I thought it was only an expression. But here I am. They just punched my ticket. One way. Palookaville. An hour ago, I had a $20 bill in my wallet. Now my remaining money jingles.

The funny thing is, I never wanted to be a boxer. I wanted to be a cartoonist. Maybe make some people laugh. But I’m a big guy, I work out, and everyone said I should be a boxer. So, I tried it. At first, I thought I was pretty good. My manager said I could take a punch like the best of them. I wasn’t a bleeder, he said.

My left was quick and deadly. One of my upper cuts, properly timed, could end a match. A few times it did.

But I also spent a fair amount of time on the mat, unconscious. My record was mixed.

Over time, I lost speed. A good punch isn’t good if the other guy can see it coming. I started wearing myself out punching air.

Finally, it was over. My manager said he tried but, sorry kid; I can’t get you any more matches. Looks like this is the end of the line.

So, I was lost. I asked Leon: “What do I do now?” He pressed a twenty into my palm and pointed to the train station.

I was stunned. I looked at the station and then turned back. “Leon?” He was gone. Just like that.

So here I am, on the way to the end of the line. Literally. Nothing to do but doodle on the back of the ticket.

Hey, that’s pretty good! Now all I need is a caption.