“It’s too late for you to pick us up,” she says. “Meet us at the dojo.”
The dojo is a small brick building near the airport with an apartment built onto the side of it. On the front there is a hand-painted sign that reads Steve’s House of Karate with a golden cobra curling out of the e in Karate. Inside, the floor is pinewood covered with a thick layer of wax. The whole place smells sourly of feet. The testing has already begun so I find Meredith in the back and sit in the plastic chair she’s saved.
“Joey hasn’t gone yet,” she whispers. Her breath is warm against my ear. Waiting in her chair she looks pretty, but anxious. The same way she always does. Her thick black hair is pinned up, revealing the soft curve of her pale shoulders. She has a nice full figure and sometimes when I catch her coming out of the shower, I admire her shape, the way her hips widen roundly from her torso.
She’s bouncing her knee nervously, and I rest my hand on it to try and calm her. After a while Joey Jr. emerges from a side door leading to the changing area. He’s wearing his karate uniform, white pants and a white jacket closed in the front with a white belt, all of it made from a heavy starched material that creases like folded typing paper when he moves.
“He looks like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man,” I whisper to Meredith, who shushes me.
Joey Jr. moves onto a large rectangular red mat in the center of the room. He looks nervous. Behind him the wall is covered with mirrors that stretch from the floor to the ceiling. Steve, the karate instructor, is a muscular black man with long, dreadlocked hair. He places a large, powerful hand on Joey’s shoulder.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Joey Mason and he is going for his brown belt. The first part of his test is a kata. This is a pattern of strikes, kicks, and attack poses that Joey has memorized. Joey, are you ready?”
Joey nods and everyone claps. After bowing to his instructor and the audience, Joey begins to move. Slowly he lifts his arms and opens his palms. With his hands, he makes rounded circles in the air around his body. He lifts his legs, stepping slowly at first, and then faster, from one end of the mat to the other. Then he rotates until his back is to us and we can only see his face in the mirrors, and then suddenly, he twirls around and moves toward us chopping precisely with outstretched hands. It’s the most graceful thing I have ever seen him do. Usually he lies on the couch in Meredith’s living room, playing video games, not caring that his t-shirt rises above his flour-sack stomach. Here his movements are fluid, one leading into the next as if this whole crazy punching and kicking exhibition was some dance he’d been practicing alone in his bedroom for months. By the time he’s done, the nervousness has vanished from his face and his blue eyes shine with pride. He stops and bows at Steve and then us. Meredith is clapping before anyone else, her hands coming together as if to attack one another. Steve moves next to Joey Jr. on the mat.
“Excellent. For the final part of the test I need a volunteer to help Joey demonstrate his self-defense maneuver.” For a few moments the room is quiet. The men are looking straight ahead trying not to draw attention to themselves, and it’s clear that no one really wants to volunteer. But then, before I can stop her, Meredith hoists my arm up in the air like the disjointed limb of a marionette.
“Here,” she says. “Right here, Sensei Steve. Ronald volunteers.”
Steve looks at me relieved. The rest of the audience turns to me and applauds my seeming courage, and by then it’s too late. If I refuse now, Meredith will be embarrassed, and after some prodding by Steve someone else will step forward and volunteer in my place, and I will catch hell about it for at least a month. I weave my way through the audience and before I step on the mat, Steve tells me I must remove my boots. I lower myself slowly until I’m sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor. The laces are long and tied twice around the ankle. It takes me some time and I can feel everyone watching and waiting as though I’m the one being tested. When I step onto the mat, I can see that Joey Jr. is even less pleased by my being there than I am. His thin lips are curled apart revealing the slight metallic flash of low-end orthodontics and making his teeth look as if they were made of sharp metal. His ears are as small and flushed as candied plums, and his dark eyebrows are slightly raised. To someone else he might appear surprised or fairly bored. But I can interpret this look. It’s reserved solely for me, to be suffered alone. I’ve never seen him give it to anyone else. And behind it there is the faintest trace of confident anticipation, as if he is privy to the future and is pleased by what he sees.
“The name of this maneuver is a Go no sen,” Steve says. The way he pronounces this is intimidating, like he’s spitting out glass. “All I need you to do is take a step forward and grab Joey’s wrist.”
I give him a wry smile. “Easy for you to say.” Nobody laughs. Joey has already assumed his attack pose. His feet are spread apart and facing outwards and his hands are waist high and ready to strike. I bow to him as I’ve seen Steve do, and he leans down slightly, obviously impatient with the formality. I take a step toward him and wrap my fingers around his soft, white wrist. Instantly Joey traps my hand with his free one, and pulls me toward him. Before I can retreat, I’m sailing around his body like a ballroom dancer, his hip catapulting me through the air. I land on my back with a hollow thud, the wind knocked out of me. I hear a woman in the audience, not Meredith, gasp. Joey hovers above me, his left foot raised in the air as if he’s contemplating putting a mens’-size-eleven hole through my chest, and ending my pathetic existence forever. I’m trying to choke down some air, but my throat feels like it’s sealed shut. Joey lowers his foot and bows to me and then the audience. There is an explosion of applause, Meredith’s clapping rapid and distinguishable from the rest. I think of how these people shower this little maniac with accolades, and then in twenty years they’ll scratch their heads and wonder why he became a serial killer.
When I’m finally able to breathe again, I sit up and smile for everyone, the same way I used to smile after Joey Sr. would de-pants me in the lunchroom. It’s a defiant sort of smile, one meant to repel pity. At first it feels strange on my face, but then it settles in naturally. I haven’t used it in some time and I resent having to now. I stand and go to put my boots back on, but before I can Steve reminds me that I must bow to my opponent. And when I turn around I see Joey waiting for me to do so, unable to hide his pleasure. We lean toward each other, and suddenly I am afraid that my back will lock up forcing me to remain in this pose of submission forever. I think about rearing back and landing a ferocious kick underneath his plump, hairless chin, just to see how he likes being hurt and humiliated in front of a roomful of strangers. But instead I straighten up and walk back to my seat.
Afterwards, in the parking lot, Joey and Meredith walk in front of me, talking excitedly and looking at the certificate he’s been given. It’s nothing more than a piece of parchment paper, made to look old, with his and Steve’s signatures on the bottom. In a few months it will be forgotten at the bottom of a drawer in Joey’s bedroom, but for now it’s all they can focus on. I reach to grab Joey by the shoulder to get his attention, but think better of it and call his name.
“You didn’t have to flip me so hard,” I say. Joey and Meredith both turn around to face me, and at once I realize I’m outnumbered.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, like an innocent little prick.
I know it’s stupid of me to complain, but I can’t help it. “You didn’t have to throw me full force like that,” I say. “I have a bad back you know.”