cheeks are all pink, and her shirt is rumpled, but she straightens up primly for her mother, who wanders into the foyer at the smell of pizza.

“Tessa, are you making out with the delivery boy again?” Heather jokes with a knowing smirk at her daughter.

Tessa says, “No,” at the same time I say, “Yes.”

Her grandparents are out with friends tonight, so it’s just the three of us. Rather, just the two of us, because Heather takes her pizza to the couch and watches Real Housewives reruns while Tessa and I stuff our faces in the kitchen.

“Is something going on?” Tessa questions me halfway through dinner. “You’re acting so… jaunty.”

“Jaunty? What does that mean? Why do you always use these words I don’t understand?”

“Chipper,” she clarifies. “Lively, cheerful.”

“I hope I’m always lively and cheerful.”

“You are… you just… seem different tonight.” She tilts her head, studying me like a psychic trying to draw out my secrets. “Has something happened?”

I shrug one shoulder, trying to keep the grin off my face. “Something might be happening. I applied for a job. Well, sort of.”

“Really? Where?”

“The boxing gym downtown.”

Tessa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? What kind of work is it?”

“Assistant instructor. Helping out with classes, that kinda thing.”

“Wow. That’s awesome, Wes. When do you find out if you got the job?”

“Uh, tomorrow morning, I think. The owner, Bruiser, wants me to go there in the morning and do some boxing drills and stuff.”

Tessa frowns. “Bruiser? What kind of name is that?”

“I don’t know. A badass name?”

“What’s he like?”

I tilt my head, not sure how to put him into words. “He’s… an ex-Marine. Jacked as hell, man. He made me punch him, and he’s, like, a hundred percent steel. I almost broke my knuckles.”

“He made you punch him?”

“Yeah. It was no big deal.” I lean back in my chair, feeling smug as I fold my hands behind my head. “I think he was impressed by how fast I was to react.”

Tessa looks slightly appalled by the idea of using physical violence to qualify for a job, but she smiles lovingly across the table at me. “I’m happy for you, Wes. I hope it turns out well.”

“Yeah. I hope so, too.”

She narrows her eyes. “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

She leans her elbows on the table, peering at me like a psychic again. “That look I just saw two seconds ago. Are you… nervous about something?”

God, how can she see right through me like that? See the feelings I try to shove away before I even acknowledge what I’m feeling?

“I’m not nervous. I just…” I look down at the tabletop, running my fingertip over the lines in the wood. “He doesn’t know. Yet.”

There’s no need to say what he doesn’t know. Tessa understands. She nods slowly but says nothing, giving me space to spill my guts.

“It just didn’t come up, and I didn’t see the point in mentioning it, you know? I was afraid if he did know, he might assume… he might not give me a chance to prove what I can do.” I glance back up at Tessa, who watches me with big blue eyes full of understanding. “I just wanted to be treated like any other guy who walked into that place looking for a job.”

“That makes sense,” Tessa says quietly. “So, what are you going to do tomorrow?”

I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. I was thinking I could… hide it for a little while. You can’t really tell when I’m wearing sweatpants. He doesn’t have to know. Not right away.”

Tessa reaches across the table and slides her warm, soft hand into mine. “That doesn’t sound like the confident, devil-may-care Weston Ludovico I know.”

I grunt a tired laugh.

“You know what I think you should do?” Tessa says.

“What?”

“Be yourself.” She smiles, squeezing my fingers. “Don’t feel you have to hide. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I know you want to impress this Bruiser guy, but… you shouldn’t have to put on a mask to do that. If he’s not impressed by you being exactly who you are, then he’s not worth your time.”

She’s right.

I know she’s right.

So why do I feel a knot in my stomach when I think about being myself?

***

I wake up at six o’clock the next morning, put on my prosthetic legs, and brush my teeth. Then I stand in front of my dresser for about fifteen minutes, trying to decide whether I should wear sweats or basketball shorts.

Standard workout clothes are shorts and a T-shirt, always. Eventually I rip off the T-shirt too when I get drenched in sweat. And boxing drills always mean lots and lots of sweat. Sweat everywhere, especially in my prosthetic socks, which make my stumps feel like they’re swimming in liquid fire.

The last thing I want to do is wear pants.

But then I remember the way Bruiser looked at me last night—sizing me up in one quick glance. A high school kid, looking for work. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Throw a punch.

I had a feeling he’d said that to a million other kids before me. Those pecs of steel were used to getting blitzed by try-hard boxers in the making. That’s what I want him to see when he looks at me.

A fighter.

Not an amputee.

So I shove my basketball shorts back into the drawer and slide it shut. It’s not until I’m pulling up my pants that I remember Tessa’s words from last night. The way she looked at me from across the table, her hand in mine.

Be yourself. Don’t feel you have to hide.

She had a point. Bruiser is going to find out eventually, so why keep it from him now? If he changes his mind about me because of my legs, what does that say about the kind of guy he is?

I shouldn’t care about this so much.

Why do I care about this so much?

Why am I so nervous?

“Pansy-ass,” I mutter under my breath, shoving my sweats back in the drawer and taking out my basketball shorts instead.

***

Bruiser is in the back office when I arrive at the boxing gym. I can’t see him, but I hear him holler, “I’ll be right there, kid!” as soon as I walk through the front door. The place looks different in the daylight. Less warm and welcoming, more cold and aggressive. While waiting for my potential future boss to show his face, I wander around the gym and check out the memorabilia covering the walls.

Vintage posters, sports magazines, boxing gloves autographed by all the greats: Muhammad Ali, Mike Tyson, Joe Louis, on and on it goes. There’s a lot of MMA stuff mixed in with it, proving Bruiser to be a mutt like me—not a ride-or-die purebred boxer. I wonder where he first learned how to throw a punch. I wonder if he used to have brotherly fistfights with his best friend, like Rudy and I do.

My gaze catches on a framed photo that seems out of place among all the sports collectibles. It’s a group shot of four Marines in full gear, standing in front of a Humvee in the desert. They’re all grinning, faces shiny with sweat. It must have been a hundred degrees when this picture was taken, but they don’t seem to care. Their smiles are reckless and immortal. One of them is making a “rock on” sign; another one is flipping his middle finger at the camera.

I recognize a much younger Bruiser on the left side, his arm slung around the shoulders of the rock-on guy. He looks so different, but that resting grumpy face is unmistakable. Somehow, even when he’s smiling, he looks ready to kill someone. Or maybe that’s just the sniper rifle he’s got slung under his free arm.

“Alright, kid, let’s see what you can—”

“Where was this picture taken?” The question pops out before I can think twice about it. When Bruiser doesn’t reply, I turn around to look at him—half afraid I’ve shot my mouth off already.

But that’s not the reason he’s standing frozen two steps outside the office, his face pale and his gaze stuck on my legs.

Oh, right.

I almost forgot.

It’s funny how, even after four years of walking around on prosthetic legs, the Reaction still hits me like a sucker punch. I feel it all the way to my guts. I tell people I’ve gotten used to it, and that’s true—I have gotten used to it. Kind of like how Houdini got used to people slugging him in the stomach. Until one day, it killed him.

I’m not sure what I was expecting Bruiser’s reaction to be—I hardly know the guy, after all. Given his gruff attitude and sleeve-ripper biceps, I was betting on either a stiff shot of tough-luck sympathy or total avoidance of the topic.

What I didn’t predict was for him to drop his coffee cup on the floor.

It happens in a split second: He looks at my prosthetic legs, freezes up like he’s just seen a ghost, then—

SMASH.

The cup shatters.

It’s a first.

We both just stand there looking at each other for a painfully awkward moment, unsure of what to say. I had prepared a speech for this moment, but now there’s a puddle of coffee on the floor and a broken ceramic cup and, somehow, what I was about to say doesn’t seem to fit the mood.

All I can think is: Why the hell didn’t I wear the stupid sweatpants?

Bruiser clears his throat, shaking himself out of his stunned daze. He doesn’t seem to notice the mess on the floor, but he sure as hell notices the way my face has gone red all the way to my ears.

It’s not embarrassment, not shame or insecurity.

It’s something more like… jealousy.

I’m jealous of the Weston I was last night.

“I wasn’t sure how to tell you, so I just…” The rest of that sentence dies in my throat as I look down at the broken coffee cup on the floor. When I start again, my voice is quiet but ironclad. “I know what you’re thinking right now. But I want you to test me just like you were going to before. I want to show you what I’m capable of, and then you can decide if I’m the right guy for the job. Okay?”

Bruiser gives a single nod, his jaw hardening. “Okay.” He looks a little sick to his stomach, which really helps to boost my confidence. I try to remember what Tessa said last night, her voice so strong and sure. Something about being myself… It’s all a flickering shadow behind a dense haze.

I could leave right now. I could walk out that door and forget about this idea. I could find a job somewhere else, anywhere else.

No. That’s a pansy-ass move.

So I suck it up and get to work, shoving the whole awkward incident to the back of my mind. I force myself to not think about it. To be myself.

Confident. Devil-may-care. That’s what Tessa says I am.

So screw it. That’s what I’ll be.

Bruiser tells me to start with shadowboxing, facing the mirror. While he turns on some Black Sabbath, I get in the zone—checking my form in the reflection, throwing easy jabs as I move lightly on my feet. It’s a showdown between me and myself, in more ways than one.

Once I’m sufficiently warmed up (aka sweating), Bruiser has me move on to the heavy bag, giving me the option to wear boxing gloves if I want to. I refuse, going bare-fisted instead (if only to prove I’m not a pansy-ass). It’s brutal to work combos on an unfamiliar bag. I don’t know any of the soft spots, but I remind myself, This is good. Show him what you’re capable of.

Bruiser stands by with a stopwatch, watching with his shredded arms crossed over his chest. As each round gets longer, each break gets shorter. Three minutes on. One minute off. Four minutes on. Thirty seconds off. Five minutes on. Ten seconds off.

“Breathe, kid.” He says it like he’s about to push me into the deep end. Or maybe he just says it because I’m gasping for air like I’m going to pass out. “Five… four… three… two… go, go, go, don’t stop!”

I flurry the bag like my life depends on it, fists blurring in front of my face, heart thundering in my ears. I don’t realize my knuckles have split open until I see my blood smearing the bag.

I guess I should have taken the gloves.

“Slow down, kid. Give me combos of five. No repeats or you’ll be doing knuckle pushups afterwards.”

I grit my teeth and push through the pain, racking my brain for unique combos of five.

Jab, straight right, left hook, right hook, uppercut.

Jab, jab, left hook, straight right, uppercut.

Jab, left hook, jab, uppercut, straight right.

I try to mix up every combo, making sure I don’t throw any of them twice in the same order. But that’s not a simple task when you’re in the middle of dying.

Bruiser calls me out whenever I slip up with a sharp, “Saw that!” or “Don’t you dare!” He stands on the other side of the bag, watching me pour it all out, stony-faced. I embrace the agony, the sweat in my eyes, the fire licking over my skin.

I tell myself, I want this. I love this.

But honestly, I can’t wait for him to stop that damn watch.

“Ten seconds—come on. Hands up. Go harder, harder, harder—”

I brutalize the bag like it’s a monster who’s trying to kill Tessa. Stupidly enough, that’s exactly what I need to think about to survive until the end of the round.

“Time.”

I collapse against the heavy bag, gasping and heaving so hard I feel like I might throw up. For a few minutes, I can’t talk. All I can do is stand there with my forehead against the blood-smeared bag, my arms burning, my lungs shuddering.

When I step back, Bruiser is looking at the face of his stopwatch. “How long do you think that last round was?”

“I don’t know. Five minutes?”

“Ten.”

No wonder I almost collapsed.

I’ve never gone so hard for a ten-minute round in my life.

“How many times did you repeat your combos?”

I look down at my knuckles, which are split open and oozing blood.

“I’m not sure.”

“Thirty-six.”

My heart drops. “I guess you want me to give you thirty-six knuckle pushups, then.”

Bruiser shrugs one massive shoulder. “You didn’t want me to go easy on you, kid.”

“That’s right,” I fire back, dropping into a plank on the floor.

I don’t give him thirty-six knuckle pushups.

I give him a hundred.

My arms are shaking by the time I finish, but I don’t care if he sees me weak, gasping for air, gritting my teeth, and swallowing back moans of pain.

I want him to see everything I have.

I want to leave it all on the floor at his feet and let that be what he remembers about me. Even if he never sees me again.

I push off my knuckles and stand up, leaving the floor smeared with my blood.

“Need a break?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. What’s next?”

Bruiser narrows his dark eyes at me, a smirk twitching at his mouth. For a second, he looks like he did in that picture on the wall—sadistic, indestructible.

“You tell me, kid.”

I wipe the sweat off my brow. “What?”

“Looks like you really want this job.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Well, you have good form. Endurance. Willingness to go beyond the call of duty.” He eyes the smear of blood I left on the floor. “It’d be kinda dirty of me not to let you give it a shot.”

“Are you saying I’ve got the job?”

Bruiser cocks his head to one side. “You’re on trial, kid. Don’t get too excited. Come back tonight, six to eight. Night classes are the busiest. You can keep an eye on the younger students. If I’m happy with your work by the end of the week… well, then we’ll talk about the job.”

It’s not exactly as satisfying as hearing the words “you’re hired,” but after pouring out my blood and sweat all over the boxing gym floor, I’ll take it. What’s more, I reach out for a handshake—because I’m not a guy who learns from his mistakes the first time. To my surprise, Bruiser takes my sweaty, bloody hand in his and gives it a bone-crushing shake.

“See you tonight, kid.”