Recognition

As Hank stepped inside, shrugging off his leather coat, he caught the distant hum of music coming from the bedroom. A slow, crackling tune filtered through the thin walls, something old, something from before. Had Mary fallen asleep with the radio on again? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, he didn’t rush. He let the front door close behind him . . . 

Or at least, he tried to.

The door hit something solid, bouncing back just enough to leave a sliver of space between it and the frame. Hank frowned, peered down. A sneaker. Worn. The kind that had once been white but had long since turned the colour of pavement grime, dirt caked into the fabric like whoever owned them had spent a lot of time on their knees.

He opened the door wider, revealing the superintendent standing there, breathless. The man looked like he’d barely bothered to get dressed for this little visit . . . pinstripe pyjama bottoms, a cheap ribbed vest, his chest still rising and falling like the trip up the stairs had cost him more than he wanted to admit. Without a word, he thrust out a white plastic card, its shape identical to a credit or debit card.

“This is the only time I’m doing this,” the super grumbled, still catching his breath.

Hank didn’t hesitate. He reached out, took the card, and for a moment, an honest look of relief washed over his face. He swallowed it just as quickly.

“Thank you,” Hank said, his voice rough, gravel dragged across pavement. “Really… thank you. I appreciate it.”

He turned, reached for his coat where it hung by the door, slipping a hand into the pocket. The brown envelope was there, crinkled at the edges. He already knew how much the credit would cost, but he still took the time to count out an extra ten bucks before handing it over. Maybe his generosity was his Achilles’ heel, it had probably put him in this position in the first place, but he wanted to show his appreciation. That had to count for something.

The super took the money, gave it a quick once . . . over, then looked up at Hank with an unreadable expression.

“For the inconvenience,” Hank said simply.

The super nodded, acknowledging the gesture. He started to turn away, then hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Something was on his mind. Hank could see it coming before the words left the man’s mouth.

“It is you, isn’t it?” The super squinted at him. “Freight Train?”

Hank stiffened. The name sat heavy on his shoulders, like an old coat he’d rather not wear. He didn’t like being recognised. Not any more. Not like this. It just reminded him of how far he’d fallen. How he’d once had everything and now he could barely keep the heat on for his sick wife.

Eventually, he nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Once upon a time.”

The super’s face lit up, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He shook a fist, grinning like he’d just won a bet. “I knew it!” he said, throwing a few sloppy shadow punches in the hallway, nearly knocking over the plastic lily that stood in the corner like some forgotten relic. “A bloody legend, you were. Never been another boxer quite like the Freight Train. That was when it was a real sport. Now it’s all smoke and mirrors. Training in fancy gyms, eating powdered milk like babies. Real boxers ran outside in the snow and ate raw eggs.” He punctuated the last sentence with another punch, nearly toppling the fake plant altogether.

Hank forced another smile, held up the heating card like a white flag. “Thanks again,” he said, a little firmer this time. “I’ll make sure I get the next one before this runs out.”

The super nodded, still grinning. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure. Be seeing you around, Freight Train. You wait ‘til I tell the boys about this.”

Hank shut the door before he could hear any more, keeping his fake grin plastered on until the latch clicked. Then he exhaled, long and slow, rubbing a hand over his face.

He made his way into the kitchen, kneeling down to pull out the plastic cleaning caddy from under the corner cabinet. The old meter sat there like a stubborn gatekeeper, waiting for its dues. He removed the spent plastic card and slid in the new one, watching as the LCD display blinked, hesitated, then reset itself with a flickering set of numbers.

The boiler hummed to life somewhere above the counter, and almost immediately, the cold pipes throughout the apartment began their slow protest . . . popping, pinging, stretching like stiff joints shaking off the cold. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Hank rose to his feet, steady, and stepped out of the kitchen, following the muffled melody leaking from the bedroom. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but the tune was familiar, something old, something comforting. He walked past the sagging couch, the coffee table littered with unopened mail, and just before reaching the bedroom door, he stopped.

His eyes lifted to the cherry-wood cabinet with the glass doors. His shelves, lined with mementos, with proof of who he used to be. Heavyweight belts, trophies, pictures yellowing at the edges, all of them reminders of past victories. Echoes of a man who had been larger than life, who had stood in the ring with his fists high, a titan among men.

A moment passed. Then another. He reached up, put his hand on the light switch.

A quiet . . . click . . . and darkness swallowed the room.