Chapter Twenty-Five
Scott figured out that even though he had gone to war and fought for his country, he hadn’t learned much about hand-to-hand combat. There had been a few lessons with a tough instructor in basic training, but with so many soldiers and so little time, no one got more than a cursory lesson.
At the YMCA, Scott received much more individualized attention.
Isshin-Ryu consisted of learning a number of katas, or stylized movements, used to teach and reinforce specific techniques of punching and kicking. Because of the damage to Scott’s lower body, he was never going to be as fully balanced as he had been, but Jerry taught him secrets and methods to overcome those limitations.
Many self-defense disciplines focused on outward achievements, like leveling up and claiming a new belt color. In Jerry Werbeloff’s class, the aim was more on learning and self-improvement. That suited Scott just fine. When he inevitably found himself face-to-face with someone who wanted to do him serious harm, showing them his blue or brown belt wouldn’t help. The ability to stay on his feet and fight definitely would.
In October, Earl Bell passed away again. Scott never got used to the pain of losing his grandfather. Each time it happened, it was a blow. It might have sent him spiraling into another dark hole of depression, but working out at the YMCA helped him maintain his equilibrium.
After Scott had been attending the self-defense classes three times a week for six months, Sensei Werbeloff brought a wooden stick to class with him. While the other students were working on their katas, he approached Scott.
“I think this is going to make a difference for you.”
“A walking stick?”
“It’s a jo. It looks like a walking stick, but it can be a lethal weapon when you need it.” He handed it to Scott.
It was round, a little thicker in the middle and tapered on the ends. It was made of a lighter wood, so it felt almost alive in his hands.
“Did you make this?”
“Yes, I carved it for you. I make all my own weapons. I find it is better to be armed and not need a weapon, than to need a weapon and not have one.”
“Can I buy this from you?”
“No.”
Scott nodded and did his best to hide his disappointment. “It fits my hand so well. Can you tell me where I can buy one like this?”
“No, of course not. It’s a gift. At first, I thought a bo might be right for you, but the more I thought about where you are in your training, the more I thought that might be too long and awkward for you. You can use this jo when you go on your walkabout.”
Scott looked at Jerry. “Have I told you that I am going on a walkabout?”
Jerry shrugged. “Are you?”
“Yes, I am, and soon.”
“There you are, then.” He smiled and said, “Come on, let me show you a jo kata. It will take some practice.”
It did take practice. Nothing about it felt natural at first, but the more Scott worked with it over the next six months, the more it became like a part of him.
The YMCA was three miles from the house he and Cheryl were once again sharing as she prepared to marry Mike for the two-dozenth time, from Scott’s perspective. After he received the jo, he started walking to the “Y” and home each day and grew stronger and stronger.
Between the six miles of walking, the fifty laps in the pool, and three workouts each week overseen by sensei Werbeloff, Scott had worked his way back to some semblance of the condition he had been in before he was wounded.
In all the previous repetitions of this section of his life, Scott had kept to himself. Even when he spent huge amounts of time in the Rusty Bucket, he was something of a loner. In this life, he found himself more and more drawn to Jerry Werbeloff. Scott was a few years older than his young sensei, but that didn’t matter. They were on the same wavelength.
Jerry was a newlywed, much to the disappointment of the many young women who flocked to the YMCA to take lessons from him. Over time, Jerry and his beautiful wife, Lynn, fell into the habit of having Scott over for dinner on Fridays.
They lived in a small apartment in a busy part of Evansville, not far outside of downtown. They shared food and laughs, and the three of them grew close.
Over a plate of hummus and chips one night, Scott posed a question.
“Let me give you a hypothetical scenario. You teach over and over that everything we are learning is for self-defense.”
“Correct. I won’t teach someone who just wants to make themself a tough guy to go out and pick a fight. That is against the way of the warrior.”
Scott nodded. “Good enough. But, what if a situation arose where you knew with absolute certainty that a person was going to harm someone else, but they weren’t threatening you directly?”
“That is an easy question. My code says that I must protect the innocent and those who are unable to defend themselves. If I know someone is going to harm someone else, it is incumbent on me to stop them.”
Jerry stood up and wandered into a bookshelf in the living room. He flipped through the books stuffed into it, selected a volume, and brought it back to the table.
“Here. A gift for you. I can get another.”
Scott turned the book over and read the title. Hagakure: The Secret Wisdom of the Samurai.
“That should answer your question and any others similar to it.”
Scott nodded. “Thank you. It means a lot to have it from you.” He hung his head for a moment. “I am leaving next week. I’ll sure miss the two of you and our classes. When I get back to town, I’ll come find you first thing.”
“Why do I think that your hypothetical question and the fact that you are leaving have something to do with each other?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Scott did his best to switch things up so that his entire life didn’t feel like a rerun. To that end, instead of hitchhiking or riding a bus to Maine this time, he started his journey on a train. Aside from hitching a hobo’s ride, he had never been on a train before. He soon found he loved the experience.
The rocking, swaying motion as the train rumbled down the tracks soothed him to sleep at night and he spent his waking hours reading or staring out the windows at the passing rivers, lakes, and mountains.
He caught a train to Chicago where he ended up spending a few hours before he boarded another train to Philadelphia. From there, he changed trains again and rode to Portland, Maine.
This time, he knew exactly where the Jenkins lived, and he had a plan. He didn’t need to get there a month early to scope out Waterville. So, he had waited and hadn’t left Evansville until June 30th.He arrived in Portland late on July 2nd. Train travel was soothing, but it wasn’t fast.
That put him on a much tighter schedule, which was just what he wanted. He had found out last life what happened when he gave himself too much time to think. One of his grandfather’s aphorisms came to mind: those who think long, often think wrong.
In Portland, he found an inexpensive motel within walking distance of the train station. After several days cooped up onboard the train, it felt good to stretch out his legs. He was once again traveling light—still just his single backpack, with his karambit and baton tucked safely into a zippered pocket. His only new addition to his travel kit was his jo stick, which was disguised as a walking stick.
He found a newspaper box outside his motel, put a dime into it, and fished out a copy of The Portland Press Herald. After grabbing a quick bite at the diner across the street, Scott shut himself in his room for the evening.