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"Maybe she drowned?”
SMACK!
“Ouch!" I hear the woman screech and see her smile a little.
"Let’s bring her stuff back to the house. Maybe I can find something that gives some indication of who she is or where she lives. Once she gets her things back, you will apologize. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she says, sounding defeated. Watching them pass by once again as they make their way back up the trail and out of sight, I consider shouting or going after them to ask for my stuff back but then think better of it. I don’t know if these people are dangerous, and I need to head home soon to get ready for my meeting. I don’t have time to go chasing down questionable strangers while I’m completely naked.
The area around the lake has poor cell phone reception, so I wait to call my uncle after hiking about a mile or so, where the signal is stronger. I’ve told Uncle Suki about my morning swims at the lake so someone knows where I am in case anything happens to me.
“Hello, Uncle Suki. Can you do me a big favor?”
“Hello, Mari. I would do just about anything for you. Just about. What is it?” my uncle answers.
“Please pack a bag with clothes for me. Leave it by the tree with Mom and Dad’s initials carved in it, by the trailhead near our yard. Shorts and a T-shirt will be fine. Please don’t ask about this right now. I’ll explain later.”
“All right,” he says with a laugh. I can picture him shaking his head.
My uncle is a good man. He’s a talent agent for many of the artists my dad produces. I’ve thought about asking him to represent me but ultimately decided against it. He doesn’t totally agree with my dad's thinking, as he also represents artists produced by the woman I am meeting today, but he would definitely tell my dad about it if he knew, no matter how much I beg him not to.
A few more miles of hiking, and there’s the tree. A heart with the letters YY and JY inside of it is carved on a giant wolf oak tree. The pack is lying against the trunk where Uncle Suki left it. Thankfully, there is no one around. I’m not sure which of us would be more embarrassed if he saw me like this. There’s a note on top of my clothes inside the pack:
Mari,
I hope everything is alright. I just found out that someone has moved into the gangster house. You may want to bring a bathing suit to swim over there from now on. I will see you later so you can tell me what happened unless it is something I don’t want to hear.
Love you,
Uncle Suki
Maresuke, Uncle Suki, is my dad’s younger brother. He lives with Dad, Honey, and me. Uncle Suki is sort of a combination of a second dad, older brother, and friend. He knows about my skinny dipping from a game of truth-or-dare we played with his now ex-girlfriend and her brother, with whom she tried to set me up. He was nice, but I still wasn’t ready to date yet. She was nice too, but she wanted to get too serious too quickly for my uncle’s taste.
I’ll do my best to shake off my anger and frustration at that awful, rude lady. The man, on the other hand, the image of his dazzling, golden hair shining in the late morning sun, may be more difficult to shake off. I put the clothes on and head in the direction of my house. It’s time to get ready for my meeting.
2
JOSEF
My punch lands on the right side of Johnny’s face. He would be knocked out if I used all my strength, even with the protective headgear. The kid, well teenager, smirks and shakes his head. He knows I’m going easy on him, and that’s made him angry. To his credit, he takes a step back and breathes. He’s trying to regain his composure and use what I’ve been teaching him.
The Sweet Science is a nickname for the method the best boxers use. These fighters are powerful and aggressive but also patient, calm, and in control. They read the opponent, look for holes in their strategy, and change their own plans accordingly during the fight. They deal out punishment for every mistake. They get the adversary to make more mistakes and make few, if any, mistakes themselves. In the end, they win.
Sometimes, in interrogations, I knock the subject out before getting the information I’m after. Holding back isn’t an easy thing for me. I’m learning as many lessons as I’m teaching these young men.
Johnny’s footwork is nearly that of a pro. He moves in close and throws an overhand punch with his right hand at the same time he steps forward. The blow connects with my lower stomach. The step and punch would have been a great move if he didn’t drop his left hand.
My right-hand roundhouse punch connects with the left side of Johnny’s head. His face swings to the right, and his headgear goes flying up and out of the ring. He straightens, steps back, and holds his boxing gloves up. I do the same.
“Damn! Sorry, Josef. I know. I dropped my left again,” Johnny says.
“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t let that habit form. Both hands stay up while you’re punching. Great footwork and a good hit otherwise,” I say, patting a glove on the area Johnny connected with on my stomach.
“Got it,” he says.
I’ve always been a natural street fighter. My body developed early and was big since my young teenage years, but bullies in South Philly would call me a pretty boy and things like that. They couldn’t see passed my blonde hair and blue eyes. I was the wrong guy to pick on. I’d learned to block from all the punches my father threw at me. He would encourage me to try to hit him back. Even when I managed to land heavy blows, the man seemed oblivious to pain. Papa would just smile through it and keep hitting me.
I learned and copied Papa’s secret; a crazy amount of running on hiking trails, sit-ups, and other exercises every morning, then weightlifting in the evening. He was an unbelievably strong berserker when he fought. I became wild like Papa, so I got into boxing to be able to focus more when I was young.
