Photo: © Depositphotos.com/photolux
Written by Amy Frizzi

I’m dreaming about being in a house that I know, but I’ve never been to before. I’m laying down on the most comfortable couch and I’m talking to Kevin Bacon about pork belly (dream me refuses to bring up actual bacon so as not to be annoying) and then I hear the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. Kevin and I think “this is it, they’ve finally dropped the big one and we didn’t even get to have our pork belly.” I shake awake. My alarm is going off and has been for a minute or two. It’s 4 am, time to train.

 

I get up, silently, and slip off to the bathroom. I brush my teeth and throw my hair up. On go the socks and sneakers. On goes the grey sweat suit (yes, I sleep in my underwear and I’m not putting on fresh ones; I don’t need your judgement). On goes my hat. I venture out to run in the cold bleak morning. I run through a neighborhood ingrained in my mind, filled with the echoes of familiar faces, enjoying themselves in the warm glow of spring. Of course they’re not really there, and it’s 17 degrees out, and oh fuck, I just ran through some dog shit because I was distracted.

 

My running route takes me where I really need to go: the ring. I walk into the gym. I’m not the first to arrive. I chastise myself for those extra few Bacon bits of sleep. They chastise me for walking in with dog shit on my shoe. After a lengthy washing session I’m ready to step into the ring. Violent crashing, animal instinct, and pure adrenaline consume for me for three minutes. I don’t remember anything that has happened, but I’m still standing and my opponent is not. Out. Out in the first round. Out in a practice round. Out.

 

This is the first time I have won a round. The first time I’ve won a match. The first time I’ve won. Ever. I worry I’ll get soft. I worry I’ll celebrate. I tell myself that “I’m still weak!” and that “I’m as soft as the pork belly Kevin Bacon wants to eat in my dreams.” I tell myself that “in 6 months I will only celebrate this moment if I win again.” That’s the only victory that will ever count. That will be the biggest moment of my life. That is my fight worth fighting. I tell myself to “celebrate this moment then, only then.” I take a deep breath. Who’s next?

 

—

 

I wake up before my alarm, my room is too bright to sleep. I brush my teeth, I put on my gold satin mini dress. The morning moves strangely, seemingly taking an eternity but also going by in an instant of sun-drenched anticipation. I make my way to the agreed upon corn-field. It’s still too early in the season to yield a crop of any kind, but late enough that my shit-stained shoes are hidden in the deep green blanket of pre-corn. Gloves on. Violence. Adrenaline. Animal instinct. It’s not the same, I feel myself losing. I feel frozen like it’s 17 degrees and 4 am all over again, but this time I can’t move. I am not going to win.

 

Suddenly, without warning or pretense, I see Kevin Bacon. Is this real? Has it all been a dream? He smiles and waves to me, it’s happening. He’s holding a plate of food. Steam rises off of it. My opponent becomes distracted by Bacon’s bacon. He lets down his guard. I land the shot. I celebrate. Later, Kevin tells me “People are always weird about the food bacon and my name being Bacon, so I tell people I don’t eat it, But really it’s my favorite food.” Kevin Bacon loves bacon.

 

***

Amy Frizzi is a local 31 year old teenage ne’er do well. She can be found on twitter @frizziface making dumb jokes that you won’t get unless you know her personally anyways, and she really, really, likes pugs.