words and a silhouetted demeanor, the guy manages to tell me that he’s defiant, arrogant, and a basic asshole. Why would a new student come in with an attitude like that when the private lesson is costing him seventy-five bucks an hour?
Relax, Sam. Maybe he’s just nervous.
“Let me put on a dry T-shirt, Torres,” I call out in my best customer relations voice as I back into my office. “I’ll be out in twenty seconds.”
“Whatever floats your boat, man,” he says, which sounds more like I-don’t-care-if-you-eat-shit-and-die. My fight or flight juices begin to percolate. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Why am I letting this bozo get to me so fast? Why have I let other people get to me this week? Get control of yourself, homeboy and give him the benefit of the doubt. I tuck in a dry, black T-shirt and tie my belt around my waist.
“Sorry about that, Torres,” I say, moving across the floor. “Just had a little training session myself.” I extend my hand. “You said on the phone that you’ve done some martial arts before?” I casually quick-scan the way his thick chest and arm muscles strain his white T-shirt, and how his ham hock forearms look as if they’re stuffed with steel cables.
There are three indicators that hint at how well a guy might do in a fight: his neck, forearms, and his ass. A strong neck means he pays attention to details in his fitness regimen and that maybe he can absorb a punch; muscular forearms means he has strong hands for grabbing, pulling, and punching; and a strong butt means he might be a kicker, a powerlifter, or a wrestler.
Torres is wearing baggy jeans so I can’t tell about his ass, but he’s got the neck and forearms working for him. He stands over six feet, weighs maybe two-ten, two-fifteen.
“Yeah, I’ve trained,” he says, his handshake like a dead fish. For a second I thought he wasn’t going to take my hand. His eyes size me up but he doesn’t check out my ass. Pfft. Novice. “Cop, huh?”
“Yes, I am,” I say, noting the disdain-thick tone. “Did you bring your gear?” It’s a rhetorical question since he’s empty-handed.
“Nope. I train in whatever I’m wearing. Aren’t you supposed to teach a street style?” He reaches toward my belt. “What’s up with the belt and karate pants?”
I turn my hip a couple inches so that Torres’s fingers flip the air. I smile, as if my casual evasion were a coincidence. Was he really going to flip the end of my belt?
“Oh, you know. Old habits are hard to break. The belt’s part of my roots.” The guy’s starting to crank me off and I’m not sure what my tone was just now. “Listen, Torres,” I say, kicking up my friendliness shtick a notch. “This is your time. What would you like to work on? I can show you our basic punching style, a couple of kicks, maybe a—”
“I want to see you block some of my attacks to see if I’m wasting my money.”
Okay, I get it. I haven’t been around assholes for a couple of months so I’m a little slow on the uptake. Only two men have come into my school to challenge me. The first one ended up being a student and the second one went to the PD to file a complaint after I smacked him around a little. Okay, I smacked him around a lot. I might have gotten in hot water over that one but luckily he had warrants and the desk officer arrested him before he could file his complaint.
There are always those who see a martial arts school as a threat. These are the same bozos who pick a fight with the biggest man in the bar. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain, at least in their little brains. Then there are the trained fighters—people who never learn the discipline and self-control aspects of the arts—those who see every other martial artist as a personal challenge.
Whatever the psychology is with Ol’ Torres here, I’m not in the mood for it today. Kari might have released me to return to work, but I still feel like a coiled spring.
“Look, Torres. How about I give you the first class free and you can decide if you want to continue on a paying basis?”
The big man looks around the school for a moment, eyeing the hanging bags at the far end, the stack of hand-held pads against the wall, the belt display over the dressing room door, the wall-to-wall mirrors. He looks back at me. “Sure,” he says, somehow making it sound like a challenge.
“Okay, great.” I smile, pouring it on. “Why don’t you loosen up and—”
“You don’t loosen up in the street,” he says, mocking my choice of words. “You just bang.”
‘True,” I say, again with my fake smile. “But we’re training and—”
“I’m ready.”
“Okay. Go ahead and remove your shoes and—”
“You don’t remove your shoes in the street,” he says, in that same mocking tone.
Okay, I’ve just about had it with this prick. “You’re right, Torres. So where have you trained?”
“Here and there.” He steps out into the training area. “A little in the joint.”
There it is. An ex-con. Cop hater.
“Show me your blocks,” Torres says, setting himself into a stance, feet staggered, hands at his side.
I start to say that there’s seldom time to assume a stylized stance in the street, but I decide not to antagonize him. “I’ll try,” I say.
He launches a fast chest-high roundhouse kick. I turn a little, allowing the big foot to streak past. “Nice kick, Torres. Surprisingly fast for a big man. But try not to lean your upper body so far forward. Leaning back a little will open up your groin area, and give you greater stretch and distance.”
Torres’s face reddens but he doesn’t say anything. Again, he assumes a staggered stance, hands down at his sides.
“Good stance,” I say. “Looks like taekwondo. For the street you might want to keep your hands up near your head.”
Clearly angered by the instruction, Torres kicks again, same leg, but higher and harder.” I slap the leg by with an open palm.
“Much better. See, you didn’t cramp yourself that time and your kick looked more effortless. Good flexibility, too. You should move out of range when your kick is evaded or checked. If you stay in range, you need to follow up with something. If you don’t, your opponent can easily—”
Torres snaps a lead-leg front kick at my groin. I twist a little so that my hip catches most of the impact, though the tip of his Nike just barely nicks my ever-so-more sensitive target. It’s obvious he isn’t trying to control his blows. I keep my face neutral, although I feel a surge of hot adrenaline surge through my muscles.
I swat his jab aside. He jabs again, this one hitting a strand of wet hair hanging down my forehead. “I’ll take that as a hit,” he says, chuckling. “Good thing I don’t have to pay for this lesson.”
I nod, as more adrenaline charges my muscles. “Good thing.”
I’ve been told many times that when I get angry or when I’m completely absorbed in hard training, my eyes assume a sort of luminescence. Either Torres doesn’t see it or he’s too stupid
