LITMIR.BIZ

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is quiet for a moment, then shrugs. “I might get more into it when I’m older. I don’t know.”

      “I think that’s a very mature and intelligent way to handle it.”

      “Thank you. Where you going? You getting off in Seattle or Tokyo, or are you going all the way?”

      “All the way to Vietnam.”

      “Business, huh? What kind of business?”

      “Not business. Personal.”

      “Personal,” Bobby says, reading me for a second. “Okay, no prob.”

      What sounds like the blond flight attendant’s voice on the PA announces that we have begun our descent into Seattle, and that we need to put our seat backs up and store our things. That was a fast forty-five minutes.

      “Hey, I got row 12B in the new plane,” Bobby says, looking at his ticket. “What do you got?”

      I retrieve mine from my pocket. “Let’s see… 12C.”

      “Sweet. We could talk some more.”

      What’s the chance of us sitting together twice? Could someone have arranged it that way?

      “That okay?”

      “What?”

      “That we talk some more on the next flight.”

      “Oh. Sure. But I’ll need to sleep. I’m really trashed. Been through some rough times recently.”

      “Not a problem. You old people need your beauty rest.”

      “On second thought, maybe it’s not too late to get a seat change.”

       *

      The plane change was non-eventful. We had enough time to grab a Whopper, walk off our meals, and buy some treats and magazines at a concession. We boarded the new plane, found our seats, and now we’re ascending to the heavens. Next stop: Tokyo in just over thirteen hours. Oh, my cramping back and knees.

      We chat for a couple hours, mostly on ways he can build speed in his kicks and punches. He has a quick mind, quick wit, and asks questions that are ten years more mature than his age. A good listener too, a stark contrast from many young teens I’ve had in class over the years. If he keeps training, and I’m guessing he will, he’s going to be a fine martial artist and a good teacher. I do wonder about the weight he’s carrying on his shoulders.

      We ride silently for a while, Bobby listening to his music, and me reading a Newsweek and doing the groggy head-nodding thing.

      I touch his arm to get his attention. “I have got to get some sleep. I’m going to conk for a while.”

      “I’m cool with that,” he says. “Got my cell. You can borrow it later if you’d like. Got like twelve hundred tunes on it. There might be a couple things from the olden days.” He shoots me a smirk.

      “I got your old days right here, homey. Now let me catch some Zs.” I fold my arms, lean my head against the window again, and close my eyes.

      It’s twenty minutes later now and I can tell that I’m not going to sleep. The earlier nap took the edge off, but the thought of another day-nightmare adds a dash of trepidation about sleeping, at least during the day.

      For a couple weeks after the incident, I had lots of middle-of- the-night nightmares, terrible ones where I woke up shouting and sweating like a pig. Those fun times are sporadic now, at least the nighttime dreams. Recently, I started having them during the day when I take the occasional nap and sometimes even when I’m awake.

      I hear the flight attendant ask Bobby if he wants anything to drink. He orders a water for himself and one for me too. Thoughtful kid, polite, has a zest for life, a passion for the martial arts, and he’s funny. I like to think I had some of those things when I was sixteen. Actually, I think I still do, though I did have a brief struggle with the zest for life thing recently. Meeting my father and Mai helped get it back.

      My passion for the martial arts has always been there through the ol’ thick and thin. It was there when my mom got killed in a traffic accident, and when I got divorced. The divorce I didn’t take hard because the marriage shouldn’t have happened anyway. It lasted only a few months. I was young and stupid and so was she.

      Mom’s death was hard. The police chaplain and my dear friend Mark, who is also my lieutenant, came to my house and broke the news to me. When they left, I went out into my garage and began hitting the heavy bag, harder and harder until I was pummeling it like a man insane, which I was right then. After I don’t know how long, I went into the house and slept all afternoon.

      When I got up, I went out onto my patio and began throwing combinations, doubles, triples, sometimes throwing ten shots in one all-out burst. I punched the regret that I felt for not telling my mother that I loved her the last time we spoke. I punched the lonely life she must have had without a partner. I punched my father for abandoning her. And I punched God for giving her such a violent, painful death. My rage was irrational, most of it, but it made sense to my insane mind at the time.

      All I did for two days was sleep, train, and eat a little. After forty-eight hours, give or take, I had lost seven pounds, sprained my wrist, and my neck and back were so tight that I walked around like Robo Cop for three days. Inside, though, I felt better. The anger was gone, the blaming was gone, and the guilt was mostly gone. Thanks to the martial arts, I was able to begin mourning and dealing with the funeral.

      My martial arts were there after my shootings. Training like a madman helped to burn away my crazy thoughts, to cool the adrenaline that boiled for days, to ease my fear, to push back the questions, such as what if I was forced to kill again? What if my hesitation caused the death of another innocent? Was my soul forever blackened? My near heart-stopping workouts did as much for me as my visits to Doc Kari, the department-mandated police psychologist.

      I was already at my limit when out of nowhere my, as it turns out, not-so-dead father appears in my life. Coincidence of coincidences, or maybe not, he’s a martial artist. Actually, comparing Samuel’s martial arts skill to mine is like comparing Luciano Pavarotti’s pristine voice to mine when I do an Oh solo mio in the shower. Samuel’s ability is… what? Beyond comprehension? For sure. Mind bending? Oh yeah, definitely. On top of that, he says that compared to his teacher, Shen Lang Rui, he’s just a beginner. While I can’t begin to imagine how that’s even possible, I guess I’ll find out when Samuel introduces me to his venerable master.

      Samuel. Dad? No, calling him dad is just too awkward. He is my father, I’m convinced of that, but calling him pops, dad, or whatever is, well, my mouth stops working when I try. It’s just too hard for me to go from thinking my father was killed before I was born to suddenly saying, “Hey, Dad, wanna toss the pigskin around?”

      What an entry he made. I got sucker punched to the sidewalk in front of a coffee joint and like a white knight wearing red sneakers, Samuel kicked the guy’s ass. And, somehow, he hauled my unconscious self across the street to a park bench, waited patiently for me to wake up, and bought me a coffee.

      Then there’s Mai, incredible, outrageously gorgeous, and without peer, Mai. For a couple of awkward days, I thought she was my half sister. After all, Samuel referred to her as his daughter, and since he said I was his son… Well, it caused me all kinds of confusion, since I was overwhelmingly attracted to her. Gratefully discovering that we were not related by blood, I got the breath knocked out of me when I found out that she was experiencing the same attraction to me. And then the world went really crazy and “kapow,” I’m part of some high-octane kung-fu movie fighting off attackers from every direction.

      The plane bumps hard a couple of times.

       “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re passing through some turbulence. The captain has turned on the seatbelt signs. Please return to your seats and remain there with your seatbelt fastened until the captain turns off the seatbelt sign. Thank you.”

      I’m still belted

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