I stood outside the door of Ray’s comic book store early the next day. Holding the Dragon’s-eye amulet, I shoved it back into my pocket, searching for a way to explain my predicament without sounding like a total loon.

An impossible task.

The door chimed as I entered. As usual, the store was a cluttered mess of cardboard boxes and loosely organized comic books. Ray, wearing his usual old-school clothes topped with a flat cap, smiled towards me, showing a row of misaligned teeth—some completely missing.

“Ike!” he said, in an unusually jovial tone; he was usually so reserved when speaking about anything other than comics. “Glad to see you’re back. Your roommate mentioned you were missing. It’s always a shame when our friends disappear like that.”

Having grown up in a war-torn part of the world until he was of later years, Ray would hold a deep understanding of losing friends. Trying not to seem too desperate, I ran my hand through my hair. “Oh yeah, it was something of a misunderstanding. I’m back now anyway.”

“Well,” Ray said, leaning against the counter, a small pile of stacked comics leaning precariously close to falling. “What can I do for you? Here for the latest issue? What did you read again—”

No,” I replied, and his eyes narrowed towards me quizzically. “But thank you. So, I was thinking; that amulet you gave me the other day—”

“The other day? Ah, you mean a few weeks ago. The silver one?”

I pinched my leg for having forgotten I was gone for weeks, not days. “Yeah that one. I was thinkin, it's pretty interesting. I was wondering if you remember where you got it? Maybe from a store, or a person online?”

Ray’s jovial appearance took a sudden and deliberate downturn. “Hmm…” he mused, scratching the stark white hairs on his face. “Why do you want to know?”

I pretended like I wasn’t worried, grabbing a few comics that I’d not even bothered to read the titles of, absently flipping through the pages as if the conversation were of no real consequence. “Oh I’m a fan of it, is all. Just thinkin’ I’d like to see if they have anything that compliments it.”

“And yet I don’t see it on you today.”

I forced a laugh, setting the comic down. “It’s not something you’d wear everyday. Consider it a special project of mine. A secret. But, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a number or an email address…”

“Sorry, can’t.” Ray replied sharply, turning from me. As he did, he knocked the pile of comics that were leaning to the ground. He grumbled to himself, at first, but bent down to pick them up off the floor.

“Here—” I rushed to help him pick up the books. Taking a handful, I carefully began stacking them back on the counter. “It’s not a big deal. If I just knew who made it—”

“No!” Ray replied, more forcefully this time. His muscles went taut as if he expected a brawl.

I stepped away from him, showing both my hands in mock surrender. “Ray, I didn’t mean to make you upset. It’s just—”

“How many times do I have to say it? Get out! Out!” He pointed an old crooked finger towards the door.

Sensing I wasn’t going to get any answers today, I walked towards the exit. Then, suddenly, I had a thought; an epiphany if you will. “What’s going on here Ray?” I asked. “There’s something you aren’t telling me. Something you’re trying to keep hidden.”

The comic store owner's usually calm face took on a sinister look as he walked from behind the counter. “Are you threatening me, son?”

“No, no, no” I replied, turning back to face him directly. I ditched the subjefuge, deciding on a more direct approach. “I just want to know what’s happening to me. That’s your secret right? You sell magical items?”

Ray’s face took on a curious look, and then, suddenly, he barked a laugh. In fact, he laughed so hard he bent over from the effort, unable to breathe. When he recovered, he said, “When Grant told me you’d gone on a drug fueled binge, I didn’t realize it was this bad. Magical items? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Wait,” I replied, desperate to save face. “That’s not your secret? You’re not the elderly wise man in every story that prompts the hero forward on his journey?”

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“Eh, eh, eh,” Ray said, returning to his place behind the counter. “You need to lay off the herb for a while. Young folk these days can't handle the mind high. You synthesize your chemicals into mother’s earth's natural remedies—it's no wonder you’re so confused. I sell comic books, son; I don’t send young folks on spirit journeys or whatever you think is happening here. Go home, get some rest. And maybe lay off the comic’s for a bit.” He waved me off dismissively.

Feeling heat flush in my face, I left, not daring to turn back around. I heard the old man snicker before the door closed, cutting off the noise. I kicked my feet on the concrete street and felt like an idiot of the highest order.

***

I took the long way home, collecting snippets of job offerings posted on various street lamps and electrical poles as I went. My pockets were nearly full before I decided to head home, but off in the distance, I heard a soft pattern of air escaping as something forcibly struck it.

The street lights turned on as I rounded a corner, seeing a dingy looking building with large glass windows. Inside, I could see around ten men and women with giant sized red gloves doing various exercises and hitting punching bags.

A boxing studio.

Seeing as it was on my way home, I walked towards it, the rhythmic sounds of beaten fabric surprisingly enticing to my ears. I peered into the window, like a thief casing a house, and saw the fighters pushing themselves harshly. Sweat poured off their bodies, and everyone was lean—muscular; unlike me. None of these people looked like they’d get mugged in a dark alleyway. And if they did, I felt sorry for whomever tried it.

I put the thought aside as I began to walk away, but then, suddenly, I heard a siren off in the distance. It blared and beeped, and with every audible sound, panic grasped my chest. I quickly found myself inside the building, taking cover as if I were on the beaches of normandy.

When I looked up, some of the patrons had stopped their exercises, staring awkwardly at me. Feeling stupid, I waved to them and turned to head back outside.

“Wait,” a voice called from across the room. It was elderly and broken, as if whomever had called out had chain smoked since the day they were born. “Come into my office. Let’s talk.”

I’ll be honest, I considered running. But in a moment of clarity, I realized that to do so would appear far more suspicious. Best pretend to be a potential student looking to join the gym so as to not arouse suspicion.

I would not do well in prison.

Walking to the back, I did my best to shield my face and features from the others who didn’t break eye contact as I passed by. Eventually, I came upon a cramped office. It was barely big enough for the small desk and two chairs it had, and smoke bellowed from it.

“Come in,” the raspy voice from inside said, and I squeezed my way in, taking a deep inhalation of the smoke as I did.

It calmed my nerves.

Pushing against the table with my stomach, I managed to slide the chair out, turning it sideway. Having no room to turn back, I sat, closing the door with my foot, and craning my neck to look towards the one who called. Across from me, in the opposing chair, an elderly woman, her features lit by the small light coming from her computer screen as she smoked a Cowboy Killer.

“Listen,” I said, struggling to breathe. I love cigarette smoke, but this was too much, even for me. “Sorry about intruding. As you can plainly see, I’ve been having a rough time in rough neighborhoods lately. I saw the gym and thought… Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I wasted your time, so if you’ll excuse me.” I stood to leave.

Prying her head from the computer, she stared at me with deep green eyes that burned red from the cherry that burned at the tip of the lit cigarette that hung casually in her mouth. ‘Sit down,” she demanded. “Sit.” Doing as I was told, I sat back down wordlessly. “Nobody comes to a gym like this if they aren’t seeking a means to defend themselves. Places like these—they call to people. Beckon them. You don’t so much choose to be here as you are chosen. And you, young one, are chosen.”

“But…”

The woman slid a piece of paper forward, tapping the ash of her cigarette into a glass cup with a dark amber liquor at the bottom. “Here, sign this.”

Looking down, it was some type of liability sheet. “No,” I replied, pushing it back. “I don’t want to join the gym. This was just a mistake. Outside, I got spooked and ran inside—”

The chain smoking grandma slid it back. “Then sign, and be scared no more.”

I slid it back to her again. “No. I don’t even have money for rent, yet alone a gym membership.”

She slid it back in protest. “Who said anything about money? We get plenty. I know I don’t look it now, but I’ve trained a few very well-known fighters. You’re safe here.”

I slid it back for the third time. “I don’t have the time—”

Sliding it back, she said, “Make time.”

I slid it back. “I don’t want to.”

She slid it back. “You do.”

“Fine!” I yelled, picking the paper up and slamming it straight on the table. Holding out my hand, I added, “I need a pen.”

She slid one over, giving me a coy smile. My fingers darted before my brain could even register what was happening, and, before I knew it, I was a new member of a boxing gym.

“Congratulations,” she said, taking the paper and setting it in front of her. “We’re open 12-12 Monday through Saturday. Sundays we are closed. As for payment, we’ll work something out eventually. I suggest you buy your own gloves, but if you can’t afford any, I'll see what old pair I got. So then,” she looked at the paper, “Ike? We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow I need to look for a—”

She turned, slamming my new liability form into a drawer, and staring back at her computer, not even acknowledging my existence. Having sensed I’d lost the battle, I stood up and began the walk back to the apartment.

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