Stephanie
“Alright, Stef, now pay attention. I’m going to show you how to do a spinning back fist. I learned this from my first sensei, Sensei Bruce, about eight years ago and I’ve been perfecting it ever since.”
Sensei Bruce?
I’m really starting to think this was a mistake. How can every one of his sensei’s sound like they’re vest-wearing accountants from the suburbs?
Before that, it was Master Roger. And before that, Sensei Seamus, who ran a ninjutsu school, until it went out of business and turned into an exotic bird shop.
Sensei Seamus, though? Really?
Bryan squares up with the punching bag. His eyes are wide and his nostrils flare like he’s a bull or something.
Then, he yells.
Dear God, he yells.
Every single set of eyes in the room turns to watch as he spins and love-taps the punching bag.
It moves maybe three inches.
Hands on his hips, chest puffing with exertion, he looks at me like I’m some padawan or whatever.
“Yelling’s essential. It focuses your chi and distracts your opponent.”
I’ll say.
“Now, you try,” he says, taking a step back.
I don’t do the yelling thing — because that’s just stupid — but, I spin, and I manage to smack my fist into the punching bag and, to my surprise, it moves. It actually looks like I might have done some damage. Not a lot of damage. But, if I ever get in a fight with a toddler, I stand a decent chance.
I look at Bryan. He nods approvingly.
“Not a bad start. Now, let me show you a crescent kick. This kick’s good for misdirection. You kick up and to the side of their head. Your opponent will think you’ve missed, and then you’ll snap the kick sideways into them. Watch.”
I step back, ready for disappointment.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he does the yelling thing again. Then he strikes. His foot shoots out in a kick, going head-high to the right of the bag and it looks like he’s missed until — crack — it arcs sideways, snapping and crashing into the bag.
It’s kind of impressive.
“Your turn,” he says, puffing.
I try. And miss.
“Again,” he says.
We run through it at least seven times and I whiff every single one, falling flat on my ass the final time.
“Bryan, this isn’t really what I had in mind. I wanted to learn how to, you know, fight.”
I raise my fists and swing my arms like I’m a boxer.
How do I tell my only friend in town — someone who’s actually been supportive while I’ve been dealing with all the shit going on in my life — that their help is total garbage?
I’ll never be a ninja.
I don’t even want to be a ninja.
I just want to know how to punch someone’s face and make it hurt them more than it hurts me.
I raise my fists in a way that I think a boxer should look like, but, really, probably end up looking like the Notre Dame mascot.
“Can you show me how to throw a real punch?”
Bryan shrugs, one hand on his hips while he heaves great breaths of air and wipes sweat from his forehead with the other. “You know you’re going to need more in your arsenal than just a good punch, right? A real fighter needs to be able to make every part of their body a weapon.”
I nod. “You’re right, I know, but I’ve got to start somewhere.”
“Your form looks pretty good,” he starts, then he settles with his weight on his back leg and his nostrils start flaring. “But pay attention, watch how I use my arms to really hit the bag.”
He does the yelling thing again and hurls himself at the punching bag. It kind of reminds me of this Jean Claude Van Damme movie I watched with my dad one time when I was younger, about a rough-edged but kind-hearted chemistry teacher who went undercover to bring down a methamphetamine ring. It was called Element of Danger.
It was awful.
Bryan thwacks the punching bag and it wobbles and shakes an impressive amount.
Maybe he actually knows what he’s doing.
He grins at me.
“Alright, Stef. Let’s see you do it. And remember, tighten up, put all your arm muscles into it, and hit. It. Hard.”
I settle back and try to approximate the way Bryan looked just before he belted the punching bag.
I’m no Van Damme either.
Behind me, I hear a voice cry out “Hold on” and I look over my shoulder to see the janitor jogging across the floor towards me.
“Ignore him, Stef. He’s just worried about the mess you’re going to make when you knock the stuffing out of the bag. Focus,” Bryan says, encouraging me.
I step forward and swing with everything I have.
My fist connects with the bag.
There’s a dull thud as the bag rocks against its chains.
My wrists flexes and bends and then bright pain jolts through it, ricocheting up my arm, dancing across my ulna and radius, and searing up my humerus to explode in my brain.
Then, I scream.
I fall to one knee.
A commotion erupts around me. There’s pounding feet, people sprinting to form a circle around me, Bryan is shouting apologies, and the janitor from earlier pushes his way through everyone to kneel by my side.
He’s yelling for people to make space and shouting — commanding — someone in the crowd to run like hell and fetch the first aid kit.
“I am so, so sorry, Stef. Are you ok?” Bryan says, fighting through the circle to stand by my side.
“It’s ok, Bryan,” I say, moving my wrist in a circular motion. Tendons stretch and pull painfully. It hurts like hell, but doesn’t feel like anything’s torn. “It’s just a sprain.”
A hand settles on my back and the janitor, with his accented and authoritative voice, places a shockingly-cold ice pack against my wrist.
“Hold that tight to your wrist, bella,” he purrs into my ear. “It should help with the swelling.”
I know that. I’m a nurse for crying out loud.
And I’m in pain.
I’m also in no mood for mysterious men to touch me. Or to take first aid advice from a guy who was probably snaking drains five minutes ago. Even if he is ridiculously good looking and his voice caresses me in ways that almost make me forget about my pain.
“Thank you for the ice pack, but I can take care of myself.” I struggle to my feet and shake his hand off.
His only response is a raised eyebrow and a brief smile.
“I’m fine,” I say again, trying to sound insistent even though I can’t muster any conviction.
I know I’m not fine.
If I was fine, I wouldn’t even be in this place.
And I definitely wouldn’t be practicing strange kicks like an eighties action movie star and spraining my wrist while trying to learn how to fight.
The janitor shrugs. “Listen, if you want some lessons, I can help you out.”
“No, thanks. I appreciate the offer, but that’s not necessary.”
“Are you sure? Because, to me, it looks like you’re not doing so hot.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Bella, you tell a lie about as well as you throw a punch. Why come to a boxing gym, other than to get help boxing?”
Bryan inserts himself between me and the janitor.
“Back off, man. She’s got all the help she needs: me.”
The janitor looks Bryan up and down, a smirk on his face.
“You?”
Bryan nods. “That’s right.”
His foot slides back, his knees bend slightly, and it is so painfully obvious that he’s about to do something stupid.
“Looks like you’re doing an excellent job of it, paesano,” the janitor says, eyes squarely looking at my hurt wrist.
Bryan’s leg twitches.
I put my good hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze. The last thing I need is for him to pick a fight with a janitor.
“Bryan, calm down. Don’t worry about him. Let’s just go.”
He relaxes.
“You’re right, Stef. We’ll find somewhere else.”
Then, off to my left, one of the older-looking boxers — a Latino man who has to be at least sixty years old and who’s carrying a big spare tire around his waist — bursts out laughing and says something in rapid-fire Spanish. I only make out one word. Luchadore.
The janitor blinks and a look of recognition settles across his face while Bryan goes so stiff it’s like he’s got rigor mortis.
“You’re him? Fucking hell, man, you’re not going anywhere.”
Bryan wordlessly shakes me off and takes a swing at the janitor.
I get halfway through a blink in the amount of time it takes the janitor to wipe the floor with Bryan.
One second, he’s standing, the next, he’s moving faster than a man like him has any right to move. Ducking slightly, he slips past Bryan’s punch and in one easy movement sweeps my friend’s legs out from under him.
Bryan falls backwards and the janitor leaps on top of him, pinning him to the ground.
“Get off me,” he growls.
“You know, you still owe money for all the damage you did.”
He slaps Bryan across the face, gently, repeatedly, like someone disciplining a disobedient animal.
Bryan’s face is turning beet red and his eyes are bugging.
This is getting out of hand.
I step forward and put my hand on the janitor’s shoulder.
He tenses at my touch and I can see every rock-hard muscle under the tight athletic shirt he’s wearing.
God damn, is he made out of concrete?
Hot, perfectly-shaped concrete?
He’s like something out of one of my old medical textbooks. Turn to page one hundred and seventy two, students, to the section on the perfect male athletic form.
Focus, Stephanie.
“We don’t want any trouble. Can we just go? Please?”
He pulls a big sigh into his lungs, filling out his impressive chest. Bright green eyes stare at me over his shoulder.
Then, he smiles and shrugs.
“Fine. Go ahead, bella.”
I help Bryan to his feet and we start to the door.
“But I’ll be seeing you later,” he calls after me.
Like hell you will, I think to myself.
After today, after this incident, there’s no way I’ll be coming back to this place, no matter how desperate I get.
Once we’re in the parking lot, Bryan whirls on me.
“I told you these guys were assholes,” he rants, voice redolent with rage. “They’re a bunch of brawlers. They just want to throw weights around and hit people. You won’t learn anything from them.”
“You’re probably right,” I admit.
He’s not — I know that — but I learned a long time ago the best way to deal with Bryan when his ego’s been hurt.
“Besides, their monthly dues are way too high and you shouldn’t be spending that kind of money in your situation.”
I can’t suppress raising my eyebrow at his comment. Even if he’s right — which he might be, considering I’m not currently nursing and my dad’s store isn’t bringing in much of anything — he still doesn’t have the right to say that.
“If you’re feeling up to it, we can stop by the dojo and see what real fighting looks like.”
Oh great. Not this again.
I shake my head.
“I really need to get back to the shop. Maybe another time?”
“Another time, then. I’m always available for you, Stef.”
Not that I’m looking forward to going to my dad’s store. It’s one of the reasons I came to the boxing gym today. It’s one of the reasons I need to learn how to defend myself. And it’s one of the reasons why I spend so much of my life afraid.
More than anything else, that place is my prison.