by Rolf Nelson
“I know you have an open heart, but maybe just now it is most important to open eyes and ears, since what you seek has not been visible before you. I think this little visit might be just the thing. Change of scenery and all that.” He picked up his hat and jacket, then paused with a smile and a glint in his eye. “Fortunately, you do not need light to find the invisible.”
* * *
The dojo was not what the bishop had expected. It was a very minimalist hole-in-the-wall storefront in a mid-rent area, with weights and simple equipment in the utilitarian upstairs hall, and little in the way of eastern decorative themes or tournament competition trophy cases. Advanced students and members of two other dojos were visiting for some interdisciplinary sparring practice in special circumstances. The variety of styles present was obvious even to Thomas’s untrained eye, and the names of the styles, moves, and even the people all started running together; they all sounded foreign to his ears, largely because many of the names and terms were foreign. The instructors—three very white teachers, two fairly traditional-looking senseis, and a very polite Shaolin monk who brought a trio of combatants from his monastery—paired the students with others of similar or complementary ability in one of three circles, watching the sparring matches very closely. Most of the students were following the action closely as well. The instructors mostly observed the matches, which lasted from thirty seconds to a couple of minutes, offering careful critiques afterwards.
Thomas watched, trying to understand something so utterly alien to his experience. Some matches made obvious sense; men of similar size and skill, though with very different approaches to combat, were testing themselves and their opponent in different ways. Some, though, appeared to defy logic. A friend of Kainan’s son, a small 15-year-old boy, was paired with a gangly and very long-limbed man who looked to be in his thirties: a more uneven matchup Cranberry couldn’t imagine. Having watched several short bouts already, he assumed there was some sort of logic, but he couldn’t see it. The starting position was even more bizarre: the boy was facing away. It started when the man reached out and grabbed the boy’s shoulder, and what followed was a mad scramble of elbows, fists, grappling, twisting, and a sudden break away by the boy with a lunge and sprint off the mat.
Kainan, sitting next to Thomas, grinned and nodded approval. “A registered sex offender moved in down the street from the boy. About that man’s build. His sensei thought facing a stranger rather than an adult he was comfortable with would amp up the stress level a bit. The boy did well. When badly overmatched, breaking it off and getting away is top priority. But he forgot to yell.”
“Yell?”
Kainan nodded, watching. After the boy had a short conversation with a one of the adults, they tried the same matchup again. Both were still breathing deeply. When it started on contact, the boy used a different spinning block, saw the man’s face, and started screaming, “RAPE!” as loud as he could with every exhalation as he made good his escape, this time noticeably faster, to his instructors obvious approval.
“There is one child who won’t get abducted.”
The logic and training methods were clean and straightforward, but it still made Thomas a little queasy. He had devoted his life to ending violence and helping the weak, and the raw power displayed by these tightly controlled, highly skilled, and apparently intelligent men was most unsettling. Cognitive dissonance stirred deep in Bishop Cranberry’s mind and heart.
Watching it was exciting and a little scary; primal and alien, yet… yet it wasn’t. Thomas was surprised by how formal, disciplined, and polite they were when off the mat and how different they were when facing off. Some were trash-talking in high spirits, some going softly, silently, testing the other as much by ear as eye, some flashy with a lot of movement, some stolid and deliberate, and there was no way to predict who would do what. When one of the young Shaolin initiates called his opponent a “hairy, flannel-wearing hillbilly who smells of cheap bar-be-que!” the other man started laughing so hard he couldn’t properly defend himself.
* * *
When Vritra walked in, it was a mutual surprise. At first, briefly, the bishop in him made Thomas somewhat embarrassed, as if he one of his congregation had caught him gambling or participating in some other minor vice. But his curiosity and the testosterone in the air got the better of him, and he began asking an endless stream of questions of his very willing-to-teach fellow observers and participants. It turned out that Vritra was a regular at the dojo, which was rather “non-denominational,” emphasizing that no one style worked best in all cases, instead focusing on physical strength and fitness, and practical “street-fighting” methods more than katas and forms, though they did some of that, too.
When Thomas commented on the politeness, silence, and self-discipline among the younger members in attendance—quite at odds with what he normally saw in the community—the Shaolin monk responded wryly. “Lack of politeness and self-discipline is counterproductive. In here that fact is simply much more immediately apparent… and painful. Everyone benefits.”
* * *
It was nearly 8 o’clock, when practice started wrapping up, that Bishop Cranberry realized he hadn’t eaten lunch and now had missed dinner.
“There’s a nice pub just down the street, you know,” offered the lawyer. “We could grab a bite there.” Several of the others thought it sounded like a fine idea, and one of the other parents, a friend of Kainan’s, offered to take his son home. The small group headed out, with two others (John, the muscular dojo head teacher, and Mickey “weapon-master” Finnegan) saying they’d catch up in a bit after they wrapped things up at the “office.”
It was an odd collection of people walking down the street, but Thomas didn’t feel as nervous after dark as he had expected, given his recent experiences. For some reason none of young men idling on the street between the dojo and the pub thought it was a good idea to take any interest in them.
Howling Puffin
Improbable doesn’t mean impossible.
—Something every underdog says to himself at one time or another
The sign outside the Howling Puffin depicted a brightly-colored seabird baying at the moon. It had bars on the windows and garish lights outside, but the inside was clean and modestly appointed. The four of them filed in—Bishop Cranberry in his collar and crucifix, Kainan Lukas with his Orthodox cross, the turbaned Sikh Vritra, and Wang the Shaolin monk. They paused a moment to assess the seating and clientele. It was less than half full, offering a choice of entertainments: three baseball games on screens in one corner, two fights in another, and several soccer games in a third. The music was vaguely country and not excessively loud. Every booth had at least one person in it, and most of the tables were small; the only place with six seats available was at the bar, where it extended into the main room, dividing it roughly into two halves. The lawyer led the way over to four of the vacant stools.
The woman standing behind the bar—mid-20s, long hair pulled back, fashionably tight shirt over fashionably full curves, a few pieces of flashy jewelry—was drying a beer glass with a hand towel as she watched them approach. Her motions slowly came to a stop as they sat in front of her. She considered them slowly, eyes looking each one briefly up and down, her face a mask. She pointed toward one of the back rooms vaguely and deadpanned, “If you are looking for a lost punchline, I think I saw her wander back that way a few minutes ago. About five foot two, dressed like a nun.” Thomas and Kainan grinned widely, but the other two frowned, not getting the reference. “Never mind,” she said, a cheerful smile brightening her face. “Kainan can explain it later. What can I get you gents? Menus and beer? Tea? Or just water for you?” The latter she directed Bishop Cranberry, with a look at his clerical collar.
“I like wine, so just a glass of water….” He paused a moment while she chuckled. “Yes, menus, please, and a… what local brews do you have on tap?”
The bartender rattled off a number of labels and specials as she han
ded out the menus, acknowledging each of their orders. “Okay, Short’s Stout, Guinness, India Pale, a Reuben combo, and a vegan platter.” They nodded. “It’ll be a few minutes.” She drew the drafts while the four sat in silence absorbing the atmosphere. “So what brings all y’all in together? Dare I ask? Not an expectation of imminent Ragnarok, I hope.” She set Vritra’s glass in front of him.
“Fighting,” he replied with a straight face. “But not quite that desperate, I hope.”
She looked skeptical.
“He fights,” Cranberry said. “I’m just here looking for men on the archbishop’s orders…” The bartender gave him a sharp look. “I mean, no, that came out wrong.”
“Hope it’s not what it sounded like.”
“Not for myself, you understand…. That is, my task is to see if I can recruit new members to the church to reverse the trends in membership, it having dropped most steeply among men of 18 to 35 years.”
“Ah.”
“A problem he’s not alone in having, Erika,” added Kainan.
“Yeah, finding good men can be a challenge, I hear,” she agreed wryly.
“Those who need us, find us. We do not recruit,” Wang said. “But I know of many who would be well served by finding us sooner than later.”
Erika waved her hand about the room. “Lots of that sort of non-churchgoers here. You’re welcome to ask, but no preaching. Could hurt business. You might bring salvation, but most of these guys are here for something rather more immediate.”
A thoughtful expression crossed the bishop’s face. “So why do they come here, other than the obvious, facile reasons?”
She shrugged absently. “Get out of the house. Away from the ball-and-chain. Food. Forget. Relax. Watch a game without having to explain it to anyone. Talk to the regulars who can relate to their problems. Two beers an hour here cost a lot less than a shrink.”
“That is not what I meant to ask. Why do they come here rather than someplace else? Family, church, a hobby, Rotary Club, Scouts, or…?”
“I don’t think I should tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“You won’t like the answer. I want folks to leave here happy, not depressed. They’re more likely to come back, leaving happy.”
“Try us,” said Wang quietly, his aged face wearing an impish grin. “We are not as frail as our advanced years might make us appear.”
“Okay then. Sure…. They come here because it’s the only place that doesn’t shit on them at every opportunity. If they have jobs they are often told they have to put in more hours for less money because of foreign competition. That guy over there has spent the last few weeks training his H-1B replacement. Years of hard-earned experience passed on for pennies on the dollar, as if everything he knows can be taught in a month. Then, he’s out.
“At home there’s an endless honey-do list, with sex used as leverage. Even for the married ones. Especially for them, actually; if he walks out he’s totally screwed, but won’t get fucked.
“Churches, charities, clubs, and the rest always have their hands out to the hard workers but don’t want the unemployable ones because most are unemployable for a reason. Men who’ve done time aren’t wanted—told to go away because of some suspected risk”
“You do make it sound grim,” said Thomas. “But it can’t be that bad.”
Erika shuffled items on the bar. “It’s like: if a guy don’t have a job, they suspect there’s a really good reason for it and they don’t want to find out the hard way. Same with everything else. All take from those that have nothing left to give. But no give. Nothing but contempt and avoidance of those who have the time because they have no job.
“With all due respect, gents, here we don’t judge ’em. We give them a fair meal and sanity for their dollar. The beer isn’t cheap, but it’s a far sight cheaper than the daily crazy they face out there.”
“You may misjudge us, miss,” Cranberry said. “We are not here looking for money.”
“Bet the archbishop would like a few of these guys in the pews so he could pass the collection plate past ‘em.’’ Her tone was not accusatory or cynical, but her words bit, and all four men were aware of the core of truth there. None replied immediately, instead taking the opportunity to sip, and ponder.
Erika looked at them acutely. “But you are not here just to Preach.” The capital “P” was obvious in her enunciation. “What are you really looking for, besides a good sandwich and something to quench your thirst?”
The other three men looked at Thomas expectantly, he being the odd man out.
“My week started off badly, with a homeless man who I had seen off and on coming to a morning soup-n-service and attempting suicide. He had acquired a small pistol somewhere. The bullet… the bullet failed to penetrate his skull. At least, not very far. The paramedic said he had aimed too high, and the bullet glanced off, but it took a great deal of skin with it, and it bled terribly, and it knocked him out. Ice and a napkin that one of my parishioners applied—she is a retired nurse—kept him from dying. Or at least minimized the damage. And that was just the start of a difficult few days….”
* * *
Before the bishop had finished his account, they were joined by the other two from the dojo: John, the muscular head teacher, wearing casual street clothes, and Mickey “weapon-master” Finnegan in faded Carhartts, who sat down next to the bishop with a nod.
“You know these guys?” Erika asked John.
“Vritra and Kainan’s son are regulars,” he replied. “I just met the good Father there tonight. It was a good practice. Number eight, a pint of Foster’s, and a plate of jalapeno poppers, extra habanero, please.” He looked at the others. “Make that two plates.”
Erika passed on the order, and Cranberry continued with his story. When he finished, she commented, “Not the usual tale of woe I hear. Funnier than most, actually.”
“A priest being robbed and jailed is funny?” said the surprised bishop.
“Compared to losing your house, drug addiction and overdoses, getting beaten and raped, seriously contemplating suicide, and living homeless? Yeah, pretty much. At least the jailed part is. But as a cynical Wiccan–”
“Really?” asked Bishop Cranberry.
“Meh. Sort of dabbled a bit. Raised to be a rather free spirit, giving it a test-drive. Some interesting people involved in it.”
“Their rituals are faker than most movie plot-lines,” needeled John.
“Anyway,” Erika continued, “with all the stories my parents told me about the corruption and hypocrisy under… who was it? Francis, I think… whichever Popes had all the pedo and gay priest scandals, I don’t have a lot of sympathy for the Church. So the image of an archbishop bailing a priest out of the pokey for gun trafficking, after the gun was donated, given the church’s support for new gun laws…. It’s more than a micro-smidge ironic.”
“She’s got a point,” said Mickey. “Then turning that into being told to take some time off and go have fun and try to learn something while still getting paid is a pretty comfy gig. Wish I could get one like that. Though if I got any serious jail time it would be problematic for my carry permit.”
“The what?”
“I am a practitioner of the original American martial art: ka-ching, POW.” He pantomimed racking the slide of a semiauto pistol and aiming with his hands. “Guns. But to do so legally can be hard. The state has some pretty stupid rules about it.”
“Hmmm… Yes, possibly. But there are good reasons for those rules, you know.”
“Not really. Regulating the tools that a felon can use when committing a crime sounds rather silly to me, but pols do lots of silly things. I’m still a little puzzled, though: what, exactly, are you out here looking for again? I missed the first part of your story.”
Cranberry took a drink from his glass, considering the best way to summarize. “You could say that I am trying to find out what young men really want, or rather demand, as a certain marketer I know p
hrased it. Particularly the young men with the most potential who are, as Erika so bluntly said, getting ‘shit on’ so regularly. What do they want—or demand—exactly? If I know that, I can communicate to them what the Church has that will fill their specific needs or desires.”
John snorted. “What do young men want? Easy. Same things they wanted since forever. Since Og fought Bog over Og-ett. Respect. Adventure, excitement. Women—or, at least get laid. Honor. Jobs. Challenges to overcome, dragons to slay, gettin’ laid some more, victories…. To crush their enemies, see them driven before them, and hear the lamentations of the women, as the ancient Cimmerian saying goes. Offer them that, or even a bit of understandable and rowdy sanity, and you will not have a cathedral large enough to hold them all.”
“But this is not what the Church is about!”
“Then you will continue to lose them to anyone who does provide that. Or to a game console and fast connection. VR and sexbot sales are up.”
Mickey nodded his head. “Prayers are weak gruel when you have a deep desire for some feminine companionship. Or when you need a .45 very badly and really soon. God and a 1911 gets you more than God alone.”
One of the Howling Puffin’s regulars, who had come to the bar earlier for a refill on pretzels and stayed for the story, now chimed in. “Or a roof when your old lady kicks you to the curb for not earning enough!”
“You out again, Bill?” Erika asked. He nodded. “Sorry to hear that. Bunk in back is empty tonight. Ten dollars and guard duty?” He nodded again. “Looks like it’s taken now.” She handed him another bowl of pretzels.
“We provide food and shelter for those who turn to us, you know,” Wang said to Thomas quietly, but with deep sincerity. “And we teach self-defense to help the weak. You can be of service in many ways and still hold faith in your heart.”