Like Heroes of Old (AC)

Your body and your mind will be the only things that limit you. The depth of your comprehension will determine the caliber of your ability, and the strength of your body will allow you to survive its use. Be careful. Every action might break you.

I was pouring over the letters my father gave to me, absorbing the straightforward parts, and staring narrow eyed and slightly frustrated at the more cryptic sections. Some of my father’s words make no sense to me, and I fear understanding will continue to come only after I have caused serious harm.

I’d just come home from Neal’s house, after a sunburned day of Sacramento jazz, a small cookout, and a few beers. There was also an impromptu kitchen floor brawl initiated for no reason at all (and with no intent to harm). Neal is an Iraqi Freedom vet, and one of my training partners. I am learning how to fight from a man who knows how to kill.

Anyway, I was unwinding in my room, preparing to write this post. It was Sunday, and I was surprised that I was writing in preparation for Monday. People who know my habits know that I don’t generally do things ahead of time. It is warm in Davis these days, and my window is open almost constantly. Outside, there was shouting: a mail and female voice. It started sounding like a heated discussion—some sort of passionate drunken discourse. I have shouted a few times myself, after drinking.

But the voices became angry. The male began shouting as hard as his throat would allow, and the female was interjecting with sharp jabbing responses between roars.

Everybody is allowed to argue. Shouting might even be justified. Everybody gets on edge, especially near the end of Spring quarter, when students are nearing finals, and apartments have been shared for nine months, at least. Everybody is allowed to argue, and it is nobody’s business.

“Ouch,” came the female voice, “that really hurt.”

Kathy later said she heard something about “my wrist.”

I stood.

“Stop! No, ouch!” Then there was a cry, sharp with pain, wavering with frightened tears. And then, “My back!”

I looked around for my phone.

“Oh God! Somebody help me!”

She sounded panicked. The alarm bells in my head shut off and I went into action. I was already opening the front door when Jin called me, also on his way out the door.

We raced outside. I was ready to jump fences and kick down doors. I spotted the open window on the second floor, spilling sounds of sadness into the night. Kathy came outside. This was the first time I ever had to look at someone with a calm and serious face and tell them to call the police. I did not wait. I sprinted around the apartment building (their door faces away from ours) and ran up the stairs, Jin right behind. I was grateful for his company. Together, I think we could handle just about any shit that doesn’t involve guns.

I pounded on the door. It was a “what the fuck is going on in there?” kind of pound, using the fleshy side of my fist. The voices stopped. I heard the man curse, and the woman sob, “It’s nice to know my neighbors care about me.” I rolled my eyes—she was using guilt trips and self pity tactics that could have very easily turned the man’s ire upon us. I turned the doorknob. I looked back at Jin to see if he was ready, as I crouched and prepared my body weight to contend with possible deadbolt resistance. He shook his head and knocked. His knock was with his knuckles, loud but not demanding, as though to say, “we’re not going to start any shit, but we’re not leaving either.”

I was ready for a brawl. He knocked twice more, and I heard the female voice say, “be a man about it.”

The door opened. It was a very large man with two by four wrists and at least a hundred pound advantage. He looked like a man facing a firing squad, like he knew he’d fucked up.

“Good evening gentlemen.”

“We heard a lot of shouting,” Jin started. “We heard somebody call for help. The police are on their way. We just want to make sure everybody is okay.”

“You’re welcome to come in if you like. You can see that everything is fine.”

The woman was sitting on the floor, back against a sofa, head hanging, bobbing slightly with each

“We’ll wait out here,” I said. “The police will be here shortly. If you’d leave the door open so we can see inside, though, that would be best.”

He nodded and leaned against a wall.

“Are you okay,” Jin called inside. I felt slightly guilty then, because I forgot about the woman, I’d become so fixated upon the possibility of violence.

She sobbed that she was fine.

“How long ago did you call them?” the big man asked.

“They should be here soon. You know how bored Davis cops are. I don’t hear sirens, though, which means they’re probably not moving with urgency. Listen, if this is a misunderstanding, I apologize, but when someone calls for help, you call the cops.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You did the right thing.”

The sad thing, though—the thing that is still upsetting me—is that we were the only ones that responded. A woman could have been hospitalized, for all my neighbors knew, and nobody came out. Who is going to come when it’s me calling for help?

I relaxed a little. The man seemed resigned to dealing with the police. He must have seen this, because he produced a small clip fed handgun, which he pointed at my belly. His mouth opened to speak, but his words caught.

I squeezed between moments. The air became pudding around me. I pushed forward the single step that separated us, and carefully raised a fist. I was still recovering from my first squeeze, the damage to my body a powerful warning against moving rashly. I balled my fist and carefully thrust forward in a controlled jab, my wrist aligned properly with my arm, my muscles carefully controlling the forward power. My hand made contact with his jaw, and I pushed against his chin until it moved back about a half centimeter.

I withdrew my fist and released the instant. There was a small pop and a familiar jolt of pressure shot up my arm, absorbed by muscles well prepared for the force. The man’s head snapped backward and his eyes glossed as he tipped, landing flat backed on the floor. I slid the gun out of his twitching fingers with my foot, and maneuvered it out the door and out of reach.

Two police cruisers rolled onto the sidewalk then, disgorging four brisk stepped officers. I waved to them. I walked down and told them there was a gun by the stairs, and an unconscious man just inside the door.

I told a similar story to the police, but didn’t bother trying to explain how I landed a knockout blow on a gunman. They seemed impressed, and even shook my hand before one of them realized the man was still twitching, and not waking up.

The ambulance was faster than the police.

And I ended up visiting the Davis Police Station. There is a good deal of legal work involved in dislocating a man’s vertebrae, self defense or not.

He may or may not regain consciousness.
He will not regain muscle control.

You greatest power is the power of contemplation. When time vanishes, every decision can be pondered for as long, if that term applies, as necessary, and every thought carried to completion. The gift is that you cannot move too slowly, though it comes at the cost of moving too quickly. Consider every motion. You do not only harm yourself.