She spits into the bucket at her corner—”Don’t stand near the bucket!” someone says—raises a glove to dip Vaseline from the blob of it on top of the corner post, rubs the glove into her nose and cheeks, to help the other’s punches slide off. “Kitch-die-muh hsshoo?” “What?” I say, suddenly panicked. “Oh!” I lean over to tie her shoe.