Page 6 of Sucker Punch Drunk Love

Kelvin, the father of my daughter, had always been a piece of work. But I’d been younger, and in love—or at least thought I was, so in the beginning I was always trying to make it work. It didn’t take time to realize the person who you fell for isn’t often the same person you have kids with, so when he couldn’t control me through our daughter or his fists anymore, his final bow had been trying to do so with the court system.

There were times, I wasn’t even sure he evenlikedour daughter, he just liked how unregulated he could get me at the threat of taking her away. He’d complained about everything from her being too dark to be his daughter, or how coily her hair was in comparison to his; he’s even accused me of infidelity.

I wish I could say I never went back, but there were times where it was just too hard not to with no money saved up. But the final straw came when during an argument, Kelvin struckme when I was holding Mónica, which caused her to fall out my arms at eighteen months. She ended being alright after an ER visit, but when I made it clear I was done with him for good outside of co-parenting, he used that situation against me to fight for full custody.

In time, my resources hadn’t been strong enough, but the courts found him, nor me a stable environment to leave her in. In a last-minute effort, I begged his mother if she could take her, that if she could keep the courts out of things, that I promised to make a stable home for Mónica the moment I got my life right.

His mother, Sondra, had never been my biggest fan, but she wasn’t going to let our daughter suffer just because we couldn’t make things work. Funny thing is, as soon as she started staying with his mom, all the concern for the welfare of “a daughter needing her father” went right out the window. Apparently, I send more money her way, and I’m fucking broke. But if I worked harder, I wouldn’t be. I just needed to know which was smarter, getting the place, or my daughter back first.

“Do you currently have employment?” Blessing asked. Thankfully, I was prepared for that question.

“I guess I'm an independent contractor,” I said, shamefully with no conviction.

“So, you're a tax preparer? Or do you work in house cleaning?” she asked for clarification.

“I'm a fighter.”

“Fighter?” she asked, confused.

“I fight professionally,” this time with more confidence.

“Does that pay anything?” She questioned, right fully so.

“Not so much in the beginning. But I'm getting more fights because I've been winning more?—”

“Sierra, do you have arealjob? Something where you get taxes taken out of your check. A place you clock in and out of?”

“No,” I admitted, nervously biting my lip.

“Well, if custody of your daughter is yourmaingoal, you'll have to find one. And be able to maintain employment. Do that, and we can help you gain housing. There are a handful of options to help with food and utilities for up to twelve months if there’s a paper trail that you’re trying.”

“Okay. I can do that,” reluctantly agreeing to it. I had had a job in Philly. Nothing fancy. Call center receptionist at the community center that had woke me up to all these beginner classes for self-defense at a discount. I’d never been good at anything before, and when I learned you could make a living off this kind of thing, my first goal had been to practice full time. But that was hard without a trainer. Looks like that dream was getting further and further.

“Sierra, dear. I can help you with state health insurance and provide a travel voucher for your job search. We work with a few job preparation companies in the area to help you with resumes and employment coaching, but you have to earn it by doing your part, too.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

As I took her advice, later sitting at one of those employment centers frustrated, mainly because my job history was crap and I couldn’t even list three to five references that could vouch for me. Since Google was my friend, I took the liberty of searching whether there were any family-owned mom and pop spots, that I might get lucky enough to walk by and see a help wanted sign in.

To my luck, the second diner I walked by had been simply that, and after an inquiry later, I was starting on a trial basis. Waitressing wasn't the best for becoming self-made overnight but it was a job. It's just the pay was shit.

By my second day on the job, I learned no amount of good service guaranteed a good tip, even with an obnoxious party of six that left a nice little intrusive, inappropriate note on the tip line. If it got my daughter back, I couldn’t complain. It’s justnow, my training schedule was getting thrown off and I wasn’t home long enough to experience lunch and dinner at the shelter.

After busting a table where half the food hadn’t even been eaten, having so little stability growing up in foster care, it wasn’t beneath me to not waste food. When you worked less than eight hours, you only got one ten-minute break, so with my only chance to eat all day, I devoured the parts of former customer’s plates that hadn’t been touch, relieved to calm my rumbling stomach. This was only until I could get more consistent fights.

My phone went off right before I had to go back with a text that read:

Sal: Interested in a match, 70/30 split. 300 at least.

I knew him; went by Sal, but I think his full name was Salvatore Castle. He was a manager I almost went with, but after a day or two, it was obvious he wanted to fuck me more than get me actual fights. His roster wasn’t impressive, but he did get his fighters work. His representation just wasn’t for me.

Me: Can’t this Saturday. I’ve already got one. But I could use a cornerman.

He wouldn’t have been my first option, but I didn’t know many people in my short time in Newark.

Sal: If I’m your cornerman, I get ten percent of what you take. Unless, something else could be arranged…

Me: The pay’s shit, so consider yourself the proud owner of twenty-five dollars.