Once, I wandered into a crystal shop to buy a necklace or something. The owner was there: an old crow. She didn’t sell any jewelry, just a-la-carte gems and stones. When I tried to leave, she stopped me and said, “Open your mind, and the right one will speak to you.” I rolled my eyes and walked out.

            Years later, I’d understand.

             I was in a gas station, fully stocked with a new energy drink. The design was breathtaking. Each sixteen-ounce can was branded with a neon B, inside of a circle that resembled a speaker turned up loud. In a sultry rasp, the company's slogan whispered, “Fuel Your Destiny.” I reached for one, and thought of the crystal lady’s proverb.

            Rainbow Unicorn Bang chose me.

            “Three-hundred milligrams of caffeine per serving.”  

            “A warning from the Surgeon General.”

            My pupils turned to dollar signs; I’d read somewhere that a twelve-ounce cup of coffee contained around one-hundred-forty-milligrams of caffeine. There was twice as much in a BANG––and it had creatine––which sounded Italian and unregulated. I purchased six cans, and skipped back to my car. 

 I arranged the cans on the passenger seat, in alphabetical order: Bangster Berry, Birthday Cake Bash, Champagne, Miami Cola, Rainbow Unicorn, and Star Blast. I opened Rainbow Unicorn, first. The flavor reminded me of Fruit Loops, only sour instead of sweet with a metallic aftertaste. My tongue felt like it had been kissed by a tiny wasp and my teeth went numb.

The fog in my brain was released through my ears and my eyes were staying open effortlessly and I couldn’t believe it because for the first time in months my brain felt alert and ravenous for stimulation. I thought, I could go anywhere. 

I looked in the mirror. My face flushed with niacin, giving my cheeks an attractive rosiness. I looked alive. I looked amazing.

 I cracked open Miami Cola, and tasted cough drops with notes of a Mojito from a land-locked state. I began to make a mental spreadsheet of movies I had to watch, restaurants I wanted to try, and errands I needed to run. I decided to start with buying groceries, then planned on organizing everything I owned. I had never peeled a potato before, but felt eager for the challenge. While waiting at a stoplight, I opened the Champagne Bang, and made a toast: Cheers, to never taking anything for granted ever again!!!!!

I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, ready to stock up on ingredients that required chopping, dicing, and seasoning. Next to the grocery store, there was a building I’d never noticed before. There was a banner above the  entrance: “East Hollywood Boxing Gym: NEW MEMBER DISCOUNT.”  

I thought, New-member discount? It sounded time-sensitive. Groceries could wait.

As soon as she entered I building, I could tell––this was not a Kick Boxing for Fitness or a Women’s Self Defense gym. No. It was a Serious Boxing Gym. Enormous punching bags hung wall-to-wall, encircling a blood-stained padded base that was elevated from the rest of the floor, like a stage. The class was in session. Was it a class? Lesson? Tournament?

 Whatever it was, I wanted to be involved. Awestruck, she watched the seven people who were attached to the bags. They were moving and exhaling in perfect synchronization; she found all of them stunning. They were lean and chiseled, like gymnasts; confident, yet unpretentious. The woman leading the class was covered in tattoos––even on her neck–– and had eyes so green, they were nearly yellow. Everybody seemed to know the meaning of each number she screamed, punching and twisting with zero hesitation. 

“Can I help you?” asked a woman behind a computer who had spotted me, grinding my teeth in the doorway. She had boobs, a butt, and a ponytail that were perkier than anything I had ever seen. 

“No sales pitch necessary,” I said, and slammed my credit card on the desk.

By the time I’d memorized the gym’s class schedule and cleaned my apartment, it was around midnight. The cloud of a caffeine crash started to creep in. I really didn’t want to sleep. My first boxing class was at eight the next morning, and I was notorious for sleeping through alarms. Averaging seven hours a night, I calculated that I had spent around four hundred hours of the last two months asleep. With that much sleep stored up, I thought it would be healthy to pull one all-nighter. There was a gas down station a few blocks away. I wondered if they had Bangs in stock. 

            They did. I bought twelve. In the six minutes it took to drive home, I had finished two––Root Beer Jazz and Cherry Rifle.

            Next, it was the morning and I was covered in a cold sweat. On my way out the door, Diane stopped by the refrigerator and found my Bang supply, completely depleted. In disbelief that I had gone through a dozen cans, I rummaged through the trash for evidence. I had no memory of tasting Lemon Slipknot or Raspberry Taxi–– but the empty cans were right there, on top of Mango Ibiza and Sea Salt Moth. 

            “I ran here! That’s why I’m sweating!” I yelled, entering the gym. The woman with the lime-green eyes looked toward me, noncommittally. 

“Oh, that’s great,” she said. “I’m Riley. I’ll be your instructor. Tristy at the front desk can set you up with gloves and wrist straps.” Riley stood up from stretching and pulled a Bang out from her gym bag, which made me feel safe, like an alcoholic on New Year’s Eve.

The class started. I fastened my shiny new gloves and was struck by a disturbing realization.  I’ve never thrown a punch. I’m thirty years old, and I’ve never thrown a punch––I’ve never even been punched! Oh my god. I––I’m a pathetic, little bitch. I couldn’t believe it.

My first attempt to hit with a closed fist felt flaccid and wrong. With Riley’s encouragement, I tried again––I jabbed and crossed and punched over and over and over until I knew. I knew that this one, delicious motion––the punch––was about to solve every single one of my problems. 

            High from endorphins and in the mood for love, I opted for the sounds of fast wind over music as she drove home from the gym. At the front door, I was blocked from entering my apartment, by a package that was the size of a small refrigerator. My name was on it, though I wasn’t expecting anything. My hands shook as I carefully tore through the cardboard. Inside the package were two twelve-packs of Bangs.

It didn’t add up. She thought––for a second––that I should check my credit card statement. But then, the sight of the shiny cans made me salivate, I decided to inspect the product for poison, by pouring a few flavors over ice. 

I got a nice boost of energy from drinking Truth or Pear and Banana Burlesque, but it did nothing to activate my memory. I sat down on the couch to think. Do I have a problem? 

The side-effects were energy and productivity, so I didn’t feel like I had a problem. In six weeks, I promised myself, I’ll quit Bangs and switch back to regular coffee. In six weeks, I would quit. In the meantime, I started attending the boxing gym every single day. 

Eight days in, I learned how to dodge a punch. I practiced the roll and slip escape moves every night, in my bathroom mirror. If my body was sore, I was oblivious. When I got punched in the face, I was shocked.

I was shocked to learn that I loved getting punched in the face. 

Between classes, I went shopping for Boxing Clothes. I shopped and shopped until my wardrobe consisted solely of Adidas sweatpants and baggy tank-tops with hoods. I wore my neon-blue gloves and wrist-straps, even when I was brushing my teeth or driving a car. I flirted with the idea of getting neck tattoos, because Coach Riley had neck tattoos, but whenever I casually mentioned it, Riley politely asked me to stop.  And before every class, I drank two Bangs, and maybe sometimes, I accidentally drank a couple more than two. 

Before I knew it, I was a pack-a-day-BANG-er. I was at CVS, purchasing a twelve-pack of Sour Gang Bang BANG’s when my debit card was declined. I wasn’t alarmed. But then, my credit card was declined. Still, at that point assumed it was just a computer malfunction. My credit card limit is eight thousand dollars.  This CVS location is always having problems with its cash-register software.

 A man who was standing behind me in line walked up to the cashier and proceeded to purchase a box of condoms and one chocolate milk. His payment went through with one swipe. 

Oh. Shit. 

I shoplifted three single cans and rushed home. The events of the last two months––all of them––played in my head on a loop. At some point, I had completely stopped showing up for work. Shit shit shit. 

Between my new outfits, my gym membership, and the punching bag I had installed in my apartment: I’d buried myself in a massive amount of credit-card debt. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

No no no no no.

No!

NO. 

Considering my rate of consumption, I felt like my foreshadowed Bang withdrawal could be life-threatening. Even still, my biggest fear was losing my gym membership. It was all I had left.  I texted Coach Riley a lengthy paragraph and explained everything, begging for advice. Six minutes later, Riley responded.

-Sorry, girl.

Three minutes after that, she sent another text.

-How did you get my number?

I couldn’t explain it, but I just knew. Riley was speaking in code. I thought, Maybe I’ve reached a high level as a boxer and now all of my senses are heightened.  I got dressed in one of my expensive baggy outfits and drove to the boxing gym, wearing my blue gloves. 

Cars came and went for hours while I sat in the parking lot, in complete silence, afraid that music might distract me from waiting. The moment that Riley showed up and invited me to join my Secret Black Market Boxing Society, I swore she would be ready to go. Glistening underneath gallons of BANG sweat, I was certain that—at any moment––Riley would knock at my car window. 

“I knew you were serious,” she would whisper, through soft tears. Taken aback by my dedication, she would finally agree that––yes, I should get neck tattoos, just like her. I imagined Riley leading me through an undercover entrance, where only the most dedicated boxers would fight each other under sworn secrecy. Maybe, we would kiss. I’d be fine either way.

After twenty-four hours of waiting, I realized that I had made an obvious mistake. Riley had no idea what kind of car I drove! She probably wouldn’t risk knocking on a car window, unless she was completely sure that it was me, inside. I needed to make myself more noticeable.

I perched myself next to the trash can in front of the gym’s neighboring Seven-Eleven. When the sun went down, I decided to spend the night on the sidewalk. “I have to be back in the morning, anyway,” I justified, out loud—to nobody.

Up until this point, I had restrained myself from digging through the trash for Bangs, though it had crossed my mind a couple of times. Once it got dark, I dove in like a feral raccoon. 

There I was, with no money and no job, risking Hepatitis-B––possibly A––to get Bang high. Under cigarette butts and soggy cardboard, I found a Grapes of Shaft Bang, barely full. Wet trash dripped from my hands as I inhaled the warm substance. My heart was heavy with garbage liquid.

The next time that I opened my eyes, I was swaddled beneath a dirty, checkered blanket. A homeless man, who introduced himself as Thomas, gestured to the blanket and flashed me a thumbs up. I wiped the drool from my boxing glove, which I had been using as a pillow. I tried to ask Thomas, subliminally, if he knew anything about a secret boxing society that was operating underground. 

Thomas said that he, “Owned all gyms. All of them, everywhere.” 

 Regardless, I was relieved to finally have some company. Surprisingly, Thomas was a natural boxer. I kept on my right glove, gave Thomas my left, and we sparred for five rounds. For cardio, we took turns pushing each other around in shopping carts. As I pretended to doze off that evening, I was assaulted by the sensation of snow. A man on his way out of the Seven-Eleven had dumped his Slurpee on top of my head. Thomas was quick to my defense, threatening to kill the man and his entire family. 

Thomas and I spent three blissful days together in that parking lot: telling stories from childhood and eating scraps from the trash. Drunk from companionship, I felt my addiction losing its hold. I felt like myself. 

I imagined saying, “let me think about it,” if Thomas asked me to marry him. I had completely forgotten about Riley, and my deranged, sadistic boxing fantasy. I had also forgotten about my car.

 On the fourth morning in the parking lot, I awoke to a flashing police siren and the monotone beeping of a tow truck, already on its way out. I ran to the police officer, disoriented. “It is my car, right?” I could barely remember. The policeman gave me a lecture and a four-hundred dollar ticket. 

When I turned back around, Thomas had miraculously made an outfit change. He was wearing a freshly pressed black turtleneck. A spotless powdered white wig was perched neatly, atop his head.  He pulled an I-phone out of his pocket and said,  “I heard everything. Don’t worry, this one’s on me. Do you have Venmo?”

 I blinked. “Thomas, where did you get those clothes? You’re homeless?” 

 Thomas reached into his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper, folded neatly into a tiny square. He held it out to me and waited, patiently. 

The checkered blanket was gone. 

I unfolded the note. Written with a purple gel pen, in perfect symmetrical cursive, was—in its entirety—The Declaration of Independence. 

“Thomas?” I could barely get the words out. “What year is this?” 

 When I looked up, Thomas was gone.