The Pugilist
A guy schedules a doctor’s appointment, complaining of head pains. Upon entering the examination room, the doctor consults his file and inquires, “May I ask what you do for a living?”
“I’m a pugilist,” the guy replies.
“A pugilist?”
“A boxer.”
“Ah,” the doctor grunts, closing the folder. “Well, there’s your problem.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re a boxer?” he confirms. “I imagine that, as a result, you’ve been frequently punched in the face? And may I ask how long you’ve been a boxer?”
“Pugilist,” the man gently corrects him. “Eight years, professional.” Grinning (all his teeth in evidence), he boasts, “Cobbled together a record of twenty-two and four, twenty by K-O.”
“Win, lose, or draw,” the doctor dismisses with a peevish wave of the hand, “you’ve been punched in the face, repeatedly, for the past eight years! So if you’re here today, asking why you’re experiencing head pain, then there’s your answer. It’s not good to be punched in the face. In fact, it’s pretty terrible for you. Have you noticed any other signs of trauma? Sensitivity to light? Trouble with your balance? Memory loss?”
The pugilist shrugs; the doctor apes him — perhaps not the wisest move.
“Stop getting hit in the head.”
“And it’ll get better?”
“It won’t get worse. Which it invariably will, otherwise.”
He considers this for a moment, while the doctor caps and uncaps his pen.
“That won’t be easy,” the pugilist finally resolves.
“Oh, no?”
Shielding his face, then, he advances on the doctor — bobbing and weaving from side to side. Moving in this deliberate fashion, they traverse the room — the pugilist advancing, the doctor retreating, their orbit occasionally changing direction.
“You see what I’m doing?”
“No, actually — ”
“See how I’m protecting my face? See how it leaves the body exposed? The kidneys, the ribs — know what a busted rib feels like?”
(In fact, the doctor once bruised his ribs on a ski trip: every time he inhaled, it was like a friendly ghost had hugged him around the waist.)
The pugilist stands up straight, relaxing his shoulders. They have twice walked in a circle. “So, when I come back in a month, pissing blood, what d’you tell me then? Try wearing a suit of armor?”
The doctor blinks. “What? No — that’s not what I meant. Don’t get punched anywhere — not in the head, not the body, not the ribs. Protect everything. Stop getting punched everywhere.”
After a moment, the pugilist breaks into a wide smile. “Oh, just don’t get punched anywhere?” he says. “Okay, I get it — good one, doc, good one. I’ll tell you what, though. If I could manage that, my record would be a helluva lot better than twenty-two and four!”
