Somewhere in New York Part 4
September had been ablaze with red and yellow and orange. October ended with the Witching Hour. Four days into November wind gusting down manmade canyons amid tall buildings has a blustery bite and the smooth, slate gray sky flaunts a threat of squalling snow.
Pat, Heero and I have eased into a comfortable routine.
I'm taking day classes at the Eastside Center, doing pub chores, homework and writing in my journal and, since the Shamrock is my permanent address, I've opened a bank account.
Some nights I come across Cherry and Cleo trolling for dates. Cherry always calls me Sugar, but isn't as persistent in gettin' my money. Seems Barbie got a boyfriend which is just as well since she didn't belong on the street anyways.
Tuesday evening Heero and I took the bus to Riverview Mall. At Pat's stubborn insistence to pay, I brought fleece-lined boots better suited to the New York City winter. With my own money I got a navy blue stocking cap and, from a half-price display, a Japanese Garden poster 'cause I liked the bright colors.
After Heero finished work on Friday we hauled dirty clothes to the Super Suds Laundromat then treated ourselves to the $5.99 all-you-can-eat pizza buffet at Nick's Italian Kitchen.
*********
In my short time with "the old man and the karate kid" I've made the acquaintance of the Shamrock's more eccentric clientele.
Robert Sutton, a Vietnam War veteran who lost his right leg in a helicopter crash near Hanoi, hobbles around on a prosthetic limb with the aid of a cane. He was a dispatcher for the Transit System for ten years but is now on disability.
Rosy, a five year old terrier/mutt, that's blind in her left eye, is Robert's constant companion. While Robert spends his evenings on the fourth barstool, sipping gin and tonics and debating with Pat whether the Jets or Giants are the better football team, Rosy enjoys leftovers in her own ceramic bowl or curls up on a cushion beside the heating duct.
I once asked Pat if letting Rosy rule the pub pissed off the Health Department. "If the inspector overlooks rats in the kitchen he sure as hell can't say nothin' 'bout a dog." was his insightful reply.
Margret Harris, forty and divorced twice, is a secretary for Metro Insurance over on Fourteenth and Main. She stops in after five o'clock for a beer and to flirt with Pat. Heero thinks Pat and Maggie should hook up although he wisely keeps his opinion to himself.
Late twenties and too cute to be boys, Evan and David own the Serendipity Book Shoppe around the corner. There's no double they're a couple, always cozy in the back booth, holding hands and engaging in quiet conservation over orders of French fries and diet sodas.
Lastly there's Michael McGuire, who I'm guessing is fifty. Cocooned in a gray overcoat, balding head sheathed in a furry Russian hat; he shuffles in every evening around six.
Mike always sits in the second booth. While sipping a frothy pint of Guinness he draws in a big sketchbook. Everyday city scenes. Sidewalks, storefronts and street venders. In fact, one of his earlier pen and ink illustrations of the Shamrock's exterior is framed on the wall behind the bar.
Right now Mike is working on a policeman on horseback talking to a woman who looks a lot like Cherry. As his pencil flutters over the paper what seems like random strokes fashions a realistic picture that's awesome.
It doesn't take long before he takes notice as I'm trying to sneak a peek at the artwork. With a sly grin he glances over his shoulder to catch me in the act of being nosy.
Suddenly self-conscious, I mumble "Sorry."
Apparently pleased by my interest, Mike invites me to share his seat, even asks my opinion on shading the horse's mane.
"Wish I could draw like that." is stated with envy.
Mike smiles, "I bet you can."
"Can't draw a straight line with a ruler."
"Perhaps your talents are bent elsewhere."
"What makes you think that?"
Mike stops drawing then tilts his head as if considering his reply. "I suspect you have a love/hate relationship with school."
"Yeah." I shrug, not sure where the conversation is heading.
"Yet your manner of speech is quite expressive which tells me you have a natural way with words."
Now it's my turn to inquire. "You a teacher? 'Cause you sound like one."
"I have a degree in Journalism,"
"A newspaper man." Pat comments, "Do ya work for the Times?"
Mike straightens to better see the Shamrock's proprietor. "I occasionally do freelance articles, however, consider myself semi-retired, but back to the subject of Duo's flair for language."
Obviously sharing Mike's educated opinion, Heero pivots on his barstool. "Just yesterday I was praising Duo for how good he did on a history essay."
With all this attention bordering on embarrassment, I feel my cheeks flush. "Hey, you guys better stop before I get one hellva a swelled head."
"May I offer further incentive?" Mike asks as he searches through the satchel where he keeps his drawing supplies. "I'd like you to have this." he states, handing me one of those black and white speckled hard-cover composition books.
When I cast a puzzled glance, Mike explains. "Why don't you keep a journal?"
"You mean writing down stuff that happens?"
"Yes, but make it personal, the way you view the world."
Another thoughtful moment passes before Heero adds his encouragement. "No one else will read it." he promises.
"Okay." I consent, accepting Mike's generous gift. "Thanks."
Later that evening I sat down at Heero's desk and began writing, starting with my Mom dying then, over the next four nights, catching up to when Mike gave me the book.
*********
I can't believe its Friday again.
While Heero folds bar towels, I'm sitting in a booth finishing up an Algebra worksheet due on Monday.
Taking advantage of a pause in my figuring, Heero wonders. "Want a beer?"
"Ain't I underage?" is asked rhetorically.
Heero shrugs, "You want a beer or not?"
I continue to play devil's advocate. "What if Pat finds out?"
"He's at the market." I'm reminded about the boss's weekly restocking trip. "Besides it's not like you've never drank before." Heero recalls tales of my wayward childhood.
Knowing that part of my life is no secret I order Irish Red.
With expert skill Heero draws two pints, making sure the amber bubbles stop just short of overflow. He takes a seat on the booth's opposite side and carefully sets down the glasses so my homework doesn't get wet.
I may not know much about being proper but I do know you don't swig Irish Red. To Heero's amusement a sip deposits foam on my upper lip. Ignoring his thin-lipped grin I use the back of my hand to swipe away the frothy mustache.
"Tomorrow morning I'm practicing for a free style match scheduled later in this month." Heero informs between his own prudent sips. "Would you like to work out at the gym with me?"
"You mean karate? All that kicking and punching and yelling."
Heero's grin blooms into a full smile. "If that's what you want to learn."
"Yeah, that'll be cool."
*********
8:00 A.M. is too early on Saturday morning to be at Goldman Gym.
In the locker room I slip out of warm cloths into shorts made from cutting off a pair of raggedy jeans, a white tee shirt and soft-soled shoes that'll be easy to take off for my lessons.
Meanwhile Heero, barefoot and bare-chested, is strolling around in tight running shorts resting so low on his hips he should be arrested for indecent exposure.
Goldman's is a typical inner-city gym. Steel I-beams support the roof and concrete walls need a fresh coat of gunmetal gray paint. Fluorescent light fixtures cast long shadows, dark vanished floorboards squeak and the slightest noise echoes.
A raised square platform with three lengths of rope making up the sides, like the ring on those wrestling shows, fills the center. Never did understand why something square was called a ring.
Six different exercise machines with cable and weight systems, a suspended punching bag and a rack of assorted dumbbells clutter the area to the right.
On the left side, padded green mats cover most of the floor. Sparring gear to protect hands and feet hang from pegs on the wall. A freestanding kick/punch bag and metal shelves with nunchucks and long wooden bokkens, I recognize from pictures in Heero's martial arts magazines, finish up the functional décor.
While I'm looking around, a deep male voice calls from a room with "OFFICE" stenciled in faded red above the door "You must be Duo."
An imposingly large black man, mid-thirties, six foot four or five, with broad shoulders, beefy thighs and a gold hoop dangling from his left lobe, is dressed in black shorts and a gray tank top that shows off bulging biceps.
Sauntering over with lithe strides contrary to his hulking frame, he offers his hand. "I'm William Turner." is announced in a slow Southern drawl.
"Nice to meet you Mr. Turner." I respond, hoping the firm handshake won't crush my fingers.
"Well ain't you polite. But I'm not old enough just yet to be Mr. Turner so call me Bill."
"Okay. Nice to meet you Bill."
"Heero's trying to fix a glitch in that cantankerous computer." Bill nods towards the office. "Should be done in a minute." he states before climbing four steps to the ring, threading through the ropes and shadow-boxing an invisible opponent.
Amazed by Bill's agile footwork and powerful jabs, "Sorry for the delay." Spoken without warning behind my back causes me to flinch.
Pivoting in place, I stare into blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Dammit, Heero, why did ya have to sneak up like that?"
An equally roguish grin does nothing to ease my aggravation "I don't sneak, I'm stealthy."
"Keep creepin' around and I'll have to teach you some manners." I issue the mock warning then throw a pretend punch which he blocks effortlessly.
*********
Over the next two hours Bill guides his apprentice through a specific series of moves and countermoves designed to hone fighting techniques and, mixed in for good measure, instinctual bad-ass-no-holds-barred brawling to keep from getting the shit beat outta him.
At first the training seems mechanical, merely reactions with no thought process. Gradually patterns of cunning and control become clear as each sequence enhances focus and the repetitive exercises improve stamina.
There's purpose in the subtle changes in balance, the crafty shifting of eyes and the natural ebb and flow of energy. The shrewd, calculated pause just before a fist flies true or a foot arcs up or sweeps around in a graceful, yet forceful, kick is calculated in less than a heartbeat.
It usually takes a lot to impress me, but Heero's rhythmic transition from stance to stance and his fluid stream of punches and kicks is mesmerizing and his forte for fighting, presented in a flawless demonstration of a perfectly attuned mind and body, is not only impressive but damn sexy.
*********
Two hours, thirty-minutes:
Heero and I sit on paint-chipped metal folding chairs. Cooling down with a moist towel draped around his neck, he swigs half a bottle of cold water.
"Easy." Bill advises as he lounges beside the ring, "You'll get a headache."
Still breathing hard; all tanned and rippling muscles, Heero's heaving chest glistens in the overhead lights. Although I've had several sexual encounters with girls, I never denied being interested in guys and Heero Yuy is a complete package right down to the very healthy bulge in his shorts.
Usually good at discreet glances, it's not easy to keep from staring then it occurs to me, in a few moments, Heero is going to be my teacher. Now it's my turn to gulp water to wash down the lump in my throat.
"Ready?" Heero wonders, getting to his feet.
Too late to change my mind. "Yeah." I reply tentatively.
Heero leads the way to the green mats beside the shelves with all that cool ninja stuff.
"Take off your shirt and shoes."
Mindful the gym is chilly, "My shirt, too?"
"Easier to move." is the only reason offered.
Standing there like the gawky kid in gym class who always gets picked last for kickball, I wait in tense anticipation.
Heero must've sensed my irrational tension. "Relax. I don't bite."
"Okay."
Heero takes his place by my side. "We'll start with simple katas and after a few more sessions concentrate on kumite."
"Katas." I warp my tongue around the odd sounds. "Kumite." is repeated with the same frustration as I sound like a damn mocking bird.
I wait for Heero to tease me about fumblin' over the strange words instead he patiently explains their meanings. "Katas are practiced formations to learn offensive and defensive body movements. In kumite two people face off to apply the fundamentals learned in each kata."
"Like when you spar with Bill?"
"Exactly."
"Let's begin with the basic wide stance." Heero declares, setting his feet, legs, hips and torso in proper alignment.
I copy the first form the best I can. Heero glides from his textbook pose and makes minor adjustments. Every time his fingers flex around an arm or leg or brushes over my skin---
*All right concentrate and quit getting' all hot and bothered.* I mentally chide myself.
"Duo."
Heero calling my name redirects my thoughts.
"Huh."
"Breathe."
After an hour my balance is better. I've learned the difference between a straight and hook punch; a sword hand strike and elbow strike, a forearm block and an inside/outside block. My feet aren't getting tangled as much as I practice snap and roundhouse kicks.
With each new position, Heero and I settle into a cadence akin to dancing.
He leads. I follow.
Again and again until we fall naturally into step and bodies replicate each other's progression with precise symmetry.
Noticing the wall clock ticking off toward noon, Heero decides we both could use a shower and lunch.
I'm disappointed we're stopping however my feet do ache and muscle twinges insist there's been enough exertion for one day. Yeah, bet I'm going to be sore tonight.
"Go on to the shower room and adjust the water as hot as you can stand." Heero instructs. "I'll be there in a minute."
As soon as Duo turns down the hall, Heero asks his mentor's opinion of their session.
"Duo catches on fast, is willing to learn and strikes me as the type who wouldn't start something unless he intends to finish." is Bill's favorable opinion.
*********
Misty clouds of humidity are already swirling from the second stall as Heero sheds his shorts. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner in hand he steps into the stall beside Goldman Gym's newest trainee.
Since the dividing wall is shoulder high, he's only offered an unhindered view of Duo's handsome face and shoulders caped in cascades of wet chestnut hair infused with auburn highlights.
Even though the impressive length prevents him from seeing where the mane ends, Heero has no problem conjuring up a vivid mental picture of firm buttocks displayed in nude magnificence.
"What are your plans after lunch?" Heero wonders, lathering up muscular arms and shoulders with the provided bar of fresh mint Irish Spring soap.
Casting a sideways glance, just enough for a glimpse of dazzling purple, I answer. "No plans."
"Finished your homework?"
"Yes mother." I tease, working in mango-scented shampoo. "You got a notion to do something?"
Heero backs into the steamy spray, rinses the suds and rubs water from his eyes. "If you want after lunch we can buy ice cream for desert, go home and relax."
"Best offer I've had all day."
*********
Heero and I being regular customers at Nick's Italian Kitchen, Angie, the day hostess doesn't bother to ask about section preferences. Being creatures of habits we always sit at one of three round tables by the front window.
Coats draped on our chairs, stocking caps and gloves on the window sill, we debate whether to get the lunch special-spinach and three cheese ravioli-or one of our favorite entrees.
"Ready to order?" the teenage waitress with short, spiky blond hair, a pierced left eyebrow and wearing a flamingo pink tee-shirt with "Princess" printed in silver glitter inquires as she sets down a complimentary basket of garlic-butter breadsticks.
Heero orders spaghetti and meat balls, house salad with ranch dressing and a Pepsi. I decide on a ham and Swiss cheese sub with lettuce, tomato, dill pickles, mayo and sweet tea.
Scribbling on an order pad "Miss Pretty in Pink" expounds on the onset of winter, "Might get flurries tonight."
I shrug off the suggestion of inclement weather. "Don't care much for snow."
Waiting for the food we nibble on bread sticks and watch the ever-changing city sidewalk scene.
A pair of uptown girls modeling the latest haute couture, over-laden with shopping bags from fancy stores like Macy's and Saks and chatting on matching red cell phones, seems out of place among the ordinary folks.
On the other hand, a black guy with cornrows, bedecked in boots with silver studs, tight jeans and a hip-length denim jacket with Walter's Bar and Grill printed across the back fits right in.
A three-piece-suit businessman with briefcase checks his watch. With a "hurry up" gesture he hails a cab. Finally, a trio of young Asian males with laptop cases slung over their shoulders and attired in a mishmash of quirky outfits look like scholarly Anime characters.
The pedestrian parade continues. Male and female. Elderly, adolescent and kids in tow. Every ethnicity and social class and sexual orientation. An assorted populace diverse yet related by the same basic essences that makes all of us human.
Heero notes my faraway gaze. "What you thinking about?"
Without turning around, "How I fit into this madness." is stated.
Wiser than his eighteen years, Heero declares. "We don't fit in; we mold life to agree with us."
TBC...
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