Joe Lansdale - Lost Echoes

“You fall good.”

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

“For goodness’ sake, Tad. Do you always have to tell it like it is?”

“You’re doing great, kid.”

“But now I don’t believe you.”

“Look. Your self-defense—it sucks. You’re not a fighter at heart. But you got to not think of this like fighting. That’s what you’re thinking. The exercises. The concentration. Stuff that’s helping you not worry so much about the sounds, or control them, whatever, that’s the same stuff. You’re trying to separate them. Look here. Reach for me, real quick. Quick as you can—”

Harry did it soon as Tad finished his sentence, thinking he’d surprise him. But Tad just raised his arm. And it didn’t seem that fast, yet he intercepted Harry’s hand, and the moment Tad touched him Harry felt his balance shift. He was on the wobble. His center was knocked off.

“It didn’t look like you moved that fast,” Harry said.

“Didn’t. Listen. It’s not necessarily who’s the quickest. It’s who’s the smartest. To deflect what you do, I only have to move your arm a little bit. You have to reach for me, the full length of your arm, but all I got to do is reach up my body, a shorter distance than where you’re standing, and bump your hand, and when I do, when I touch you, I shift me into you, and now you’re weighted off balance, and not only with your weight, but, as I shift my hips, some of my weight.

“Once you’re off balance, then, if I chose, I could push you down, throw you, or just bring my arm out, catching you in the void, and it would be like getting hit by a truck. That’s the trick, Harry. There isn’t any other. But doing it, that’s a whole ’nother sack of worms. Balance out here and balance in life are the same. Lose your balance, you get knocked over easier.

“Thing is, you’re getting the meditation part. You’re starting to walk smoothly, and with confidence. You don’t need to think so much about or worry about this other part. Don’t imagine how you could beat the shit out of somebody, just imagine what I tell you to imagine until it’s real. The rest is a piece of the whole kit and caboodle. You got to be like a monkey. Monkey is a selfish little shit. He wants something, just reaches for it, takes it. He doesn’t worry about if his other arm is held, or if it’s not a perfect line from him to the fruit; he goes for what he wants. He doesn’t even think about his opponent, just what he wants, or wants to do, where he wants to go, and he goes there, loose as a…well, as a fucking monkey. It’s hard to hold on to a monkey. And he wants what he wants. In that way, you have to be selfish, like the monkey—”

“And still be one with the universe?”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t monkeys sometimes get eaten by lions or something?”

“They do. And that’s the other lesson. It doesn’t matter what you know or who you are, there’s always the certified, gold-plated fuckup waiting in the wings. You avoid it better if you train and prepare. But it can happen to anyone at any time. Martial arts isn’t magic. It’s a piece of magic. But sometimes somebody—due to their own training, accident, your lack of awareness that day, just plain old fucking luck, that shit—it becomes your lion or tiger, Harry. Sometimes the monkey gets eaten.”

“Maybe I should be the lion?”

“You could. But he’s not perfect either. Other lions get him. Monkeys or apes gang up on him, run him off. Throw shit at him, literally, toss limbs and rocks and fruit. Disease gets him, accident, hunters. There is no free lunch, and no perfect armor, and you got to watch when you zip up, least you hang the meat. Rules to live by. Got me, kid?”

“Yeah. I got you.”

“One last thing. You listenin’, now?”

“Yeah.”

“That shit you called a friend. The turd. What was his name? You know who I’m talking about.”

“Joey.”

“That’s him. I’m going to be honest. Me and him had words. Well, I said all the words. But he decided he wasn’t hungry when I finished and he left.”

“I figured as much.”

“Letting him fall out of your life, that’s probably best. He’s like one of those not-so-brave monkeys that tosses his own shit. It’s his only ammunition. Get what I’m trying to tell you here?”

“I think so.”

“Let me put it so even you can understand it. Here it is, on a platter. The bastard is a loser and he wants you to be one too. That girl you’re seeing, he said you couldn’t do that. You are. And, you know what? If it should come to you not seeing her, it doesn’t change a thing. You are what you decide to be. Your worth is of your choosing. Here’s some more business. What I like to call a goddamn tidbit. Get out your net and grab this one.”

“I’m hunkered down and ready.”

“Sometimes, my erstwhile friend, you shake a bad thing, and you think it’s gone. But it never is. Not really. You got to always be ready to deal. ’Cause bad things, they come back. And sometimes they bring friends.”

34

At work Harry felt he was pretty safe from sound, and he was safe from drink, but he thought about both. He liked to get into something like book filing. It was the kind of work that allowed the mind to drift away, and sometimes he would peek inside a book and read a bit of this, a bit of that. It was akin to what Tad taught him, about how to become one with his surroundings. To find joy in the moment, in the now.

Place like this, the bookstore, was great. No shoot-outs or wrecks or robberies, or anything hidden in the clang of the registers, the hiss of the automatic doors. And he wasn’t getting so many of those flashes. Those emotion barbs that had been given to him by past audio experiences.

Sanctuary.

Drink was another matter. He really missed it. There was nothing like a good, bracing drink after work. And then a trip to the coolness of the bar, where he could sit at a table and watch little beads of condensation on the outside of a big pitcher of beer. He liked the way it looked, golden, like nectar, when it was poured from the pitcher into a tall, thick, mug.

And that first taste.

Oh, Jesus, that first taste when the cold beer hit the back of your throat and the alcohol bit and there was a sweet bitterness to it all, because then you knew you were on the path, and after the first beer there was no taste, just the coldness of it. And pretty soon there wasn’t that. It was just the beer, and it was a motion, lifting the mug and pouring it down. Yeah. He thought about it. He wanted it. It went through his mind. A lot.

But now it was easier not to think about the beer—all the time, anyway. Because there was Tad and the one-with-the-universe business, and there was Talia, and she was the center of that big old universe into which he wanted to be absorbed.

“It’s been a long time.”

Harry jumped. He had been bent over, pushing some books into place, and when the voice came from behind, he jerked up, clipped his head ever so lightly on a shelf.

He turned and looked.

Kayla.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. She looked concerned, like a big kid who had only wanted to surprise.

Harry looked at her while he massaged his head. She had on a lot of perfume. It was so strong it made him step back, ending up with the backs of his legs against the bookshelf.

Perfume aside, she looked healthy. Blond. Coltish. Those beautiful eyes of hers. She was the same kid he had known those many years ago; now the kid moved beneath the fine mature bones of her face and in the sparkle of her eyes. Pretty, but not like Talia, who was a lust bomb enveloped in flesh. Kayla was more like the girl next door. Talia…Well, she was Talia.