grandfather and mother would drive me to my classes.”
“Whoa, twenty-nine years!” he says too loudly. “Almost twice as long as I’ve been alive.”
The same flight attendant who woke me from my dream appears next to Bobby. “Good morning, gents. May I interest you in something to drink?” Her eyes flirt with mine. She smiles.
“Milk,” I tell her. “And could I also have some water?”
“You certainly may.” She does the eye contact thing for a long moment before turning to Bobby.
“Coke… no wait.” He looks at me, at my arms. “I’ll have milk too, and water, please.”
“Coming right up.”
“Dude, she was so hittin’ on you,” Bobby teases, after we get our drinks and the attendant moves on. “She was eating you like a sandwich.”
“Hey, some guys got it,” I say, shrugging with feigned nonchalance. “Sadly, some don’t.”
So it takes a smile from a pretty flight attendant and a little idol worship from a kid to pull me out of my nightmare funk. Usually I’m a whole lot depressed after I have one of my dreams, which I get about twice a week now, down from nearly every night. They increased after Samuel and Mai left six weeks ago and increased even more during the grand jury hearing. About three weeks ago, the dreams slowed to every other night; this week I’ve had only two: One on Thursday and the other a few moments ago, another daytime one. Doc Kari would probably say that it was brought on by the stress of this trip, especially the stress of the last few days. Ah, stress, food of champions.
Bobby takes a chug from his milk carton and sets it down on the tray. “There were lots of pictures of you in the article, one of you wearing a tank top. You’re ripped man. How much training would it take to get me into that kinda shape?”
“Thank you,” I chuckle. “Just keep at it and you will be there faster than you can imagine.”
He frowns. “Can I ask you a weird question?”
“I’m not sure.”
He chuckles. “What’s the difference between being a bully and just being strong enough not to be afraid of anyone.”
The kid continues to impress. He might be sixteen, but he’s sharp and savvy beyond his years. His aunt is right: He’s an old soul.
“It’s all about intention, about why you train. The whales are some of the biggest mammals on earth. There are few creatures that prey on them so they’re “allowed” a gentle nature. But if you threaten a mama whale’s baby, mama’s a formidable foe.”
“I get it. So is that why you train so hard?”
“There are a lot of reasons. Physical fitness is part of it. Self-defense. A fascination of the art and science of it.”
“How hard was it for you to go through the ranks?”
“I worked hard, but in many ways I was lucky.”
“How so?”
“Nature helped me, to begin with. The way the genes fell into place determined that I took to the martial arts somewhat naturally. When I began weight training, at about your age, I discovered that my muscles responded quickly, even when I was doing some of the exercises incorrectly. So because of the genes my mother and father gave me, the weights and martial arts were somewhat easier for me than for people who aren’t so blessed.”
“Never thought of it that way,” Bobby says thoughtfully. “I guess I was a fast learner too. I went through the belts quicker than everyone I started taekwondo with.”
“Let me ask you, how did you get to your classes and who paid for them?”
“My parents,” he says, then ponders that for a moment. “Okay, I hear what you’re saying.”
“That’s the second half. First, your parents gave you their genes and then they gave you their time and their support. My mother and grandfather drove me three and four times a week to my classes. I couldn’t have achieved any of my belt ranks and early competition wins without their help, their time, and without the support they gave to me.”
“I get it,” Bobby says softly, looking at the seat back in front of him. I must have hit a nerve because his face sucked into that solemn look again.
“In my mind,” I continue, “it’s hard to think that I’m all that when I’m responsible for only part of what I’ve achieved. Maybe the smallest part.” When he doesn’t comment, I continue. “Think about this. In Tibet when someone thinks he’s better than other people, it’s said that he’s like someone sitting on a mountaintop: it’s cold, it’s hard, and nothing will grow. But if a person is humble and puts himself in a lower place, then he is like a fertile field at the base of the mountain.”
“Where things grow,” Bobby says. “Where he learns, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cool.”
We sit in silence. I don’t know what Bobby is thinking, but I try to think about nothing and thumb through a flight magazine. I reach the last page without a clue of its contents, replace it into the chair-back pocket, and press my forehead against the cool Plexiglas. Nice view. It’s as if I’m floating among the clouds in the lower stratosphere.
Two months ago, Vietnam was a war movie: Platoon and Full Metal Jacket. A place where my father died. I never thought of it as someplace I would want to visit. Then I meet my “dead” father and his stepdaughter Mai and, well, here I am, on a plane.
According to Google, Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon, as many people still call it, is a growing economy in which the United States has an ever-increasing number of business interests. People vacation there and hike around the country. Who knew? I wonder how many non-Vietnamese people like me go there to visit their supposedly dead father and to spend time with his gorgeous stepdaughter, who, thankfully, isn’t related to them?
“I read more about you online,” Bobby says, cutting into my thoughts. “In a blog or something. Said you’re really fast.”
“Speed is relative,” I say, thinking of Samuel and what he calls his teacup trick, how his hands were virtually invisible when he switched our cups. Just when I thought that that was the fastest thing I’d ever seen, a few days later he showed me what he called The Third Level. He was so fast that it was frightening. It was as if I had witnessed something paranormal. Mai said there was a Fourth Level, one so extraordinary that it was beyond comprehension, even for Samuel. He said that he had achieved it only a few times, but because he was afraid he couldn’t control it, he wouldn’t do it again without more guidance from his teacher.
That was the day he reduced me to a beginner, one who knew so little that I didn’t know what questions to ask.
“How did you get so fast?” Bobby asks, pulling me back. I’m guessing that he doesn’t know what ‘speed is relative’ means. “I’m pretty quick,” he says, snapping out a backfist that looks good and makes the elderly woman across the aisle look over at us. She frowns at me and looks away. Probably thinks I’m a bad influence on teenagers. “But
