A Fighting Fool

The others stretch, chat, and warm up on the dojo floor before class. I sit alone, and think about how cool it is that I’m learning Kung Fu. Wind Staff. The deep clapping sound the staff makes when you slam it flat on the carpeted floor during the form.

It still bothers me, though, that she won’t go out with me. Or that she’s sort of going out with me. That she won’t decide whether we’re going out or not. I look at my knuckles, the word I traced over all day in school, first with pen, then a black sharpie, then outlined with a red pen. I wonder what the instructor thinks of me. Wait for him to tell me that I’ve got serious potential.

I look out the screen door next to the water cooler, through the rear parking lot and into the trees. One guy’s out back training. He’s not usually in our class, either cause he’s in the next level up or because he decided to just train on his own. I think he comes to the dojo mostly to teach the kids’ classes. They love him. He’s great at Kung Fu too. The times I’ve watched him do a form, it’s like he’s fully in his body while the rest of us are only halfway in.

There’s a loud bang in the parking lot. We all turn our heads towards the screen door, as he tears it open and dive rolls into the dojo, still holding his staff. He looks up at us - focus, panic, and laughter all on his face at once. “These guys got guns!”