That Time I Should've Quit While I Was Ahead

Still relishing the victory of getting away with slipping “Straight Outta Compton” on to our kickboxing playlist, (the clean version-I'm not that gangsta) the mood began to shift as I caught sight of the most peculiar shadow in my peripheral. Half blind without glasses, my first assumption was that a tiny, fat stripper had made her way into class at some point while I was busy doing lousy pushups, thinkin’ I was the shit because I know Eazy-E lyrics.

This is pathetic and completely true.  

It didn’t seem right though. A midget pole dancer just decides to wander into a Martial Arts school WELL after the class has commenced? Right when N.W.A. is blaring? But then…maybe that’s exactly what drew her in? Maybe she was a crack baby from Compton and that’s what caused her dwarfism? It was fun to think about such scenarios and as much as I would’ve loved to believe that classic West Coast gangsta rap might be like some Pied Piper shit for the tiny, crack bred dancers of the world, (and it might be)- not so much in this case. No, as it turned out, it was the child.

I saw her briefly when she came in with her mother, taking notice of Mom’s right away as she reminded me of a woman who tried to scam me for cash back in Detroit. We had a slight fender bender that she found no need to report, which was perfectly fine by me since I was driving the group home van when it happened and my record was already total ass. But then the estimates for her bumper kept going up… and up…. and up until my friend Terry stepped in and talked her into not being such a scummy bitch. He knew this woman. She worked for another group home and was picking up in the same parking lot as us. He banged her a few times after the dust settled then stopped calling her. I felt vindicated.

“Never trust a woman who wears gold shoes and silver lipstick, that’s what I learned.”

He was right though, that should’ve been a dead giveaway that she was going to try and soak me.  I mean who color clashes metallic’s like that if they’re not a piece of shit? I will now say it just stands to reason.

Anyways, back to the fucking story which is about the kid, not the mom, I just smoke too much weed. Sorry.

She was a chubby little dumpling, I did notice that when she came out on the floor, but she was wearing a baggy t-shirt and bike shorts. Pretty legit, nothing beyond what she could pull off.  And I mean that literally ladies and gentleman as that is exactly what occurred.  Midway through MC Wren’s poetic flow, the girl who I pegged to be around 9 years old, tore off that confining Hello Kitty t-shirt, revealing the silver lame' sports bra that went with those bike shorts and the swash buckling belly that did NOT.  It was like a lava lamp, filled with chocolate, completely mesmerizing all on lookers with every fluidic swish. If you’ve ever seen the SNL sketch where Chris Farley competes with Swayze for a Chippendale’s spot, then you’re half way there. 

Now picture Farley as a little fat black girl with really long braids and yep…that’s it.

When I tell you that this child was “feelin’ herself”, you need to understand that she kept the boxing gloves ON as she gyrated seductively to Jay-Z’s “Dirt Off Ya Shoulder”, while staring at herself in the mirror , right into the eyes of that future sex kitten she just knows she’s gonna be.  It was haunting to the point that the manager of the gym came over to discuss it with me during my workout.

GYM MANAGER: I feel like there’s a weird energy in here tonight.

ME: I think it may have something to do with what’s happening over there (gestures to the girl with a neck twitch).

GYM MANAGER: I don’t understand what’s going on. I go into the bathroom for like two seconds and when I come out, there’s a 6 year old in a sports bra trying to “make it rain” in my gym.

ME: She’s 6??!!

Guys, when I tell you this kid was already in a fucking “C” cup-I’m not even slightly exaggerating.  She had some tig-ol-bitties and while I realize they were mostly from being incredibly overweight, it was horribly confusing for on-lookers to put together with a girl of that age. 

The class grinded on for another 20 minutes or so, as people tried their hardest to focus on the instructor instead of the milkshake that would bring only the creepiest to the yard. Walking past her, I didn’t make eye contact because I wasn’t sure if I could do it without laughing, then my inner monologue kicked in. The one that usually tells me when I’m being a turd and who is almost always 100% on point.

This time it said “Hey asshole! Remember when you were a little fat shit? How you always wanted to be invisible? Yeah- well this kid actually has some self esteem and you should respect that seeing as you’re still so fucked up that you won’t even wear a tank top in public.”

True dat inner-self.

She beamed with pride as I complimented her on making it through such a tough class. Mom’s appreciated the shout out, replying “Dat’s my baby”.  Indeed. Taking two seconds out to acknowledge her definitely made me feel a lot better about being such a shallow realist who worries far too much about what others think sometimes. Especially when I realized that none of the other “adults” in class said a fucking word to her which is pretty lame. Really? Do you think they won’t let you sit at the “cool” lunch table if you speak a kind word to mini-Precious?  She may have the body of a sixty year old but she's only six. C’mon dickheads.

Driving home that night, I was lucky enough to witness one of those sky miracles. A brilliant, perfect, orangey-pink sunset that was just a perfect visual moment. The kind a person hopes might be the last thing they see before final curtain call. A biker had pulled over to the side, snapping pics of the odd strikes of lightning that were popping in and out of the horizon commanding driver’s attention to the degree that we we’re running 10 miles under the speed limit with smiles on our faces.

When I finally put my eyes on the road, I noticed something in the turn lane. A turtle. A turtle with his legs pulled into the shell, just lying there. I kept driving but couldn’t stop thinking about him. What if he was afraid? I mean what would be the point of setting things right with little fatty if I let this turtle get smashed to bits? I decided this night of big girl kindness and ghetto Aurora Borealis’ would not be marred by the image of a splattered reptile on my way to work in the morning.

Speeding and praying all the way there that my delayed conscience would not be the death of Filbert (See Rocko's Modern Life), I cut off two people. One was driving a Porsche’ Cayenne so screw him since usually everyone who drives one of those deserves to be smothered in their sleep anyways. Closing in, I saw his perfect shell was still intact so I whipped into the turn lane fully about to Baywatch sprint and then the truth emerged.

I had risked a multitude of traffic tickets to save a fucking Wendy’s salad bowl. 

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.”