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  Swimming

  in

  Puddles

  Create an Abundant Life

  from Limited Circumstances

  Clint Lowe

  Visit Clint Lowe on his YouTube channel Write Heroes, where he analyses various aspects of storytelling and creative writing.

  http://bit.ly/2qa2wdYWriteHeroes

  Join the Swimming in Puddles Facebook Group to discuss how to Create an Abundant Life from Limited Circumstances.

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  Copyright © 2018 by Clint Lowe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-0-9876412-0-5 (ebook)

  978-0-9876412-1-2 (paperback)

  978-0-9876412-2-9 (hardback)

  Cover picture by Clint Lowe

  Heroes Press

  All I have is puddles.

  - Joey Kip

  Then swim in the puddles.

  - Art Edward

  Swimming

  in

  Puddles

  Contents

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  The Fight of Life

  Art Edward

  Yelling and screaming echoes between the streets and tall buildings. My boxing instincts tell me this is a fight. I move to the corner, stand beside the cold red bricks and look around.

  Inside a tennis court bordered with a black-wire fence, four teenage boys pull shirts and throw wild fists. One lands his fist on a jaw and makes a thud. A small boy, younger than the other three, cries at a distance as a kid with brown, 80s rock band hair punches a tall red-headed boy in the mouth. The sock echoes around the buildings. The red-head boy lurches back, his lip dripping blood. Another kid, built like he’s lived off sixteen years of beef patties, comes at the boy with the rock band hair and swings a fist. Rock Band ducks and returns with square knuckles to Beef Patty’s gut.

  “Arrgg,” Beef Patty groans and hunches.

  Then Redhead thumps Rock Band in the kidneys while his back is turned. Beef Patty and Redhead grab Rock Band and punch into him like they’re butchers pounding meat, then throw him down into the black tennis court fence, sinking their boots into his body.

  Redhead wipes blood from his lip, then spits on him. “Mind your business next time, fat breath.”

  Fat breath? What kind of an insult is that? I must be getting old, out of the loop with young talk.

  The two teenage thugs head off, lighting cigarettes.

  Rock Band crawls to his feet – that shows some heart, not staying down – then he takes some reading glasses by the fence and hands them to the small boy. “Here you go,” he says.

  The boy, dried tears staining his cheeks, grabs them and scoots off.

  Not very thankful to that wild-haired kid who just took a beating to rescue his glasses. I guess he’s just a boy, and boys still need to grow into men.

  Rock Band scans his fists, runs his fingers over his knuckles. Sore, no doubt. I want to meet this brave young lad. He reminds me of myself forty years ago.

  The blue scarf my dear Lucy made for me is wrapped around my neck, and I prod it a little higher, keeping the winter wind at bay, then I move into the tennis court.

  “Nice thing you did for that boy, young man,” I tell him.

  He looks up, immediately a look of concern reflects in his eyes. “You an old retired cop or something?”

  “No, I’m no cop, retired or current.”

  He turns his chin up like he doesn’t believe me. “Why you wearing that blue suit? The only black men with silver hair wearing suits that I’ve seen are cops or detectives. Or Nelson Mandela – you look a bit like him.”

  The kid has an eye for detail; though I’m a little disappointed he didn’t mention Lucy’s scarf. “I’m pleased with the Mr. Mandela comparison, but where have you seen cops and detectives?”

  The boy shrugs. “TV. Movies.”

  Movies. Young ones can’t get enough of them. Truth is, I’m fond of them myself. The good ones, anyway. “I like the movies too,” I say. “Still, I’m no cop or detective. But, I’ve dealt with my share of thugs. But I haven’t found many people who put themselves in the line-of-fire to help someone in a tough situation.”

  Rock Band surveys me, a young, but lost spark in his eyes. It appears he doesn’t receive many compliments or encouragements. “Well, I got to get going,” he says.

  Not so fast. “Do your parents like you fighting?” I say.

  “I was in a foster home; now I live with two mates,” he says and offers a shrug. “They won’t care.”

  The boy’s bloodied lip fosters memories of my upbringing. Dad left and Mom drank because Dad left. I had to work harder and longer than most kids to get half as much. All I wanted was a fair go, my share, to live life and find love. I wish someone took the time to point me in the right direction. I guess it’s my opportunity to do that now.

  “My name’s Art Edward.”

  We shake hands.

  “Joey Kip.”

  “Joey,” I repeat his name to show my respect, and give a final firm grip of his hand, then let go. “You have any plans tomorrow evening?”

  Joey looks around the narrow streets and blocks of units and buildings. “I’ll find stuff to do.”

  Dry, withered leaves blow past my feet, and I look at the back of my hands, sun scarred and wrinkled, withering like the leaves. Time moves fast; we can’t just do stuff. I remember when I just did stuff. Squandered my time away. Guess I was too young to know any better. It’s a waste of life. This lad, he’s got to know he must do more than just, stuff.

  I consider the young man’s wild brown hair; too soon it will be grey like mine, although I like to think of mine as more of the silver the lad mentioned earlier.

  “Stuff,” I say. “There’s more to life than stuff. How about you come by my gym every evening after school, 27 Coleman Street. You got a good punch, and I teach boxing.”

  Joey screws his lip, punches into his fist like he is imagining beating on those teenage bullies. “Could be useful,” he says, “but I can take care of thugs.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be training you to fight people. It would be more . . . for the discipline.”

  “I don’t need discipline.”

  “Discipline is a great quality to master,” I say with a deep gaze, trying to instill the importance of discipline. “You need discipline to succeed in almost any endeavor.”

  Joey looks around jittering, fingers tapping his torn pants like he has to get going in a hurry, like he has someplace important to be, but somehow I have my doubts. He turns to me. “How much you charge?”

  “Spit buckets and mops.”

  “I’m not cleaning your mess,” Joey says and turns and walks away.

  “If you don’t clean my mess,” I say, raising my voice, “you may be cleaning your mess for a long time.”

  Joey’s pace slows, thinking about that, and then he stops and turns around. He glances at his watch. “I may turn up, but I don’t commit. I do what flies by me at the time.”

  What flies by at the time? Usually not much. He needs direction. Goals. I sigh and shake my head, glance at the brown leaves flying by my feet, blowing toward a dirty gutter, no doubt. “Don’t do that,” I tell him. “Don’t do what flies by.”

  Joey squints his eyes from the sun creeping between the buildings. “Worked for me so far.”

  “And where’s it got you?” I ask. Joey’s silent as he stares at me; I’ve got him thinking. “If you take whatever happens, whatever comes your way in life, most likely you won’t end up with much. Rarely something good, I mean
really good, ever just flies by our way. We must decide what flies our way. Decide what we want. Go after it. Then we get good in our lives. So decide now if you want to come work for me while I train you.”

  He pauses in thought for a moment. Perhaps the first step in taking charge of his life. “Are you any good?” Joey asks.

  I motion my arm around the empty tennis court surrounded by buildings. “I’m the best you have.”

  “I don’t know.”

  The young lad needs help deciding what he wants, in taking control of his life. I know just the thing.

  “How does your gut feel?” I ask.

  Joey grabs his stomach. “Sore.”

  “I don’t mean from the punches,” I say. “I mean, how does your gut instinct feel about accepting my offer?”

  Joey grabs his elbow, perhaps confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s your first thought toward working at the gym and me training you?”

  “Be fun to learn to box,” Joey says. “But, after school, cleaning up, sounds like it would suck grapes.”

  Strange term. My eyebrows shoot up. “Not sure what you mean by sucking grapes. But, if you want fun, you’ve got to work.”

  Joey gazes around, contemplating. “What time would it be?”

  “Start five o’clock tomorrow evening.”

  The wind blows Joey’s tussled hair across his eyes, but his eyes reveal a little spark now. “Okay, I’ll scrub stuff,” he says. “As long as you teach me to punch, to fight.”

  I scrutinize Joey’s bedraggled hair and sloppy and dirty clothes, and sitting a little out of place, new blue running shoes, shoes that take him no direction in particular. This young man doesn’t need to learn to fight in the ring, but needs to learn how to fight the fight of life.

  I tell him, “I’ll teach you how to fight.”

  Earn the Break

  The bow tingles my fingers as I glide it across the strings of my violin. My violin is tucked into my chin and I sway with the movement of the music. Ah, music, it really frees your mind for creativity. The clock-hands on the wall edge past five-thirty. Joey’s not showing, or late, same thing in my books unless there is an exceptional reason. I hold my violin out, admire the flecks through the grain of the timber, then slip the finely crafted instrument into its case. I lock the latches and turn to leave my office when a tap tap knocks on the door.

  Could it be Joey?

  The door jars open.

  Susanna pokes her head in. No, not the young lad. Susanna’s blonde hair sways into her glasses and she drops her clipboard, scattering papers over the floor. I smile; she’s so clumsy. But clumsy doesn’t matter, as long as you’re doing the right things, which she most always is. I help gather the papers; she smiles and thanks me. “There’s a young gentleman here to see you,” she says.

  So he’s a young man who lacks punctuality. I stand and lean against my desk. “Let him in.”

  Joey hikes in and looks far from a young gentleman: holding a crunched fast food bag, with his pants dirty, shirt sloppy, another new pair of red sports shoes with an undone shoelace dragging a stuck wet leaf across my floor.

  He glances at my bookshelf like it is something stupid. “Lot of books,” he says.

  Need to test his resolve. Make him stronger.

  “You’re late,” I say. “Deal’s off.” I take my violin case off the desk and knock my red model ‘69 Charger. I stop it from falling off the table, then head toward the door. Joey drops the fast food bag and blocks me. It’s good he’s showing a little heart in stopping me, but the bag? I glance at the paper bag and Joey looks back at it as well, then picks it up and throws it in the bin by the corner. I head out the door.

  Joey chases me and takes my arm. “I’m here aren’t I?”

  I stop and look at Joey gripping my arm; he drops it. “Agreement was five o’clock.”

  “Teacher kept me back,” he says.

  That is doubtful, most likely a lie. “That’s a shame,” I say, and get moving across my gym toward the exit, past the two young men practicing in the ring.

  “Old man!” Joey yells, and I turn and face him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Joey waves an angry hand at me and walks away as if to leave the building, but he heads for the toilet – he doesn’t know where he’s going in life or the gym. Joey stops underneath the little plastic toilet man, shakes his head and comes back. He goes to grab my arm again and then stops himself, and points to the ring. “I could beat either of those dudes. Pick one and I’ll fight him. If I win, you train me.”

  The two young men hear his challenge and stop fighting in an instant. They lean against the ropes and look over eagerly like dogs wanting to jump on a meaty bone. It’s commendable Joey has the nerve to fight them with no training. He would most likely cop a beating. But still, he needs more life courage. Anyone can stand in a ring and get pounded in the face. That’s easy, but taking on life’s challenges requires real courage. He needs a touch more testing. “No deal,” I say and continue toward the front door.

  Joey runs in front of me and walks backwards as I close in on the exit. “You scared?” he says. “Scared you’re too old to train anymore?”

  I stop and look at Joey, then slap his face.

  “Crazy old man,” he says.

  I slap him again, whack! “Why aren’t you dodging?” I ask him. “You couldn’t fight a gloved sloth, let alone one of those boys.” I point to the bucket beside the ring. “And the deal was for spit buckets and mops.”

  “My life’s hard,” Joey says with more pain expressed in his eyes from his hard life than from my slaps. “I need to learn to fight more than . . .” he glances at the spit buckets, “clean people’s spit.”

  Don’t fight people, fight for your dreams. I point sternly to the front door. “Then get out on the streets and fight someone.”

  I go to move and Joey grabs my arm. We both look at my arm, and he drops it again.

  He’s learning. Good.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll clean.” He bites his lip and looks at the big clock on the far wall. “I shouldn’t have been late. Truth is, I don’t go to school. I work at a chicken factory. After work I came here and stood at the front door, then I changed my mind, okay. I started on home but then something nagged me to turn back for the gym. And I’m here now. Give me a break.”

  “That was your gut instinct nagging you here,” I tell him. “But there’s a hard lesson you need to learn: Life gives no breaks; you earn them.”

  “You gave me a break yesterday when you offered to train me.”

  “No. You earned it,” I say and Joey looks at me confused. “When you defended that small boy, that inspired me, made me think, ‘There’s a young man with character, a sense of justice and honor – although it was wild and untrained.’ Still, it was your action that moved me to make the offer. You earned it.”

  “Then let me earn it again,” he says. “I’ll do extra, stay longer.”

  Extra and longer! Going the extra mile. He really is learning. I glance at my watch like I have somewhere to be. Truth is I don’t. Since I lost dear Lucy this place is more my home now. Heck, I’m only pretending to walk out to get the fire burning in this young man’s belly.

  “Stay and clean this place until eleven,” I tell him. “I’ll come back and drive you home.”

  Joey’s arms flash as wide as his mouth. “That’s over five hours.”

  “And you do that for the next month. If I like what I see, like how the place looks, impressed by your attitude, then you win back the deal – agreed?”

  I stick out my hand.

  Joey looks at the fighters in the ring, they mockingly hock and spit into the tin bucket, showing Joey how he will be cleaning their mess. Then they laugh to each other and punch gloves. First time those two have been friendly toward one other in a long time.

  Joey breathes heavily, holding back anger. It’s gonna take some humility
to accept this. But with humility eventually comes wisdom.

  Joey finally forces himself to face me, and he grasps my hand.

  I nod slowly and think to myself, Kid, you just survived round one.

  Punch the Bag Again

  Night after night Joey mopes as he mops, his bottom lip hanging like he went eight rounds with the World Heavy Weight Champion. He drags the buckets like he drags his feet, his shoulders drooped, and clothes and hair messier than Susanna’s notes. Still, despite obvious lack of order and discipline, Joey perseveres. And I always respect someone with doggedness. They draw the respect from me. There’s nothing I can do about it. And perseverance is old Mr. Obstacle’s worst nightmare. Joey’s begun to fight.

  Joey lasts the month, even jogging home. He said his place is a few blocks from here and the quick run does him good. It’s time for me to stick to my end of the deal.

  It’s Friday night and I take him to the punching bag and hand him the gloves; he snatches them like he was starving and they were the last burger at Freddy’s Deep Fried Burgers.

  He’s got hunger. Good. Someone who’s hungry can fight through anything.

  I grab the punching bag, bracing my chest and knees. “Lay it on me.”

  Joey grimaces then throws his weight into the punch. Not bad for a skinny kid whose hair looks like it weighs more than his body. He punches, but not in raw anger, in hurt. It shows in his eyes. His pain of a rugged and love-lacking life is revealed in each pounding punch.

  A few rounds of punching has a tear welling in his eye, and he turns aside. “This is stupid,” he says. “Waste of time. I don’t want this.”

  I lean out from behind the bag and let it sway. “What do you want?”

  Joey, with his back turned, wipes his eye, then faces me. “Something to fight for. I’ll never be a pro fighter. I just want a life. A life like others have. You know, a decent job, your own place, someone there. This, what we’ve been doing, can’t help me with that. A month, and all I’ve done is lug around buckets and mops and punched one lousy bag.”