More Stories from the Twilight Zone by Serling Rod

Author:Serling, Rod [Serling, Rod]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Rod Serling Books
Published: 2013-06-26T04:00:00+00:00

The Big, Tall Wish

In this corner of the universe, in a shabby, sparsely furnished bedroom inside an aging and decrepit brownstone tenement, stood a prize fighter named Bolie Jackson, staring at himself in the dresser mirror. He weighed a hundred and sixty-three pounds and was an hour and a half away from a comeback at St. Nick’s.

Mr. Bolie Jackson, at thirty-three, was, by the standards of his profession, an aging, over-the-hill relic. At this moment he was looking at the reflection of a man who had left too many pieces of his youth in too many stadiums for too many years before too many screaming people.

He regarded the ebony face, crisscrossed with thin, irregular white scars, and the battered nose that had been smashed this way and that way and finally settled into a shapeless lump, flattened down so that the nostrils were only a fraction of an inch away from an equally scarred upper lip. But, with it all, it was a good face and a gentle face. The eyes were clear, the features expressive, the mouth determined, but not without humor. Nor was the face without character.

In the right-hand corner of the mirror was the reflection of Henry Temple who sat on Bolie Jackson’s bed across the room and stared with undisguised hero worship at the lithe black man who stood in front of him buttoning his shirt. Little Henry Temple, a nine-year-old colored boy, had a personal God named Bolie Jackson and a personal shrine that was this nondescript bedroom on the floor above his own.

Henry looked happily at the fighter’s shoulder muscles, which rippled underneath the shirt. He noted with an adult satisfaction Bolie Jackson’s poise, the way he stood flat-footed, the grace of the man. He was a fighter, a professional fighter, and he was an expert at his craft.

“You feelin’ good, Bolie?” Henry held out his little fists. “Feelin’ sharp? Take a tiger tonight, huh, Bolie?”

Bolie smiled gently at the little boy’s reflection in the mirror. He winked and held out his fists, aping Henry’s gesture. “Take a tiger, Henry,” Bolie announced. “Gonna take me a tiger. Hard left, then a right. One in the stomach and then lift him up by the tail and throw ’im out to the ninth row.”

Henry’s intent, serious face in the mirror showed a big, even, white-toothed smile. God, but he loved this kid. He watched the boy get up and come over to him.

“You’re lookin’ good, Bolie.” It was a final judgment. It was an absolute, irrevocable analysis from an expert, albeit a nine-year-old worshiper. “You’re lookin’ sharp, Bolie. Oh, boy, you’re lookin’ sharp.”

Bolie’s smile faded as he bent down to look at the little face and then cupped the small chin, pressing it gently. “You gonna watch it on television?”

“You foolin’?” Henry laughed. “I’ll yell so loud you’ll hear me all the way to St. Nick’s.”

They stood and laughed together, then Bolie finished buttoning his shirt. He leaned toward the mirror studying the scars on his face.

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