High Water (2 page)

“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 eyes. 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.”

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 and 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.

“Owww! My head!” Liz moaned.

“Liz, you gotta get off my arm,” he said, swallowing. “I can’t get up.” Sweat beaded on his forehead, which smarted terribly, and his stomach was swimming nauseating laps.

“I can’t see, Pete! I can’t see anything!” she whined. It was the most pitiful thing that Pete had ever heard. He laughed at the same moment he puked, sending it directly through his nose.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that high before,” Pete said, remembering the vomit mixing together on the floor. It wasn’t really the type of fluid exchange he’d anticipated having with Liz that night.

“I have,” Walter said through a mouthful of pizza, bringing Pete back to the present.

“Yeah but… my high is like, subjective. You can’t experience what I experienced at my level, you know?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

The two couch-locked stoners ate with zeal, devouring the entire pizza in less than ten minutes. Walter sat back with Challenger and took another rip. They shared a moment of contented silence. Reaching over, Pete took the bong from Walter and remarked that he was going to miss Sal’s Pizza.

“Dude, it sucks that you are moving,” said Walter.

“Yeah, I know”, but I’m done with my thesis, so they’re cutting off my assistantship. “Gotta pay them bills, son!” Walter already knew Pete’s predicament. Pete’s thesis on novel techniques for combating infection by the single celled organism causing malaria had gotten him some great references. The only place hiring was Century Research Corporation, who had offered him a position in their microbiology division. He didn’t have much of a desire to move from South Jersey, but the commute was impossible from here.

“What is Liz thinking?” Walter said, nonchalantly. It was a difficult question. Pete and Liz had been together for a year and a half. He had invited her to come with him to Philly, hoping to get Liz out of her dead end job at Tahitian Water Adventures. If he played his cards right, maybe they’d place her at Century Research Corporation. After all, her paralegal certificate was on the wall in her room, unused and unappreciated. Liz’s career situation was the modern condition for his generation: heaps of education, crippling student loans, and weak job prospects. Everything about the move felt so right that Pete expected their cohabitation to be a no brainer. But she hadn’t committed and waffled every time they talked about it.

Today was moving day.

“Ahhh, dude, you know how I feel about this. She’s equivocated every time I bring it up.” Pete sighed. “I don’t know, man.”

Walter nodded. “Maybe ya’ll can do the long distance thing.” Pete nodded too, but he had a feeling about how that would turn out.

“I hope you can keep training, but I don’t know if you can find a
Sifu
like Kyle out there,” Walter continued, wisely changing the subject. “It’s a shame, I thought you were real close.”

“I thought I’d finish the degree and my black belt at the same time,” Pete said, sadly. “Guess it didn’t work out that way.”

“You’re one of the best Pete, and they’re all going to miss you. 
Sifu
probably the most,” Walter said. Kyle’s pedagogy had done a lot for Pete’s self-confidence, molding him into a different person. He’d come to the studio overweight from years of university dining hall food. Kung fu had gotten Pete into the best physical shape of his life and he knew it was equally important in attaining his graduate degree. His current expertise in the nature of parasitic infectious diseases was the result of hard work and discipline. Martial arts sharpened mind and body equally.