Dukkha Reverb. Loren W. Christensen
place the first time I competed as a black belt and then got two firsts after that. I’ve only entered three tournies since I got promoted.”
“Excellent! You like it, I take it?”
He nods vigorously. “Yes! I like everything I’ve done so far in my five years of training. Most of the people are nice. I don’t like haters, people who criticize everything. You see that a lot on blogs and on YouTube and stuff.”
“Sadly, the martial arts have haters and bullies, too, but I like to think not as many as in football and basketball.” My mind flashes on Tiger Woman, her hands braced on the skywalk railing behind her, her right leg straight up, the sole of her black boot flush with the sky in preparation of delivering an axe kick. Her face, reflecting insane hate, unaware that she has only seconds to live.
My entire body flushes hot for a moment.
Bobby is looking at me like a question mark. Before he can ask, I close the ugliness in my brain, and hit him with some questions. “What are your goals? What do you want to do with your life and with your martial arts?” The aircraft rocks from side to side a little, though not as intensely as before. Bobby doesn’t seem to notice.
He shrugs. “I’m almost seventeen so no big plans yet. I would like to teach martial arts no matter what I do for my career. I teach a little now, the kids’ class mostly. I really like seeing younger kids get it. Know what I mean?”
Bobby is himself again. The ol’ distraction technique never fails to work.
“I do. Teaching is wonderfully rewarding but it also can be frustrating. Mostly it’s rewarding.”
“Who is your teacher, Sam?”
How to answer that? It would open up a can of worms if I tell him that my most recent teacher is my father who showed me a couple of things about the martial arts that I didn’t know were even humanly possible, things that defy science.
“I haven’t had one for a while,” I say.
“You probably don’t need one, right?”
“Wrong. You, me, all of us will always need teachers, mentors.”
“But you don’t have one.”
I thought teenagers didn’t listen. He looks at me, waiting. “Well, I don’t have a teacher in the way you’re probably thinking, but I have mentors, mostly friends in the martial arts who I learn from. We chat via email and send each other video clips of things we’re working on.”
“Everything okay, gents?” The flight attendant, a young man, asks.
“Yes, thank you,” Bobby says. “Are we safe? With the plane going crazy, I mean?”
The attendant smiles reassuringly. “The captain thinks we’re out of the worst of it. This patch can be rough at times. I think we’re in for smooth sailing now. We’ll offer some more drinks in a bit.”
“We got a dude this time,” Bobby teases when the attendant moves up the aisle. “Too bad. That blond attendant in the last plane was ripe for the picking.”
I laugh, surprised that he knows that expression. “Well, I think this dude is into you.”
That cracks up the kid.
“I’d be interested to hear about your parents,” I ask. “What do they do?”
His smile disappears, just like that. “What do you mean?” He reacts as if I just told him that I think the air currents are going to get worse. My question wasn’t complicated and didn’t warrant his abrupt change of demeanor. Unless there’s something else going on.
“What does your father do?” I ask, turning up my detective sensors. “For work?”
Bobby looks down the aisle for a moment, reminding me of every perp who has ever contemplated fleeing. I should apologize for getting too personal, but I think I’ll wait to see where he takes this.
He looks down at his cell and fiddles with his music selection for a moment. “My father owns… a store,” he says, straining to squeeze each word out.
“I see. Does your mother work there?”
“Not really.” He pulls the plug out of the cell and puts it right back in again. “Do you want to borrow this,” he asks, without looking at me.
“I’m good, thanks.” I study him for a moment. Why would a simple question about his parents bring on this one-eighty? Maybe he’s just worried about his grandfather and about how his visit will play out. Maybe there is something to my earlier suspicion.
“I think about my grandfather all the time,” I say. “He taught me a lot about being a young man, about keeping my head straight when I started winning tournaments, and about respect, especially respecting my mother. She raised me by herself. My grandfather helped a lot, but the day-to-day stuff was all her.”
Bobby looks at me for a long moment until his eyes start to glisten. He looks away as he did earlier and wipes away the tears.
“Bobby? What’s—?”
“What happened to your father?” he asks turning back to me. “Did they get… divorced?”
So that’s it. Trouble on the home front.
“Did they?”
For a second I think about lying and telling him yes and that everything turned out fine. I’m not good at lying, though; I’d just screw up my story. “No. Until a few weeks ago, I thought he was dead. Killed in a North Vietnamese prison during the war, before I was born. Then out of the blue he shows up.”
“Wow! That had to like mind freak you or something.”
I smile. “It did exactly that.”
“Bet your mother was shocked, huh?”
I shake my head. “She died two years ago. Car accident.”
“Whoa. Sorry, Sam,” he says, with real compassion.
“Thank you.”
“Sometimes life sucks,” Bobby says softly.
“Life is like a bowl of cherries,” I say sagely.
“What do you mean?”
“How the hell do I know? I’m not a philosopher.”
Bobby looks at me for a moment, then laughs.
Good. My work here is done. I unfasten my seatbelt. “Gotta wiz, my fellow warrior. Then I got to catch more Zs. I’m about a month behind on sleep so I’m trying to catch up.”
“Gotcha,” Bobby says, stepping out into the aisle to let me out.
There are a few non-Asian folks sprinkled here and there but everyone else is Vietnamese or Japanese. A woman points at my arms as I pass and says something to the man sitting next to her. He looks at me, smiles, and shoots me a thumbs up while nodding several times.
When I worked uniform patrol, I was used to being a minority and looked at, but this is different. Now it’s about race. Feels strange not being in the majority skin-wise. According to some of the online tourist blogs I read, foreigners are stared at a lot in Vietnam. Mai said that I’d get extra looks since I’m so much larger than the average person there.
A seventy-something, white-haired Asian man opening the restroom door sees me approach, smiles and gestures for me to enter. Having worked the park restrooms a few times when assigned to Vice, my first thought is that he wants me to join him in the can. I force that sick thought out of my head and gesture for him to go on in. He gives me a short bow and hurries inside.
Grateful that there is no one else in the back, I step behind the partition and circle my arms a little to loosen my shoulders, and do a few forward bends to pop my back and stretch my legs. Feels good, but what I wouldn’t give to do my regular stretching