From the Top - Chapter 5

The next morning, I was still thinking about my conversation with Mrs. Phillips. I actually felt a little relieved after talking about my dad and hearing her thoughts on my mixed feelings about the man.

Of course, that didn’t fix my anxiety about our lack of gigs. It was now halfway through June and we still hadn’t played a single gig other than the Blue Ridge shows. There were only two months left before I would be back in school, and our time was quickly running out.

I was staring at my bedroom ceiling, trying desperately to keep from spiraling again. I realized that if this was the level of anxiety that Kat felt all the time, it was no wonder she was willing to do anything she could to keep from feeling it.

I almost jumped out of my skin when my phone started ringing. Seeing Willie’s number, I picked it right up and asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Hey, Charlie,” Keenan said instead of Willie. “I know it’s early for you, but can you come down? Willie wanted to see you when you got a chance.”

“Is everything okay with him?” I asked again.

“Yeah. I won’t say he’s fine, but he’s about the same. He just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Uhh, sure,” I said. “I’ll be there in a little bit.”

Not that I would have said no before, but I sure wasn’t going to say no to him now.

“I’ll let him know,” Keenan said, hanging up.

Actually, it wasn’t that early. I’d slept in pretty late, getting the first full night’s sleep I’d gotten in a while, which said a lot about how much I’d needed the talk with Mrs. Phillips. I still wasn’t sure if I was going to talk to Dr. Rothstein, but I was feeling better.

I got dressed and headed to Willie’s. The cabin was still shuttered tight, but I’d made the trip to his house at least once a day since finding out he was sick and was getting used to seeing it like that. Willie slept a lot these days, so it was easier to just keep it dark rather than have Keenan pull the curtains open and closed every time he wanted to sleep.

“Go on back,” Keenan said as soon as he opened the door.

Taking in how anxious Keenan looked and the sudden nature of the request, I was worried that something was actually wrong with Willie and hurried back. To my surprise, he was propped on his pillow, looking exactly as he had the day before.

“Hey there, Charlie,” Willie said, sounding about the same as well. “Have a seat, son. We’ve got some things to talk about.”

“Is everything okay, Willie?” I asked, pulling my normal chair next to the bed.

Waving a hand dismissively, he said, “Ah, everything’s fine. Don’t you worry yourself over me. This isn’t a social call. Kat came by to see me yesterday, after your visit. She told me about all of your cancellations and the problems that’s causing you.”

“I see,” I said, pressing my lips tight.

It had been long enough since we talked that I had half hoped she’d come to her senses and changed her mind. I was a little disappointed that she’d gone through with her threat.

“Don’t give me that look. She’s a good girl and did what you should have done in the first place.”

“You’ve got a lot to deal with right now; you don’t need to be worrying about my problems on top of everything else.”

“Nonsense. If you’re in trouble, you tell your friends.”

“Like you told me about you being sick?” I asked, a little more angrily than I’d actually meant to. “This is exactly what you did to me, Willie. Why can you protect me, but I’m in the wrong for protecting you?”

I wasn’t actually angry with Willie, at least not about calling me out now. I don’t know if it was my disappointment with Kat for telling him over my objection, or residual feelings about not being told he was sick, but I definitely felt like a double standard was being applied. And I didn’t like it.

“Ha,” he said, choosing to see the humor instead of my annoyance. “I can see how you might think that. This isn’t quite the same though, is it?”

“Seems a little similar to me,” I said, although I was now second-guessing myself.

“You aren’t any kind of doctor and can’t do much about a lifetime spent smoking, so telling you about my troubles didn’t change my fate one way or another. I, on the other hand, still know a lot of people in the industry and can help you with yours. That’s the difference. If you were in trouble that I could help with, but you didn’t tell me until after it was too late, I’d be highly disappointed in you.”

I still felt I was right, that he didn’t need to deal with my burdens, but what he was saying was exactly what Kat had said to me.

“I get that, but you need to be focused on getting better, not on my problems.”

“Charlie, I spend all day starin’ at the ceiling here or at that wall. Except when Keenan comes in fussin’ over this or that, or when you or Chef visit, I have almost nothin’ to do all day. If anything, this gives me something to do, which I desperately need.”

“I assume you’ve already done something,” I said, knowing him well enough to know he wouldn’t have just called me over to chastise me.

“I have. I still have a few places that owe me favors, and I thought it was about time I called them in. Since I don’t think I’ll likely ever get up on stage again, better those go to helpin’ you, rather than just fade away, right?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“And yet, I did. I’ve got you at the Wild Cat this Saturday. I know you’re out of town next week, so I set up the others for when you’re back, before school starts up. I also already let Chef know, so he could figure somethin’ out for Saturday.”

I wanted to be mad at him, but I couldn’t be. I felt a sudden sense of relief at finally having something for us. The Wild Cat was both bigger than the Blue Ridge and geared specifically to music, and tended to pay twice what shows at the Blue Ridge paid. Knowing Willie, I had a good guess at where the other two shows were going to be, and they’d also both pay a good deal more than the Blue Ridge. It wasn’t enough to get us out of trouble, but it was going to relieve some of the pressure. I also knew that the Wild Cat was one of the places that Warren had booked that had then canceled.

“When you talked to Eugene, did he say anything about why he canceled the show Warren set up? I mean, he’s letting us play there after all, so he changed his mind, I guess. But these cancellations have me worried.”

“I asked, but he said it was ‘just one of those things.’ Scheduling conflicts, and he had a sudden cancellation for this weekend so he had a slot open.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No reason not to. He’s always been straight with me. If he was lyin’, he’s got his reasons. Eugene likes you, so I don’t think he’d cancel on you unless he had no choice.”

“Should I talk to him about it on Saturday?”

Willie was quiet for a moment, considering my question, before he said, “I wouldn’t. He’s doin’ us a favor. That isn’t the time to accuse a man of lyin’. Give it some time and I’ll talk to him again. Okay?”

“Sure. Thanks, Willie.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time makin’ sure people heard that talent of yours, I’m not about to let you fade away that easy. Now, Katherine also told me about a song you’re workin’ on. Tell me about it.”

Willie seemed more relaxed as we went through my new song. Talking about music was his favorite thing, and I think it relaxed him. I even got him to smile a few times before he started to fade, the exertion of my visit getting to be a bit too much. I was still annoyed at Kat for going around me like this, but I was really happy Willie had been able to help us.

Now I just needed to figure out what was going on to cause this problem in the first place.

***

Sunday, I was back at the Blue Ridge. We’d left for Asheville early in the afternoon on Saturday, before the lunch rush ended for our Wild Cat show, so I’d missed the previous day’s practice. While I knew Chef didn’t mind, since he’d made it clear my music took precedence over my training, I’d found that a day without it left me feeling pent up. The exercise and stretching I got at our daily, or almost daily, practices really helped me to loosen up and feel better, so I missed it when I didn’t get it.

Chef must have seen me pull up because he was already outside when I walked around the back.

“Hey,” I said, setting my bag down next to the stairs leading up to his apartment above the restaurant. “Thanks again for letting us have last night off. I know it was short notice, but we really needed that Wild Cat gig.”

Chef waved the thought away, saying, “Don’t worry about it. Willie called me on Wednesday to tell me about it, and I know things have been really tough for you guys. Besides, it gave Dwight a chance to have some extra time on stage since he’s trying to get his own touring schedule lined up. Following in Willie’s footsteps, I guess.”

Dwight had been the piano player in Willie’s band and was its de facto leader now that Willie had retired. Since it was summer, we were playing longer sets, including Sundays, which meant there wasn’t really much stage time for them. Chef had tried putting in Thursday night music to give Dwight some more playing time, but attendance hadn’t been what either of them had hoped.

I felt bad since I’d swooped in and partially displaced Willie. I could imagine someone else in Dwight’s place resenting me for stealing what they might consider their opportunity, but Dwight had been nothing but friendly. Which of course only made me feel worse. Honestly, seeing the energy we got from crowds when we played, even though most of the people saw us play at least once a week, I was pretty sure his biggest problem was the type of music he was playing.

There just wasn’t the appetite for blues that there might be in other places. The people who wanted to come listen to music wanted something more modern sounding. I’d mentioned it to Dwight, and I know he’d tried making some changes, but he’d been playing blues for decades. Almost as long as Willie. It wasn’t an easy switch for him.

Getting his own tour set up, especially if it included some of the places Willie used to play at that specialized in blues, might be the answer for him. I hoped it worked out.

“So how did your show go?” Chef asked.

“Really good. The crowd was into it. I haven’t played there since last summer, so they hadn’t heard some of our newer stuff. It was really great.”

“Did you get a chance to talk to the owner about why they cancelled and then rebooked?” he asked.

I’d mentioned to Chef on Friday about that being the only weird part of this gig since the explanation Eugene gave Willie didn’t make sense.

“No, and that worries me. He dodged me the entire night, which included leaving before we got off stage, and leaving our check with one of his managers. I’ve played there enough times to know he never does that, and his manager seemed as confused as I was. The only thing I can think is that he really didn’t want to answer any questions about it, and that worries me.”

“Hmm, that is worrying. Did you tell Willie about it?”

“No. I mentioned it when he told me about the gig, but I don’t want to keep adding things for him to do. Warren’s working on figuring out what’s going on, and it’s only been a couple of weeks. We’ll get an answer soon, I hope.”

“Did you want to put off training today?” Chef asked, knowing how unfocused I could get when I had things weighing on me.

“No. This isn’t something that’s going to be fixed today, or probably even tomorrow. I can’t put my life on hold waiting to find out what’s going on.”

“Okay, then get started,” Chef said.

Chef ran me through my usual warm-up routine, starting with breathing exercises before moving into stretches and basic forms. The familiar movements helped settle my mind, focusing my thoughts on precise motions rather than all the other stuff going on.

After about twenty minutes, Chef had me grab my gloves and start working through practiced attacks and blocks against a dummy. I fell into the rhythm, striking and weaving in well-rehearsed combinations, with Chef occasionally offering suggestions for improvement.

About halfway through the session, Chef called for me to stop. “That’s enough of that for today. It’s time we switch things up.”

I lowered my hands, catching my breath. “What do you have in mind?”

Chef gestured for me to take a seat, so I grabbed my water bottle and joined him on the back steps.

“You’ve made a lot of progress over the last couple of years,” he began. “Your technique has improved dramatically, as has your basic speed and strength. But there’s only so much you can gain from solo drills. You need practical experience against a live opponent. Now, I know you’ve been in a fair number of fights since we started training, but I’m not counting those. Our goal should be to prepare you to fight against someone who knows how to fight, not just guys looking to brawl.”

“So, Victor’s coming back to spar?” I guessed.

Chef had me spar several times against Victor, one of his former students, leading up to the one competition I’d taken part in. Those were always one-off practices, though, since Victor lived and worked in Raleigh, making the five-hour drive between here and there a little inconvenient for anything regular.

“No,” Chef said. “That would be best, but he doesn’t have time, and we need to work on this regularly, not just here and there. No, you’ll have to spar against me.”

I blinked in surprise. As far as I was aware, Chef didn’t spar with his students. He occasionally demonstrated something, but I didn’t think he actually did anything beyond that after he hung up his gloves, except for the one time he’d stepped in to defend me against Aaron and his friends. That had been a special circumstance, though.

“Really?” I asked uncertainly.

Chef laughed at my hesitation, “Don’t worry, Charlie. I won’t hurt you too bad.”

I know he was joking, but that didn’t really make me feel better. I felt good about my skills, and I’d held my own against Aaron, Harry, and the few others who’d tried to test me over the past couple of years. I wasn’t, however, anywhere near Chef’s level, and I knew it.

“All right, if you think I’m ready,” I said, standing up.

I was actually a little excited. I knew I wasn’t going to win, and I might not even be able to lay a hand on him, but it was going to be an experience, that was for sure. While I wouldn’t say I’d never been tested in a real fight because that would be a lie, I also couldn’t say I hadn’t fought anyone better than me before because I’d trained with Victor, who was definitely better than me, and I’d been in the competition which included guys who were better than me. Fighting against Chef, though, was an opportunity to see a real master at work. Which is what I was excited about, even if it meant getting knocked on my ass a few times to see it.

“Go get geared up,” he said, standing up and stretching.

When I’d first sparred, I’d been surprised that he’d insisted I put on basic padding, including what was basically a cushiony foam helmet, to protect me from getting hurt too badly from falls. I’d imagined it would be like you see in the movies, just two guys swinging away at each other. Of course, I’d fallen by accident, outside of sparring, on the cement pad behind the restaurant enough times to know I didn’t want to get thrown down on it without some kind of protection. I went through the process of pulling on the various pieces of equipment, which was a little bit of a pain to do by myself, even if I’d gotten kind of used to it.

I was just about finishing my preparation when Chef came back out from the kitchen, still wearing the same thing he had been when he’d gone in.

“You’re not going to wear anything?” I said, without really thinking about it.

“No,” he said, with a small laugh. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I actually hesitated. Not that I thought he’d hurt me, or at least not permanently. Now that I was facing him, it felt weird.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” he said. “Come at me.”

I took a breath and moved in, holding a defensive stance, and threw a cautious jab. In a blur, Chef brushed the punch aside and sent me stumbling back with a light shove.

“Don’t poke at me,” he said. “I know what you’re capable of. Either do it for real or go home.”

He was annoyed, just as he was any time I didn’t give a hundred percent in training. I took my stance again, mentally psyching myself up. This time, I didn’t try for a cautious punch. I threw a jab that I’d hoped to use as a feint, giving me an opening for a body shot. I’d used it in fights before and it had worked well. Instead of trying to block my punch, he moved slightly to the left, letting my fist, which had no real power behind it, sail past his shoulder, as his other hand shot down, blocking my real punch almost before I threw it. I didn’t even see how he brought his other hand up, but felt his palm striking me in the chest hard enough to cause me to stagger back.

I didn’t let it sit at that, though, I bounced off my rear foot and came in again, trying to press aggressively. Suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore. Or he was, but not where I expected him to be. He moved so fast it was like he teleported, one moment he was in front of me and the next he was beside me even as I went in for the attack, his hand wrapping my arm up while he swept my leading foot out from under me. The next thing I knew, I was lying face down on the cement, only my padded helmet keeping me from smashing my skull against the hard surface.

“Keep your balance,” he chastised as he helped me up. “Don’t lead with your upper body.”

We reset and I came at him again, mixing punches and kicks. Chef handled me like I was in slow motion, evading or diverting every strike with almost casual ease. At one point he caught my leg mid-kick and flipped me onto my back with a quick twist that knocked the wind out of me.

“You’re telegraphing,” he said, again helping me up.

I was getting a little angry. Not at him, exactly, since this was part of training, but at myself. I should at least have been able to make some kind of contact, even if it was ineffectual. Instead, the only thing I’d hit so far was the ground.

I decided on a different approach. Faking a kick, I dropped down, trying to sweep his legs when he raised his guard. It didn’t matter. Chef hopped nimbly over the attempt, at the same time bringing his elbow down lightly on my back, with just enough force to knock me onto my chest.

“Nice try, but still too obvious,” he said.

I spent the next ten minutes fruitlessly trying everything I could think of to get him. Jabs, crosses, hooks, uppercuts, kicks, grapples, none of them worked. Chef handled them all, his speed and reflexes on a level I couldn’t match. A simple sidestep here, a quick redirection there, and my attacks found only air. Occasionally he would catch a punch and use my own momentum to spin me around or put me in an arm lock. By the end of the ten minutes, I was thoroughly winded, while Chef looked almost bored.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, stepping back to let me catch my breath. “You’re trying to outthink me, get inside my head. That works okay for someone who you know well who doesn’t know how to fight, but not against someone who knows how to fight. It’s causing the opposite to happen. That much thinking slows you down too much, making everything you do obvious. Don’t think about hitting me, hit me.”

I nodded, still a little out of breath but standing up all the way. We circled again, and I stayed patient this time, watching for my moment. I saw him drop his guard slightly. I threw a jab, but I knew it was a feint on his part, to get me to swing. He was watching my hands, tracking them. He reached for a grab, but I dropped my hand and spun, going for a backhand. I swear I almost got him. He didn’t dodge me or divert me this time, instead blocking my hit, which made solid if useless contact.

I didn’t think, I just moved, transitioning the punch into a grab, ducking under his guard and getting an arm around his torso. I started to lift, in a move that would end up with him slamming backward into the ground, using my momentum and his weight to get the drop. It was actually way beyond what I would have planned since the hit could really do damage if he wasn’t ready for it, but I’d stopped thinking, and just performed the move that made sense and had the best chance to end the fight, just like he told me to.

Of course, I didn’t really have to worry. He shifted his weight, twisting sharply within my grasp, his leg wrapping around the inside of mine. Even as I pulled, I found myself twisting sideways as he tangled us up. We continued to turn until his left foot was again in contact with the ground, to the side of us. As soon as it was, he lowered his center of gravity and leaned forward, speeding my sideways momentum up, forcing me over his shoulder. I landed on my back again, hard enough this time to knock the wind out of me.

“There you go!” Chef said approvingly, pulling me back to my feet. “Much better.”

“It doesn’t feel better,” I wheezed, still getting my breath back.

“That would have worked against any untrained opponent and even against someone of your level of training. There are some ways you could have adjusted, to keep me from taking you down, either with both of us going down or by breaking free. Let’s do one more round, and I’ll show you some of those moves. This time, I’m going to come at you. Ready?”

I nodded, getting my hands up and dropping into my stance. He was a blur, pressing me back with a series of strikes and evasions when I tried to counter. I could barely feel his hits on my blocks, which meant he was going easy, not putting any force behind them. I’d seen him hit the training dummy and knew he could be devastating when he wanted. He was giving me a chance to block and counter, not trying to actually take me down.

I managed to counter most of them, although here and there he’d get through, slapping me on the shoulder or head to let me know he could have had me if he wanted. For five more minutes, I desperately tried to stop him and had only the barest of successes. When he was done, I sagged, my arms feeling sore from all of the slaps and touches. They might not have had a lot of force behind them, but if you get slapped enough, you know it.

“Not bad, but you’ve got to work the training board more. Your reactions are still too slow. Every time you block, you pause like you’ve won and that’s all that’s going to happen. If you fight someone who knows what they’re doing, they’ll keep throwing punches until you stop them or they get one through. You need to be prepared for that.”

“Sorry, Chef.”

“You’re fine. It just points us to where you need work. Now, let me show you some of those counters I was talking about earlier.”

We spent the next hour working, with me still ending up on my back more than a few times as he tried to show me what I was doing wrong. I never did manage to get him on the ground, even when he said I was doing the counters right. Apparently, he knew the counter to my counters of his counter. Or whatever.

I’d known Chef was good. Hell, I’d never gotten the best of Victor, but Chef himself was on a whole other level. He was lightning-fast and could hit like a ton of bricks when he wanted to. Considering how he always complained that he was slowing down in his old age, I couldn’t even imagine what he’d been like in his prime.

“Not bad,” he said. “You’re really improving, although you’re still thinking too much.”

I just shook my head in agreement, trying to catch my breath.

“Go up and get the tea on, I’ll be right there.”

He headed into the kitchen, checking to make sure no one was burning anything down, while I headed up to his apartment, getting out his tea setup and starting to heat the water. We didn’t do it every time, but we did it often, with me making the tea, no matter how tired I got. I guess you knew you’d really become a master when you had someone making the tea for you, instead of the other way around.

Leaving the water going, I hopped in his shower and got cleaned up. He was already back upstairs and sitting on the floor, in front of the low table, by the time I got dressed and back out to his living room. I sat across from him and poured our tea, his first.

“You really have been advancing very quickly in the last few months. I think you’re finally starting to get the feel of it, and not just the technique.”

When he’d first said something about the feel of martial arts, I hadn’t really understood what he meant, but I think now I was finally starting to get it. Not that I agreed with him that I actually had it.

“I’m not there yet. I think I finally know what you mean, though.”

“That’s the first step. Once you can recognize the path, it’s easier to walk it. Or at least that’s what my master taught me.”

Sometimes I think Chef could hear himself repeating back the Chinese version of ‘folksy wisdom.’ He’d always make jokes when he got self-conscious. I knew what he meant though.

“You’ve got real talent for this,” he continued. “You know, I think it might be why you’re so good at music, or at least at playing the guitar. You’ve got a real innate feeling of where you are in space, and how your body moves. That’s just as important for music, or at least music that requires dexterity like the guitar, as it is for martial arts. It’s probably why you were good at baseball too, come to think of it.”

“Maybe,” I said.

I hadn’t ever really thought about it, but it made sense.

“I appreciate the extra training today,” I said, noticing it was much later than we’d originally planned on training. “I’ve been a little … I don’t know, frustrated lately. Today really helped to clear my head.”

Chef nodded understandingly, “Training provides balance and a good outlet for emotions. I’ve always found it to be the best therapy. Now, tell me about what you could have done better. Where were your errors?”

We spent the next ten minutes in discussion, with him walking me through our sessions, figuring out what I did wrong and where I could have made changes. It was helpful since it gave me something to think about, and something to focus on during our next training session. He explained that we’d practice on the dummies and with drills for a few days, and then try again.

I was leaving on Monday for Indianapolis, but I wanted another shot. He may have made me look like an amateur, but now that it was all done I realized just how fun today had been.