hold it… breathe out… Getting sleepy in this… heat. I’m really liking the hum against my head. Better… than a sleeping pill. Just… got to… figure out how to get a… seven-forty-seven into my… bedroom. In… out… in…
“Hi.”
I jerk toward the voice. A boy, sitting next to me, Asian— Vietnamese, I think. Maybe fourteen or fifteen.
“Sorry,” he says, looking like he means it. “Your eyes were open. I thought you saw me sit down.”
“Oh, uh, yeah. No problem,” I say, shaking my head to awaken for the second time since I’ve been on board. Weird. I was following my breath and I must have dozed again. With my eyes open? Okay, could I get any more strange? At least this time I didn’t dream. That’s a plus.
I start to think about the dream. I’ve been having it, or variations there of, almost every night for the last two weeks. Even worse, sometimes I dream it when I’m awake. I quickly push it out of mind, most of it. I can still hear the naked man’s slimy voice. You beeeeat me to iiiit. You beeeeat me to iiiit. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and think of a lake near Mt Hood, Trillium Lake. Fifty some miles out of Portland, Oregon. Gorgeous blue, reflecting the snow-capped mountain on a windless day.
There, that’s better. My mind’s good now, good to go.
“No problem,” I say turning to the boy. Did I already say that? “Oh, we’re finally taxiing. You must be the guy who kept us waiting. The California guy. Just one of you?”
“Yes. My plane was a little late,” he says seriously. “I’m embarrassed to have held up this flight.”
He’s not a gypsy. Ooorah! Nice looking kid. Polite. A little somber, though. “Well, there were passengers chanting ‘Kill the California guy.’”
“Reeeeally?” His eyes widen.
“No. Not really.” I give him a blank face.
He bunches his eyebrows and looks at me for a moment, then sputters a laugh. “Oh, okay, so that’s how it’s going to be.”
“Sorry,” I say, smiling.
We’re silent for a few minutes while the plane noisily takes off. The kid has a mop of raven black hair falling down his forehead, dressed in a red T-shirt with “Westminster, California” in black bubble letters across the front, and gray cargo shorts. On his lap, black ear plugs, the cord running into a big pocket on his thigh. After spending an intense week a while back with several Vietnamese who spoke broken English, it’s a tad strange to hear the boy speak without an accent. No doubt he’s second or third generation, so of course he wouldn’t have one. It’s still strange.
Once we’re airborne, the kid continues where we left off. “People say I’m too gullible. Guess I am.” He extends his hand. “Bobby Phan. You are?”
I resist smiling as we shake. Kid’s got the demeanor of a confident twenty-five-year-old, though he can’t be much over twelve, fourteen at the most. He’s Vietnamese for sure. I had a Vietnamese student named Phan, a lawyer. Made it to brown belt before he took a job with a higher paying firm in Seattle.
“Sam Reeves. Nice to meet you, Bobby. May I ask how old you are?”
“Yes,” he says.
When he doesn’t say anything I lift my eyebrows.
“You didn’t ask me.” His mouth struggles against a smile.
I laugh. “Oh, okay, so that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Yup,” he giggles, pointing at me. “I’m almost seventeen. You thought older, right?” When I nod, he says, “I get that a lot. I’m only five feet three but I’m told I’m mature for my age. My aunt says I’m an old soul. Not sure what that means, but it sounds better than ‘butthead,’ you know? Hey, you got some serious guns, man.”
Guns? I’m not packing…
“Your arms,” he says, pointing. “Huge. I pump iron too.”
I’m wearing a short-sleeved blue polo shirt and blue jeans. “Oh. Yes. Thanks. I can tell that you lift.” Actually, I can’t tell, but what’s the harm in giving a kid a boost?
“Thanks.” He studies my face for a moment. “Wait a minute. Reeves? You said Sam Reeves, right?”
Oh, please. I know the shooting was on the newswire, but who would have thought a sixteen-year-old in California would read the newspaper.
“You’re into the martial arts, right?” The kid’s brain is going a hundred miles an hour while I’m still trying to wake up. “I thought I recognized you from somewhere when I first sat down, but I wasn’t sure because your eyes were half shut and you were twitching and stuff.” He continues to study my face and look me up and down. “Yeah, that was you all right. In Black Belt magazine last winter, like the November or December issue, right?”
I nod. “They did a little story on me, a retro piece about my competition years.”
“Yes! That was it. Oh man, how weird is it that I’m sitting here next to you on a plane?”
Yes, it is. In fact, maybe too coincidental. The plane is full except for a couple seats next to me. Then a guy sits down and “recognizes” me from a magazine. Says he’s seventeen, looks younger, but maybe he’s older than seventeen. Can’t always tell with Asians. Maybe he’s working with Lai Van Tan, the big man in Saigon who sent goons after Samuel, Mai, and me.
Geeze. Maybe I’m too suspicious for my own good. For sure, that horrific week in Portland took its toll on my paranoia. Of course nearly everyone really did want a piece of my hide, or at least it seemed like everyone.
“I practice martial arts, too,” the boy says. “Taekwondo. Got my black belt in February.”
“Very good,” I say. “That’s a wonderful accomplishment.”
“Thank you. I love it,” he gushes, lifting his fists to each side of his face as if guarding his head. He does a quick bob and weave. “I’m a good kicker but I need more training on my hands. My teacher is great but we mostly train our legs.”
Okay, he’s not a secret agent for the big boss. And I’m wrong about him being somber. If the kid gets any more excited, he’ll explode. I’d love to have had him in a class. Some students I have to continuously encourage to practice. Enthusiastic guys like Bobby, though, I have to rein in so that they don’t over train.
“That’s the thing about the United States,” I say. “We’re a melting pot of martial arts schools. Maybe you can talk to your teacher about helping you with your hands or you can look for another school that emphasizes hand techniques. There’s got to be a lot of them in Orange County.”
“There is. There’s a Japanese school that’s close, shotokan, I think. There’s a kung fu school too, and a muay Thai gym. There’s a Vietnamese school too. Vovinam.”
“All good, although I don’t know anything about Vovinam. Visit each one a few times and see which one fits your needs and personality. Talk to the students to see what they say about
