Fiction Friday

When we left our hero last week, he had irritated the owners of a diner in the "sundown city" of Connorville, and was facing a man with a baseball bat who promised to “ … give you a lesson in minding your own business.”

SUNDOWN IN ZION
CHAPTER EIGHT

            Nelson was getting his ass whipped.

For the first two minutes he had held his own but things were seriously falling apart. When a fist darted toward his right ear, he veered slightly to avoid it and another fist caught him from the left. The moves were coming too fast for him to register, much less to respond. He tried to retreat, but this placed him in range of even more dangerous blows. Then a foot glided from above and passed a mere inch from his face, an axe-kick that would, in all likelihood, have resulted in instead death.

            “Kalyeo,” his opponent yelled, then “bah ro.” The whirring movement in front of him stopped and Nelson dropped his own hands to his side. It was over.

            The two bowed and Nelson said, “Kamsa Hammae Da,” in a tone of respect.

            “No, it is I who thank you,” the other said, “for meeting me on Sunday.”

            “It was my honor, Master,” said Nelson.

            “Tomorrow I go home for the first visit in five years,” the Master said. “Thank you for moving our session.”

She was a sparse woman, perhaps an inch shorter that Nelson. Her thick black hair glistened above a smooth face that betrayed no sense of emotion behind dark eyes the seemed to fold into themselves and then dart behind secrets. She gave a slight nod and, her uniform crackling with each movement, walked from the sparring mat and picked up two towels. She tossed on to Nelson and began wiping her face with the other. “I can teach you,” Mr. Nelson,” she said. “You are well advanced.” Then she added. “But you have much to learn.”

            They stood in a large dojo with mirrors covering opposite walls. Outside, the Sunday afternoon traffic eased by, oblivious of the two. Nelson said, “It would be my honor, Master.”

            “Today, however,” the Master said, “you lost your focus. You failed to concentrate as before. Does your wound bother you?”

            “No Master,” Nelson said. “The medications have helped. I lack focus because I have failed the tenants of Tae Kwon Do.”

            The Master nodded. “Ah,” she said and waited.

            “I have allowed anger to control me.”

            “To lose Gu Ki is to make a gift to your enemy,” the Master said. She looked at Nelson intently. “How did it happen?”

            “I was attacked.”

            “Ah,” the Master said. “How many?”

            “Just one,” Nelson said, “and he carried a bat.”

            “So, your response?”

            “I lured him into range and delivered a kick that removed his weapon and another that stunned him.”

            “And then?”

            “Then I stopped and asked him a question as he regained his senses.”

            “A question?”

            “I sought directions.”

            “And he provided them?”

            “No, he gave me …, he insulted me with an improper gesture and resumed his aggression.”

            “And?”

            “I used an immobilization technique that I learned from a former Sensei and disabled him.”

            “That was it? He then gave you what you wanted?”

            “Yes Master.”

            “And you released him?”

            “No. I broke the finger he used to make the gesture and told him it would serve as a message thereafter to treat strangers with respect.”

            The Master turned her back to Nelson and remained motionless for a moment. When she turned around, her face was somber.

            “My friend,” she said, choosing her words slowly. “If one can picture anger as a demon that seeps from below the earth to disturb our center of judgment, then one can spread a blanket of harmony over the demon that will not let him rise. We must never let anger corrupt our spirit of Tae Kwon Do.”

            “Yes Master,” said Nelson.

            “Now, away with you. I must pack for the trip to my homeland.” She waived Nelson toward the dressing room.

            Arriving home, Nelson parked his truck in its usual place, but instead of going into his house, he walked to MacArthur Park, a large park a few blocks away. It was filled with families and others enjoying the mild weather. The south edge of the park contained a pond that was lined with people fishing. As he walked parallel to it, he met a walker sporting a “Vietnam Veteran” hat who smiled and gave him a two-finger salute. Nelson returned it. He took a seat on a bench near the pond and sat for almost an hour, watching people and thinking. When his cell phone rang, he took it from a pocket and answered.

            “Mr. Nelson, uh, Gideon, it’s Martin. Martin Barker.”

            “Yes Martin.”

            “I’m getting ready to head back to school. Are you home?”

            Nelson said. “I will be by the time you get here. Come on by.”

            “See you in about an hour,” Martin said before disconnecting.

            As Nelson was returning the phone to his pocket, a voice from behind him said, “Hey sailor. You want good time? Short time, long time, all time same same.”

            He turned to see Charlie, the homeless Marine. “You likee good time?” Charlie walked around the bench and took a seat alongside Nelson. His odor arrived seconds later.

            “Nelson said, “What the hell are you doing here and why the hell are you talking like that?”

            “In order of your inquiry,” Charlie said. “Taking my exercise. I can still walk long distances when I have to. Second, that’s the way my uncle used to talk. He was Navy. Vietnam man. He delighted in teaching me ‘whore talk’ when my parents weren’t around. I thought it might make you homesick.”

            “I must have served in a different Navy,” Nelson said. “How are you doing?”

            “I’m doing,” Charlie said. “Sometimes you can bum a buck or two here on Sunday afternoons. How are you?”

            “Good,” Nelson said. “I drove over to Connorville this morning.”

            “I thought I ordered you not to, sailor.”

            Nelson laughed. “I didn’t hear an order. Just a suggestion.”

            “Did a welcoming committee greet you?”

            “Sort of.”

            “Did I over-undersell it?”

            “Nope, you were right on target.”

            “I assume, it being Sunday and all, that you attended services there.”

            “No,” Nelson said, “but it wasn’t because there wasn’t ample opportunity.”  He waved at a jogger who, along with her companion, had smiled and waved as they ran by them. “I never saw so many churches in one place in my life.”

            “They do love their Jesus there,” Charlie said, “as long as he has silky brown hair and blue eyes.” He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and retrieved a half-smoked cigarette and lighter. “Mind?”

            “It’s your lungs,” Nelson said.

            “My lungs are just fine,” Charlie said. “Want to hear me sing?”

            “Uh. No.”

            “Anyway,” Charlie said, taking his first drag, “did you see the really big church there?”

            “The big church?”

            “They have one of those mega-facilities there,” Charlie said. “One of those where they have two services—one for the old farts where they sing hymns and one for the young crowd where they sing ‘Jesus is my boyfriend’ music.”

            Nelson shook his head. “Guess I missed that one.”

            “Pity,” Charlie said. “My buddy says if you go in there, they will flash photos up showing you what politicians to vote for.”

            “Are they allowed to do that?”

            “No,” Charlie said. “The First Amendment to the United States Constitution and their covenant with the Internal Revue Service forbid it.” He took another drag. “But they do it anyway.”

            Nelson showed a sudden interest. “What’s the name of this church?”

            Charlie thought. “Connorville Baptist something or other.” He turned to Nelson and assumed a menacing face. “Why you want to know?”

            “Just curious.”

            “Stay away from that bunch too,” Charlie said. “I’ve heard that they hate Yankees about as much as they hate colored folks.”

            Charlie extinguished his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, rose, and walked to a nearby trash can and tossed in the butt. While his back was turned, Nelson reached into his pocket and took out a small wad of folded money. He pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and returned the rest. When Charlie returned and took his seat, Nelson handed him the two bills. “Here,” he said. “Get yourself some food and clean clothes.”

            Instead of taking the bills right away, Charlie stared Nelson in the eyes. “What are you doing?” he said.

            “My part,” said Nelson.

            Charlie looked at the money, then back into Nelson’s eyes. “How do you know I won’t spend it on drink?”

            “It’s not my job to decide what you do,” he said. “It’s my job to decide what I do.” He thrust the money into Charlie’s hand and rose. “See you around, Jarhead,” he said as he started toward his home. Charlie watched him walk away and sniffed the air. He stuffed the bills into a pocket.

            Martin arrived at Nelson’s house on schedule and knocked on the front door. Nelson let him in and motioned for him to sit on the couch. “Want something to eat or drink?” he said.

            “Momma fed me right before I left,” Martin said. “I’m fine.” He paused and looked at Nelson, how had taken a chair opposite him. When Nelson didn’t speak, Martin squirmed where he sat and took a deep breath. He gathered his thoughts and, after an uncomfortable pause, spoke. “Did you think about what I told you?”

            Martin nodded. “Let me ask you something Martin. This Abbey … your friend … was she a good girl?”

            Martin leaned back and frowned. “Why do you ask me that?”

            “Just trying to get a clear picture. Did she have a life other than that of a scholar and athlete?”

            Martin looked as if he were about to say something but stopped. He looked up and then pursed his lips. “Are you asking me if she might have gotten in with a bad crowd?”

            “Just asking if she could have had secrets.”

            “She didn’t have time to have secrets, Mr. … Gideon. That’s not some vacation Bible school we attend in Hot Springs.” He stopped. “Does that answer your question?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said.

            Martin relaxed. “So are you going to try to help me?”

            Nelson closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened them, he said, “Tell you what I’ll do Martin.” Martin leaned forward and Nelson continued. “I’ll ask around and check into it. I made some friends during that little scrape over in Armistead County. Maybe I can find out a thing or two.”

            “Gideon,” Martin said. “You have just made me the happiest man in Arkansas.” He shot up. “Wait here,” he said. Then he darted out the front door.

            Nelson laughed to himself. He said aloud, “Wait here?” He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Edith,” he said into the empty room. “I’m about to tie some more knots.”

            Martin exploded through the front door carrying a black satchel and a grocery bag. “I got some stuff for you,” he said with excitement.

            “Stuff for me?”

            “Two things,” Martin said. He placed the black bag on a coffee table. “This is a laptop computer. I won a new one in a science project contest and I cleaned my old one up for you. It’s still state-of-the-art by most people’s standards. I thought you might like to learn to use it.”

            Nelson laughed. “Martin,” he said. “I know you think I’m a dinosaur, but I know how to use a computer.”

            Martin looked crestfallen. “So you already have one?”

            “No,” Nelson said. “I don’t have one.

            “Great,” Martin said, beaming. He reached into the grocery sack. “This is a little device I’ve been working on and I modified it for you this weekend.” He pulled out an attractive and highly polished belt buckle with a United State Navy insignia featuring a large gold anchor across the front. “Dad gave me the buckle. He was in the Navy too, you know.”

            “I know,” Nelson said, continuing to laugh. “You called it a device, though. Looks a like a plain Navy belt buckle to me.”

            “Aha,” Martin said. “That’s what folks are supposed to think. Notice that it’s got some extra depth to it?” He held it closer t to Nelson, who inspected it and nodded.

            “I modified it with some spare parts. See these tiny grills on the corners?” Nelson nodded again. “Speakers.” Martin flipped it over. “See the little screw covers here?” Nelson continued to nod and smile. “They secure powerful flat batteries,” he said. “Now watch.” He pressed the anchor on the front of the buckle and it emitted a slight humming sound. Martin held it in front of him and walked toward the wall. The sound immediately rose to a higher pitch and louder volume. He turned toward a farther wall and the pitch changed again. “Is that neat or what?” he said with undisguised excitement.

            “Neat as can be,” Nelson said, “but what exactly is it?”

            “A portable individual sonar sensor,” Martin said. “I call it my PISS Buckle and it protects you if you get lost when it is pitch black dark.” He punched the anchor again and the sound stopped. He looked at the device as if it were the Hope Diamond.

            Nelson stared at him, speechless.

            “See, suppose you get lost in woods,” Martin said, “and it is so dark you can’t see.” He punched the anchor again and the hum started. He held the anchor at his waist and walked toward a chair. The sound immediately rose. He turned to his right and the sound dropped. He then walked toward a wall and the sound rose in intensity as he neared it. He turned again and the sound fell. He held it with the back visible. “Here is the volume control.” he said, turning a small cylinder. When he punched the anchor again, the sound was painful and he quickly quieted the device, holding it proudly. “With this,” he said. “You’ll never walk into a tree in the dark again.” He nodded his head in a quick and final demonstration of pride.

            “Well isn’t that something?” Nelson said.

            “And you are the first to have one,” Martin said.

            “I’m speechless,” Nelson said. “Why did you wait to present me with gifts until I agreed to help you?”

            “I didn’t want you think they were bribes,” Martin said. “I would have given them to you in any case.” He looked at his watch. “Hey, I’ve got to go,” he said. “Thanks again.” He shook Nelson’s hand and started toward the door.

            “One question,” Nelson said. Martin stopped and turned toward him. “What was the name of that church you said Abbey attended right before she was killed?”

            Martin considered the question with pursed lips and squinted eyes. A few seconds later, he answered. “Connorville Baptist Tabernacle, I think.”