High Water Page 2

  Trusting Walter to make a reservation was one of the dumber things Pete had done in his lifetime, though his friend seemed unconcerned. At least Walter knew how to drive one of these trucks. Pete rubbed at the bridge of his nose in annoyance and immediately grimaced at the sting he caused by dripping sweat into his eyes. Blinking in irritation, he remembered that Sifu wanted to look over his material before he left. Clearing his eyes, Pete made his way up to Kyle, who was watching two of the older students sparring.

  “Everything all right?” Kyle said to him without taking his eyes off the melee. Not much got past Sifu in his own studio.

  “I asked Walter to make a reservation for a moving truck,” Pete explained.

  “Why the hell would you do that?” Kyle said, chuckling to himself.

  “I don’t… goddamnit,” Pete said, quietly. It was a good question.

  “Anyway, Pete, you were looking really good out there. You’re getting really fast,” he said, and without missing a beat, “CLYDE! You are putting yourself off balance. Stop leaning into your punches!” The student responded with something unintelligible, the words muffled by their facemask.

  “Thank you, sir,” Pete replied. He was happy that his teacher could see the work he had put in over the past few weeks. Kyle blew his whistle and told the fighters to take off their gear and get some water. The sparring partners tapped gloves then joined the other students who proceeded to help them shed their gear. Companionable chatter echoed through the studio and mixed with the laughs of the children.

  These were sounds Pete would miss.

  “Now show me your material,” Sifu commanded, now entirely focused on Pete’s technique. Teachers as attentive as Sifu were few and far between in any discipline, let alone martial arts. After frantically navigating his graduate program for the past two years, Pete knew that all too well. He respected good pedagogy when he saw it.

  Motioning to an open piece of floor, Kyle leaned against a wall. He crossed his arms, waiting and watching. Pete threw himself at each of his techniques with vigor. Kyle’s eyes, tan like scorched sand, eyed Pete’s footwork. Pete had let Kyle know at the beginning of class that today was his last day. The older man had nodded, accepting the fact like Pete was talking about the weather. If Pete’s imminent departure was a disappointment to his teacher, Kyle wasn’t showing it.

  The next technique was a combination of mantis and leopard techniques. The former used for grabs, the latter for powerful strikes. Exhausted by the class so far, Pete felt his concentration waning.

  There was a lot on his mind.

  The damn moving truck was the first thing. The lease was up tomorrow at noon. Pete had to get the truck fully packed today and ready to leave in the morning. Walter very well may have scuttled everything. Plus he wanted to call Liz up before he left…

  Stepping incorrectly, Pete felt himself go off-balance. He cursed himself for being so distracted.

  Kyle stared Pete down coldly. “Again,” Kyle said, then grunted out a kiai. Kiai being the battle cry that expelled one’s chi, their natural, vital energy.

  Pete again preformed the technique, an advanced set of moves designed to bring the opponent to the grounds. Once on the ground, , the kung fu practitioner could manipulate the opponent’s foot at will, twisting it into a break, or using leverage to force your opponent to turn over. The technique opened up more options for attack. Kung fu was flexible..

  Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw Walter and Adam watching him practice. Years at the studio had put all self-consciousness about his technique behind him. While he was being watched by a master, his demonstration was intensely personal. Pete finished off by turning his imaginary opponent’s ankle in a full circle, a particularly painful way to end a fight. Pete paused to look at his Sifu.

  “Where was your kiai?” Kyle said, staring intensely.

  Missing a kiai was an amateur mistake.

  “Again!” Sifu shouted, a challenge to Pete’s silence.

  Whatever the style, martial arts was a challenge to one’s own body and mind. Kyle saw it as his job to make sure you worked to your full potential. The dynamic was a push/pull on the part of the master: pushing you to your limit and then pulling you further than you thought you could go. Pete over calculated his last step and let his guard open up, another mistake. A floored opponent would have kicked him right in the nuts, ending the fight. Pete finished as strong as he could, with a loud kiai. Kyle walked over to Pete, his back to the watching students.

  “Relax, Pete,” Kyle said, a rare smile appearing on his grizzled face. Pete’s teacher was tough as nails, and looked the part, but his smile was always genuine.

  “Yes sir,” Pete said, trying to catch his breath.

  “I know you’re tired and that this was a tough class. But you’re an advanced belt and I need you to focus. Nobody trying to fight you will give you a break and neither will I.”

  “Okay. Yeah, alright,” Pete stammered. The last phrase was Kyle’s constant refrain. It set the mood for the studio.

  “Show it to me one more time,” Kyle said, louder, walking back to his perch against the wall. His tone had returned to something cold and commanding.

  Every martial artist with the benefit of a teacher like Kyle knew the strange mix of fear and awe lurking behind the authority. The proctor of your technique was a warrior whose skill had been proven. Sifu trained with law enforcement, worked out hours a day before practice, and had trained his bones through repeated blunt trauma into fibrous knots of hardened calcium. Those bones were manipulated with old, tough muscle at dead efficiency. Kyle could easily kill you or your classmates with his bare hands. You couldn’t help but be in fear for your life when Sifu demonstrated on you during class.

  Kyle demanded a similar kind of dedication from his students. After vocalizing disappointment with the class’ efforts one day, they watched Sifu strike the heavy bag until the blood from his bare hands and elbows streaked the canvas. They had worked their asses off. Sifu promised if they didn’t know their technique, at least they’d be strong.

  You slacked off at your own risk here.

  Once again, Pete launched into the technique. He and ended it with a variation, a motion that would have popped his opponent’s knee out of its socket. It was a proud moment, the best performance of the technique he could recall doing.

  Kyle clapped his hands together, “That’s what I’m talking about,” and walked over. “I’m not here to just run you down, Pete,” Kyle said warmly. Pete nodded, out of breath, and Kyle continued, “There’s a whole hell of a lot of ways to react to pain. It’s your decision as to how. When you walk out of that door,” – Sifu pointed for emphasis – “you’re now putting the theory we learn here into practice. No matter where time takes you, I want you to keep that in mind.”

  “Yes, Sifu,”

  They both stood together quietly for a moment. A lot remained unsaid in the long pause.

  “I’m going to miss this place,” Pete murmured.

  He saw Kyle’s face change to something sentimental. The instructor put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “We’ll miss you too, Pete,” Sifu said. “Thanks for coming today. It was a great class to go out on. Good luck out there and I have the highest confidence in you.” His teacher, his mentor, a friend of several years, smiled sadly.

  A moment later, sitting down to pack up his things, Pete sighed. He was exhausted. Life was going fast and the studio had been an anchor. He’d shed blood and sweat, and perhaps a tear or two with his classmates. Anxieties sprang to mind. What if he couldn’t find another studio he liked? What if he lost his edge? Fears of being helpless and getting soft raced through Pete’s head. Sitting down next to him, Walter must have seen Pete’s frown.

  “You going to say goodbye to Sifu?”

  Pete finished tying his street shoes and looked out over the studio floor. Kyle was already working with another student, his broad back towards Pete. The young female student had a look of fear and pride in her e
yes. Pete guessed his own expression might have mirrored hers just a few minutes ago.

  “I think I said my piece,” Pete replied.

  Walter nodded, seeming to understand. “Let’s go get this truck.”

  Loading The Ark

  The box truck moved slowly, back up alarm bleeping, trying to fit into the narrow driveway between two brick duplexes. At the end of the driveway, arms akimbo, Pete watched the truck that was to carry all his possessions make its way slowly down the driveway. The midday sun was warm and felt good on his skin but Pete rubbed his beard in apprehension. It had been a long morning. His arms occasionally cramped from the intense workout at the studio and the rental agency hadn’t been happy about Walter’s last minute arrangements. Pete had been required to put down a sizable deposit.

  More confident having made it between the houses, the driver started to accelerate.

  “Hey, hey, slow down, man!” Pete yelled up at the truck.

  The vehicle lurched to a sudden stop, turning off the grating sound of the back-up alarm. A long black face appeared from the window, clearly annoyed, glancing to the back of the truck. Walter exclaimed with frustration, “Dude, I said I got this!”

  “You’re not even looking,” Pete shouted, throwing up his hands. Feeling the soreness in his arms made the gesture slightly painful.

  Walter, who now stuck half his lanky torso out of the truck to look behind him, replied, “Shut it. I was using the mirrors.”

  Pete’s old blue Corolla was at the end of the tight driveway, directly behind the approaching truck. Walter said he had driven a moving truck before and for whatever reason Pete had believed him.

  “Just be careful,” Pete said warily. Maybe he should have moved his car.

  “Will you shut your mouth, please? You’re making me nervous. I can’t drive when I’m nervous,” said Walter, whose torso again descended into the cabin. The truck shifted into reverse, the klaxon blaring loudly once again. Pete was prompted to start the mantra of anyone helping the driver of a moving truck complete with a wind milling arm to beckon them along.

  “Okay, okay. Keep going, keep going. Okay, okay, okay… OKAY, OKAY… WHAT THE FUCK! “Pete’s helpful suggestions were cut off by a gunning of the engine, propelling the truck directly into the bumper of his Corolla. There was a noisy crunch. The back-up alarm on the truck continued to beep obligingly.

  “WHAT THE FUCK… ARE YOU DOING?” yelled Pete. He started over to the truck, furious, not waiting for Walter’s answer.

  Throwing the transmission back into park, Walter leapt out of the cab before Pete could close the distance. In a gesture of true cooperation, he put his hands up on guard, ready to spar with Pete.

  Pete didn’t hesitate at the gesture and walked right up to Walter. As they were of the same height, Pete got right in his friend’s face. “Why the fuck did you do that, man! Look at my bumper!”

  Walter continued to stand with his guard up but glanced over at the Corolla.

  “Are you going to move up the truck or what?” shouted Pete, gesturing at the open door.

  “Oh yeah,” replied Walter, dropping his guard. He got back into the cab. Pete stood helplessly as another crunch echoed through the yard. With little hesitation, the truck tore away the crumpled bumper. The twisted piece of metal skidded along the ground, hanging precariously from the hitch. Pete slapped his hand against his forehead and fixated on the damage. Walter put the vehicle into park and turned it off before joining Pete to thoughtfully survey the damage.

  “Dude, it’s messed up,” Walter said, astutely nodding his head.

  “It’s not messed up, shithead, it’s fucking gone,” replied Pete. “You never drove one of these before, did you?

  “Drove what?”

  “Hello? Driven a fucking box truck, Walter!” Pete could feel his blood pressure rising.

  “Hey HEY, Pete, will you chill with the language, please? There are children.” Walter pointed.

  He turned around to see his neighbors’ daughters, twin girls with bright blonde hair and matching yellow dresses staring at him with wide eyes. Behind them stood their mother, Mrs. Tremont, an eerie picture of the twins in thirty years. A scowl of contempt was aimed directly at Pete. Speechless, he watched as Mrs. Tremont led the girls into the house without looking back. The screen door slammed, followed by a heavy wooden door. Pete could feel the slam of the inner door in his feet. He turned around to face Walter feeling his face flush with embarrassment.

  “Jesus…I’m just lucky I’ll be out of here the day after tomorrow. How long were they standing there?”

  “Pretty much the whole time,” Walter said, matter-of-factly.

  Pete ran his hands through his knotted curls. Inviting Walter to move his stuff was a mistake much the same as plotting your boat’s maiden voyage through the Arctic Circle. Since he was the living definition of incorrigible, what Walter had just done shouldn’t have surprised Pete at all.

  “All right… look, you go inside and get something packed. And I don’t mean a box. I fucking need it done right now. You do that while I take a look at this bumper.”

  Walter grinned widely and went inside, leaving the screen door hanging open behind him. Without the irritating back-up alarm, the sparrows came back into the yard one at a time, watching Pete from their perch on a power line.

  Pete did an inventory of the damage. The box truck was unharmed, so he’d at least be able to get back the deposit. He wrenched the gnarled bumper off the hitch on the back of the truck and walked the crumpled piece of metal over to his unfortunate car. Squatting down to examine the damage, he heard Walter’s voice calling from the doorway.

  “Hey, where is all your food?” Walter yelled across the backyard.

  “I don’t have any food Walter. I’m moving, remember?” Pete tried to buff out a foot long scratch that ran up to his headlight like a demented eyebrow. It wasn’t helping.

  “Nothing?” Walter replied.

  “No, Walter,” Pete answered, trying unsuccessfully to prop the bumper back on the front end.

  “Alright, I’m going to order some pizza.”

  Pete’s stomach growled, and he realized how hungry he was. Poking around a little bit more, Pete threw the bumper on the ground realizing that he didn’t know shit about cars and probably never would. He walked back to the house and out of habit, went to lock the door behind him. A sudden pain in his finger made him yelp. “Splinter!” he cursed, bringing the finger up to his face. Vibrant red blood oozed from the entry point of an inch long piece of wood. It was the biggest splinter Pete had ever gotten. The doorframe was rotten, decaying from the slow neglect of the landlord. The splinter was the sad gray of tired old wood. Cursing to himself, Pete went to the bathroom and opened one of the boxes with his good hand. It took a minute to find the tweezers, buried between q-tips and extra toothbrushes. After some digging in the flesh of his finger, Pete pulled it out.

  “Oh nice,” he said to himself, seeing flecks of the door’s spotty baby blue paint on the sliver of wood. “Tetanus and lead poisoning,” he said, reaching for some antibacterial ointment.

  One of the few pieces of furniture still in its original position was his dusty old orange couch, a thrift store relic that haunted the living room. Walter was reclined on it, packing the ice bong, code-named Challenger. Pete had christened the ice bong after seeing old footage of ice forming on the hull of a space shuttle from the super-cooled liquid fuel within. He enjoyed the irony of naming it after an ill-fated space expedition. A grin grew on Walter’s face as Pete walked into the room.

  “Hey dude, I’m sorry about the car. I think I am higher than I thought I was.”

  “It’s… fine. Feeling is mutual,” replied Pete, and they both laughed. “It was pretty stupid to get stoned before picking up the truck. Plus, my car is ancient at this point, and who am I trying to impress anyway? Liz? You?”

  “That’s what I’m talking about, nigga. Now hit this shit,” said Walter, handing him the bong a
nd momentarily eyeing Pete’s bandaged finger without asking about it.

  With practiced ease, Pete took a massive rip and held it. The kind you can only take on an ice bong. The high hit him almost immediately as he exhaled, his perception warping pleasantly. Boxes towered over the couch like soaring skyscrapers of belongings. Walter grabbed Challenger and took a hit. He coughed and then made a bug eyed expression. “This is some good shit!” Walter shouted. Pete took Challenger for another ride. Soon, a rich, soaring high allowed Pete to shrug off the pain from the pierced finger and his sore muscles. Stoned clarity gave him the patience to realize the pulverized bumper of his decade old Corolla wasn’t that big of a deal.

  Both of them froze at a sudden knock at the door.

  “Shit,” said Pete, “It’s just the pizza guy.” They both laughed maniacally, and Pete grabbed his wallet on the way to the door. Answering the door was made difficult by Pete’s altered proprioception, creating the feeling that he was wearing large, floppy, clown shoes. A feeling made stranger since he was actually wearing sandals. The pizza guy furtively peeked inside the door as Pete went through the capital motions. Pete didn’t bother to hide the sight of Walter on the couch who was staring straight forward in intense thought, ice bong in his hand. Paying the pizza guy, Pete tipped him well, and returned to the couch, resting the pizza box on his lap. Heat made its way through the cardboard and into his thighs, like a pizza heating-pad, the best heating pad ever.

  “That delivery guy was solid,” Pete said thoughtfully.

  “Oh my god, this is amazing,” Walter exclaimed, coming out of his trance and waving his hands.

  “I have to pace myself. I can’t have a repeat of last weekend,” cautioned Pete. Walter, Pete, and Pete’s girlfriend Liz had smoked half of his weed and engaged in an all-day munchies fest that would have put the Romans to shame. In their crowning achievement for the night, Pete and Liz slammed into each other running to the bathroom to vomit. Liz had shrieked as they fell in tandem to the floor of the darkened hallway. Accompanying the shock of impact was a rise in Pete’s gut. Day old chicken wings had combined with Liz’s specialty, a pan of peanut butter and chocolate marshmallow treats, to create a Category Five shitstorm inside his bowels.