by Luke de Castro
When I was finishing up my degree I lived on Fillmore and Davis next to this little park with a duck pond and a willow tree and one Saturday afternoon I was watching the Road Runner or the Mighty Morphin-whatever-the-fuck and my roommate Vic is waving me over to the window going Hey, man. Check this out. And there's this guy, tall and thin, with a beard and a ponytail and a string of white beads in his hair, standing between the duck pond and the willow tree. He was totally decked-out in a black karate uniform. And the guy is punching and blocking and crouching and combat rolling and roundhouse kicking and I've seen enough Bruce Lee movies to know that the guy is pretty good. Vic and I watched him from the window for a long time. I remember the phone ringing and Vic having to fill in for someone at work. I think maybe I studied some econ or took a shower or burned a CD. By the time I checked back, it had become dark and the streetlight reflected off the shimmering splotches of oil on the surface of the duck pond and the karate guy was totally gone. The next day I'm walking home from school or work or Fran's house or wherever and there he is again in complete karate-ninja garb. But this time the kung fu master is doing some incredible shit with a three-foot samurai sword, slicing and dicing and twirling and carving out wide, rainbow arcs with the edge of his blade. It was — and I mean this intensely — very cool. I stood there bewitched. He moved so gracefully, like a bead of water sliding down an icicle or like a puddle of mercury floating in outer space. When I found a moment to speak, I opened up my mouth and I said, like I was being clever, Ahh, young Grasshopper. Your vessel is filling. Soon you will leave the temple. I felt like a moron before I even finished speaking. The guy turned to me. His sword was stiff and unmoving — like an extension of his arm — and he might've been pissed and he might've thought I was mocking him and he nodded at me with the tip of his bearded chin, pointed with his blade, and he said Did you know that Elvis Presley had a twin brother that died at childbirth? And I said No. I did not know that. And the guy said Crazy world, huh? And I said Yeah, man. I guess it is kinda crazy. And then he turned away from me. He sheathed his sword. He knelt on the ground. He bowed to the willow tree. He stood and walked away. He looked back at me before he turned the corner at Fillmore. Did he smile? Did he roll his eyes? Did he look at me with some sort of pity? I don't think I'll ever know. I've returned to that duck pond a million times, walking past slowly and looking for something that isn't there, and I don't think the guy is ever coming back.
fiction | original fiction | urbanPost a Comment