My name is Charles Spottswood, but they call me Spots from the time when I was a fighter. This is a story about the war days of 1942 and the history of them, the cars and songs and movies. But mostly it is about Chicken Johnson and what finally happened to him that Jane (my wife) and me could not shake ourselves out of it or understand. We spent 14 years with him, from a deserted little boy 9 years old all the way up to being a fighter good enough to get the Philly mob after his contract. This story is also about how I stuck my nose into that, wanting to protect Chicken, and then what they done to my career. A long time later we run across Winonah DeQuincey the mother of Chicken's son. It was like talking to cardboard.

You will not find Chicken Johnson's boxing record in any book because they do not keep records of fighters who were not champions. If you want to find out something about a baseball player from long ago, you can look in a baseball record book and see how many times he pissed on the 2^nd Sunday in July 1939, besides his batting average. But there is nothing for fighters. I think it is because boxing is the dragon in the cellar, which they will not kiss and can not kill.

I showed this story to a sports reporter from the old days, and I copied down what he said. They are words I do not understand. He said, "This is a story of brotherhood and the acts of life that betray it, and of others that enrich the temperament of events to redeem it." Now ain't that something?

Monk Rose has been a boxer, shopkeeper, school teacher, clinical director (psychology), free-lance writer, and professional musician. He has written for journals and magazines, and his fiction and poetry have previously been published. He lives in Florida with his wife, Roslyn, where he is presently at work on his 19^th book.

We was sitting in an office on the 2nd floor above a haber-dashery two doors up from Horn & Hardart on 52nd street. The lawyer was tall & rumpled and moved around in sections like one of them carpenter's rules. He had a long, high face that reminded me of Stan Laurel from Laurel & Hardy, comedians, but not as handsome. There was a layer of dust on the furniture and the linoleum floor made a gritty sound when I first walked in on it.

"I can't believe that Chicken would of wanted me to take his child," I said. "He knew I am a in-and-outer, in & out sometimes twice a day and sometimes gone a month at a time." I tried a grin but it come out weak.

The lawyer nodded and half closed 1 eye which he must of thought to look wise, "As affiant, I have personal knowledge of the matter heretofore stated and do hereby affirm its validity."

"Is that yes he did, or no he didn't?"

"It is yes he did."

I said, "All right, but this is only in case something happens to Winonah here?"

"It is based on Rule 56 of the Philadelphia county rules of civil procedure and further based on the attached affidavit of Winonah DeQuincey Johnson."

"Is that a yes or a no."

The lawyer said, "It is a yes."

"There's no danger of that then, she is strong as a horse," I said to him.

Winonah DeQuincey shook her head quick and talked loud, "No, you don't understand. I am leaving Philadelphia and I am giving her to you, I'm too old to bring up a child. All I wanted was my man, and he is gone. My properties are for sale and my accounts are closed-- "

My throat almost choked up and I hoisted out of the chair, "I can't take care of a baby! It's your baby, you are the mother. I'm working all day with nobody home in a defense plant," I begun to yell.

"If you don't do it, I'll turn her in to the city and they will give her to the Philadelphia county orphan asylum before the day is over," she says.

"You are her mother," I said again, like begging.

"It was a mistake of too much passion."

I looked at the lawyer who was sitting like a Edgar Bergen dummy, "Can she do this?"

He bobbed his head and smiled an Ipana smile, "Whereas it is her call and no doubt whatsoever as hereinafter set forth," he said and riffled thru some papers pointing with his finger to a line here & there. "Will you sign this document now, Mr. Spotts-wood?" I looked at it and it said On The 10th Day Of October 1942, Before Me Personally Appeared Charles Spottswood, To Me Known To Be The Person Described In And Who Executed The Fore-

going Instrument, And Acknowledged To Me That He Executed The Same As His Free Act And Deed.

I signed it and said to the lawyer, "What if she changes her mind?"

"It is permanent & irrevocable."

"You have got a lot to learn," I said.