Now the dive bar served craft beer and the porn shop sold cell phones. The gay sauna down the street had become a Starbucks.

As he pushed open the front door to Roxy’s Gym, he took a deep breath of sweat, mildew, and body odor. The interior was grungy and dark. The bare concrete walls were covered with old fight posters and photos of a few graduates who had made it somewhere close the big time. A ring stood in the center, and around it were arrayed punching bags and open areas for exercise. In one corner was a weights area. None of those fancy machines like in the chain gyms, just free weights. Weights for people who more interested in being stronger than looking better. Two dozen amateur and semipro boxers were skipping rope, smacking bags, or pumping iron. Besides Roxy, he was the oldest person in here by a decade.

Heinrich smiled. In an increasingly fake city, this was one of the few real spots left.

“Hey Heinie,” said the squat woman with the salt-and-pepper buzz cut folding towels behind the counter.

“Hey Roxy. I want to fight tonight. Got anyone who deserves to get knocked out?”

Roxy’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, I got just your type.”

She jabbed a thumb towards one of the punching bags where a guy in his mid twenties was slamming away with some strength and little technique. He had a good build, but one of those square beards that marked him out as a hipster.

“Oh Jesus Christ. You’re letting neck beards in here now? Don’t tell me, let me guess—private school, Ivy League, daddy’s company, been going to one of those white collar chain boxing gyms and came here for the authenticity, right?”

“Yup.”

“He’s mine.”

Roxy laughed. “Ah, crap. I was going to floor him myself.”

Heinrich loved Roxy. If she had been straight, he would have married her for the kicks. Older than him, tougher than him, and she hated rich people even more than he did.

“Next time,” Heinrich said. “His cherry is mine. It’s been a bad day.”

Roxy chuckled and came out from behind the counter. “Ooooh. This is gonna be good.”

Heinrich sauntered over to the rich kid. “You, newbie. Stop jacking off that punching bag and get into the ring. We’re going toe to toe.”

The hipster looked him up and down.

“Dude, you’re old enough to be my father.”

“You think I’d knock up a chick to add to your worthless generation? There are enough entitled, whiney, avocado toast eating, safe space hiding special snowflakes in the world already.”

Heinrich was already taking off his shirt. Neckbeard took a second look.

“Well you sure are built to be a boxer, but there’s no need to be insulting.”

“There’s no need to come slumming to our gym, bitch. Get in there,” Heinrich said, pulling off his sweatpants to reveal a pair of red boxing shorts.

Neckbeard bit on the Velcro strap of one of his gloves, pulling it open and then jamming the glove in his armpit to yank his hand out.

“You want to bare knuckle?” Heinrich asked. His estimation of the guy went up a notch.

“That’s illegal.”

Heinrich’s estimation of him went down two notches.

The hipster went over to the wall where a towel and an Evian bottle sat on a shelf.