You High Fivin' Mother Fu%#er

Looking around the room last Thursday, it seemed as though since the Groupon riff-raff shoved on, it’s been pretty much the same people in kickboxing class. First person I always see is young, robotic Derrick. I’m convinced he was merely a thought had by Jean Claude Van Damme during a morning run or something, that somehow took the shape of a human being. He’s a Hapkido student who just takes the kickboxing for extra exercise.  Derrick is 16 and isn’t on Facebook. Claims it’s the downfall of society. I’m not saying that he’s wrong, just that it’s weird.  He yells “Sir, yes, Sir!” after every comment made by our instructor Dave, no matter how innocuous. Dave could say “There’s a crack in the side walk.” … “Sir, Yes ,Sir!”

Derrick is incredibly polite, respectful and filled with a murderous rage that is coupled with the skill to execute it.  I admire that. He often speaks of using his Hapkido training to punish anyone who gives him shit.  Being an angry person, who spends at least several minutes a day fantasizing about smashing someone’s face in, I like Derrick. We share a vision. The only things we ever discuss are Martial Arts films (a passion of mine) and no matter how obscure, he’s almost always seen any that I bring up.

“Ahana”…yes, of course. That’s the one about the cop mastering his Chi? It’s great, not enough blood or gore though. I like to see more bones broken.”

Well said Derrick, you little fucking psycho, I fully concur. I should also mention that Derrick enjoys taking Zumba more than a straight man probably should but it doesn’t seem to be because he’s gay, it’s just something else he’s good at. He’s all about being great at everything which is one thing I hate about him.

Then there’s his sister Ariel.  At 5”8, exhibiting the intelligence of a neurophysicist, it’s hard to remember that she’s only 13. In fact, it’s another thing that makes me angry. How is she so fucking put together, eloquently spoken and determined to spin the world on its ass someday? How dammit!!??? She’s 13!! I can only handle talking to Ariel for short bursts of time until she makes it very clear that she’s my intellectual superior and I want to smash her face in too. What I find intriguing about her is that she could probably snatch my larynx straight from neck ala’ “Roadhouse”.

Like her brother, Ariel is also a Hapkido badass who only entertains kickboxing to incite middle-aged women to hit the bag harder because they HATE her disgustingly high sense of self worth.  I still like Ariel though. She picks up spiders with her bare hands because she respects all living things. She’s just as weird as her brother but she can also beat his ass. Derrick still needs to be taken down a peg or two.

The majority of the rest in class are just chicks trying to smooth out left over baby pouches and back fat. I doubt they share my stifled desire to bludgeon my boss, or the nasty patient I spoke to on the phone last week or picture themselves choking the guy who cut me off yesterday until his eyeballs burst from their sockets like…well I don’t know, something that would do that very grossly. I’m sure they don’t listen to gangster rap on their drive to work in the morning, concocting fantasies of strolling in like a pimp, strapped with a gat and blastin’ fools if they talk shit or try to stick me for my paper. 

 Everything said there, is morally objectionable and I’d never really want to do any of it. Not really. It's fun to pretend to have that sort of confidence and disregard for consequences…that’s what gets me off about those scenarios. To that end, if I claimed NOT to enjoy violence as a principle and a solution when it’s exacted on the deserving, I’d be a big fat liar.

I have certainly had peaceful periods in my life (even recently) where things were just rolling along, but then these chunks of time always occur when I feel so lost. Wondering which step to take next and if I take it, what the hell is it for? What’s the ultimate goal? As usual I don’t know and equally as usual, it makes me furious.  Every time I start to succeed at something, I panic just as much as when I think I’m failing. A self induced mental hog-tie of which there is no clear path on how to get free and try again so I just get pissed and sad, which isn't productive. One of the few things I HAVE been sure of lately is that I want to get in better shape, so taking the kickboxing class has assisted in saving me from the full spiral of doubt and self hatred that is always so richly rewarding. It’s the one place I’m encouraged to be angry, to beat the shit out of whatever neurosis is weighing me down this time. As it stands, I’m leaning towards basic chicken-shittedness.

Leading our mis-matched crew is instructor Dave, possibly one of the strangest carbon based life forms I’ve encountered.  He’s 26, very thin, horn-rimmed glasses…. kinda reminiscent of Patrick Dempsey before he was hot, like in “Can’t Buy Me Love”.  

It’s impossible to know when he’s joking, mainly because I don’t think he experiences real emotions. He has sociopathic qualities, you can almost pinpoint the moment through his facial expressions when he tries to react how he thinks normal people are supposed to.  At first, I was very uncomfortable dealing with Dave one on one, he made me high five which I’ve always found to be an activity that should be punishable by death.  He also told me that I was negative, that in order to get to the level of fitness I sought; I’d have to open my mind to positive thinking. 

Shut up.

What I’ve grown to like about Dave, through all of his mindless prattling of Eastern philosophies, Buddhist teachings, high fives, etc… he lives for the day when all 3 degrees of his black belt will be needed to annihilate his enemies. He’s a Kenny Powers in a Martial Arts world and Dave thinks he can best almost anyone except the owner of the dojo, Master Chin. The photos of Grandmaster Chin are intimidating; he looks to have been born from an ancient Asian mist. 

Dave likes to get drunk at one of the local watering holes and karaoke Linkin Park songs because he’s strange. I just assume that’s why because I’m not really sure why else someone would choose them. Then he purposely baits unsuspecting jocks who think they’re dealing with a harmless nerd into fighting him and kicks the crap out of them.  He confessed that as a skinny kid who got picked on a lot, he enjoys being the bully now. I don’t necessarily agree but I’ve always been a fan when it comes to reversals of fortune.

Here lately, we’ve started seeing more eye to eye. I don’t groan as much when he makes me slap digits and he seems to enjoy fostering the unquenched blood lust inside of me that I hide from conventional people.  Dave also seems to love my graphic descriptions of whatever particular daydream of carnage I’m experiencing at the time. Still, he boasts dramatically and says retarded stuff that he needs to be called out on.

Like the other day, when he had a bad time in traffic court, he kept making us do all of these crazy combinations, 10 punches…5 pushups…over and over….said it was because he couldn’t exact vengeance on the judge so he was punishing us instead…kept repeating that we should picture her face with smeared makeup, caked in blood and so on. It became obvious that some of the housewives were getting a bit uncomfortable with Dave’s fantasy because, well … they’re housewives. 

I decided to take it further so I stopped hitting the bag and spoke audibly over that horrible song where Pitbull substitutes lyrics for counting in Spanish. You know? All of them. 

"Hey Dave! Let’s quit pretending. Where does this bitch live? Let’s go to her house!”

The uneasiness spurned by Dave’s chidings to pound the female Judge’s face in, transformed into full on awkwardness. He looked around, assessing facial expressions, deciding how a normal person should react; going by his readings…this did not seem to be an acceptable suggestion.

“O.k., alright guys, do you think you can forget that I’ve been telling you to kill this lady for the last 30 minutes? Ummm… I realize now that was probably a bad idea.”

Rewinding the day back to the crappy review I’d had with my boss earlier wasn’t possible. I had wished her the fate of a thousand Werewolf rapes yet responded with a smile like a passive aggressive pudding cup. That’s what I had been pummeling on the bag all night, not her third chin or Dave's nemesis, just my chicken-shittery. Saying some crazy mess that was intended to make people uncomfortable almost felt like being honest, expressing a viewpoint with the knowledge that it would be poorly received, yet not giving a damn about that. Boosted my spirits.

 It was funny to me, picturing the lot of us… Derrick, Ariel, the 40 year old chick who looks like she got skimmed by Down’s, the extremely fat hood rat whose shirt always rides up, flashing her many ashen folds….this motley mix..showing up at some Judge’s house in the night. There were no further thoughts beyond that, like what we’d do to her (if anything), just picturing this woman waking up surrounded by these wayward, misguided kickboxing students…it still cracks me up.

After class, Dave approached looking extra socio-path-y.

“Ya know, you’re really kinda fucked up? Pretty sick.....High five.”