Harold Beaumont's Bruises

A Round Of Applause

Over 200,000 likes on Facebook, 450,000 retweets, and 500,000 hits on Instagram. I walk into the gym with a huge smile on my face, and my camera swinging around my neck. Harold's picture blew up on social media, and I couldn't be prouder.

"Good morning, Joey." I stop in my victory march, and beam at Mr. Bernard. The elder is sitting on a bench observing a round while decked up in a tweed suit, and twiddling with his wooden cane.

"Good morning, Mr. Bernard." I chirp.

"Your work is paying off already, the Tweetie, BookFace, and Polaroid are an absolute success." He boosts. I'm assuming he means Twitter, Facebook, and I think Instagram? "The website for the regionals even used your photo." He adds.

"Really?" That's the entire boxing division of  state of Louisiana looking at Harold's shot! I try to count every pair of eyes looking at Harold's ruthless finishing punch, and smile when I realize I can't count that high.

"Really. You're putting Marley on the map. We had seven more boxers sign on so far this morning." Mr. Bernard states with an ecstatic gleam in his old eyes.

"Well, I'm going to get you more today." I say, determination inspiring me.

"I can't wait to see your pictures." He says with a grin. I roam around the gym, circling boxing rings preoccupied with fighters and their trainers. I wonder pass athletes viciously jumping rope, hurriedly practicing their foot work, hefting weights, and punching dummies. It is actually really interesting to watch, instead of two guys pounding away at each other training feels more empowering, and fueled by passion. All of them are working so hard, they're pushing themselves to much for this.

After gawking in awe struck I raise my camera to my face only to have the gym hush over in dead silence. Who turned the sound off? Pulling away from my camera an eerie chill runs up my spine at the sight I find. Everyone, boxers, trainers, coaches, even Mr. Bernard just stopped what they're doing and stare at the entrance, a heavy silence so thick I can feel it weighing me down and filling every inch of the gym. Harold Beaumont struts through the gym's doors, glaring down at the floor angrily, but acting as if no one else was in the room. The white gauze is still coiled around his wounded head, but he still came in to train. That isn't okay... he has stitches in his head, he can't be training.

"Yesterday Mr. Beaumont here won a match, only furthering his chances to regionals. As the Marley Gym family lets give him a hand." Mr. Bernard announces, beaming at Harold Beaumont. The room comes back alive, thundering applause and boosting cheers replacing the silence. Clapping myself, I watch from my spot as Harold, without smiling or thanks, meekly waves then walks off to a far corner far from everyone else.

That... was weird... why did everyone just drop everything when Harold walked in? And what was with that attitude of his?

"While we're at it lets welcome Joey Robbins, the new photographer, and social media manger." I freeze like stone at Mr. Bernard's announcement. Every pair of eyes  find me, and bore a hole into me. I feel like I'm burning from the sudden attention. My tongue drys painfully, my skin goes clammy, and I grip my camera with white knuckle grip; I'm the only girl in this entire gym.

"With only one photo Ms. Robbins here has made our gym infamous." Mr. Bernard boosts, starting off a round of clapping. In the corner of my eye I actually catch Harold clapping softly, and it is really flattering. The guy doesn't even say thank you when an entire gym congratulates him but he claps for me, a stage frighten girl who fell on her butt during a match.

"She's here to make you boys look good." Mr. Bernard adds. I mange to pull a small, sheepish smile to my face and not break out in a nervous cold sweat. Please stop looking at me, please stop looking at me, I chant in my head trying to act normal. There is a reason I stay behind the camera after all. Soon the claps fade away, and people return their attention back to their punching bags, and trainers. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding, glad that people are preoccupied with their own things than any pay mind to me.

Ok Joey, shake it off, I have a job to do. I only used one photo which means I have earned a solid eleven dollars and fifty cents. I start snapping away, capturing a boxer mid air jumping rope. Another shot is a trainer spotting a boxer on the bench, and a row of boxers doing pushups on sweat covered floor.

I rotate in a circle looking through my lenses but halt when my camera is filled with a view of Harold Beaumont. He is tapping up his wrists, but his eyes aren't concerting on his task, but are actually on me. I can't look away, and I slowly lower my camera from my face, letting our eyes meet. Just when his angry depths of brown lock with mine he snaps his head away, glaring down at his wrists.