The Exam
by Thomas Lee Joseph Smith
Many years ago there was a YMCA on Grand Avenue. The building is still there, but the windows are boarded up and the doors are nailed closed. I studied karate in that building. I started lessons at 16 and continued for quite a long time.
At one point long ago, I thought it might be cool to teach young kids how to handle themselves in this rough and tumble world we call home. I learned there was a test I’d have to pass and that the test was given twice each year. So on the day prescribed I arrived in my best karate outfit, the one with the small embroidered green dragon on the back.
I entered the main lobby and stopped at the front desk. The desk was small and almost empty. It was surrounded by a big U-shaped counter almost four feet tall. I remember little kids had to back up a few steps to look up and talk to the receptionist.
The test was held on a Saturday and the receptionist was someone I hadn’t seen before. She wasn’t young, nor was she old. She wasn’t plain, nor was she pretty. She was neither loud nor timid; she was just there. I pointed to the left and she nodded.
To the left was the room with the padding on the floor. I was wearing a karate uniform and it was pretty obvious why I’d entered the building, and so all she did was nod and I went through the doors and there were twenty young men inside, all of them stretching or flexing muscles or kicking imaginary opponents. There were a couple of metal trash cans and some folding chairs and some heavy bags hanging from chains hooked to the ceiling at strategic points.
At a long folding table sat three judges. They would decide who received permission to teach at the Y. I signed in and I received a couple of pamphlets about being responsible and working within the framework of a meaningful organization. At exactly nine we lined up according to rank and an instructor we all knew led us as we exercised.
After exercising we fought. I fought two guys and two guys fought four and then four guys fought everybody. We took turns disarming roving gangs; we had to take away rubber guns and knives from up to five people at a time.
Using the folding chairs we had to simulate fights on a Greyhound bus and also fights in a movie theatre. Our instructor tried to disorient us by turning off the lights at critical moments and he also rolled Lego toys out onto the floor. We were barefoot and the Lego blocks proved to be a great distraction, as it has been proven by science that stepping on a Lego while barefoot is one of the most painful experiences in the world.
To add to our difficulties our instructor played loud music, selections from The Sound of Music if I remember correctly. Later, when our instructor pulled a can of lighter fluid out of his bag, I knew it was time to retrieve the boards.
We break boards. At every function boards get smashed. During important events some of the boards are lit on fire. Out in the reception area there is a big box of boards, all of them donated by the public.
Most of them are the right size, but there’s always a couple of items we can’t use: large heavy railroad ties or sometimes a knuckle coupling from a railroad car that says “Bend this if you’re so tough.” We’ve even had plywood donated to us; the plywood marked with dark pencil, like it was supposed to be made to order and picked up on a Tuesday.
I moved to the receptionist’s desk. She was busy. She was talking to a man. The man appeared angry. He said, “I paid for that dog.” He said it very loud. And she said he was late on his child support and he said he’d rather quit his job than see her lie around on her lazy ass and sponge off his hard work.
All I did was place my arm on the counter and they both looked at me like I was standing in their living room without permission.
“I just need some boards.” I said.
She left her chair and started piling lumber in my direction. He said, “What you building: bird feeders? A doll house? You trying to earn a Cub scout merit badge?” And then he sneered.
He could tell I wasn’t building any damn bird feeders. The point is, since he sneered at me, I was free to answer him in any number of ways. I could have quoted Charlton Heston. I could have said: “Build coffins, that’s all you’ll need.” Or “Take your hands off me, you damn dirty ape” or even, “Row well. You live to serve this ship.”
But I didn’t say anything. At that moment two other martial artists came out of the testing area and they helped me carry back fifty planks, a couple of sheds, and an old white pine picnic table.
During one maneuver, as I jumped over a burning pile of wood, and, on landing, dodged five baseball bats, I asked one of the other students when it would be proper to interfere with a man and woman having an argument.
“Do you know these people?” he asked.
“No.” I said.
“Are they hitting each other?” he asked.
“No.” I said.
He said. “You can make things worse or you can make things better. You’ll either know how things have changed, or you won’t. That’s about all I know.”
Distracted by his indecision, I’d lost focus. A bat smacked me in the elbow. A flaming board rolled up against my ankle. The three judges could be seen taking my score down by a dozen points. I knew it was time to bring out some razzle-dazzle. I had to make another trip out to the receptionist. I walked past the padded flooring.
Now he was out there slamming his hand down on the desk. He was emphasizing his argument.
“Somebody’s going to call the cops,” she said. “You can’t be this loud in public and not get noticed. It won’t help if you get arrested again.”
I said, “Can I borrow your phone?”
He glared at me.
She passed me the phone. She also passed over a slip of paper. It was something small and she had it hidden in her hand right up till the last minute. I looked at it. It said 116. Maybe it was a locker number.
I dialed my friend George. He lived right down the street. “Bring the ice,” I said.
Five minutes later George entered the front door. He was pushing a two-wheeler and on the metal ledge there was a huge block of ice. If the ice had been cloudy, the creature from the movie The Thing could have been hidden inside. But the ice was very clean. If you want ice to be clean you start with hot water. It takes longer, but the ice will be clean.
We wheeled the ice in and there was some mild applause. I broke it with my forehead. I hoped my score was back up where it needed to be. We wheeled the broken pieces outside where they melted on the front lawn. At one point, a week later, it looked like there were two crystal Volkswagen Beetle sculptures parked out on the grass.
Entering again through the front door I witnessed the angry man using a knife, trying to open the soda machine. He was twisting the blade into the lock cylinder.
I walked up to him. “This thing is tricky,” I said. “There are two things you can do. If you pay for another soda you’ll get two. That’s not a bad solution. Or, if you bang on the side a little your money might come out.”
He looked at me. “You’re assuming I put money in.”
“Well...” I said, “I’m in the middle of something.”
Passing the receptionist I was offered the phone again. “Maybe I should use the phone,” I said. “Maybe there is someone I should call.”
I called my mom and told her about breaking the ice. I told her about the boards. I told her about the fire. I said, ‘Thanks’ as I passed the phone back. She also said, ‘Thanks’ but in a strange tone of voice. I caught her meaning right away. “Sorry,” I said. I put two quarters on the counter. “I wasn’t thinking.”
I passed the test. I knew I would. I passed the test and was quite proud of myself. But then a strange thing happened. There was a cooler of soda and a cake waiting for the group and, wouldn’t you know it, it was out behind the receptionist’s counter. A couple of us went out to get the refreshments. It happened so fast we all almost missed it.
The receptionist was lifting the cooler up and balancing it on the counter. The angry visitor was saying he wasn’t through talking to his ex and we’d darn well better wait for our stupid cake and soda until he was through with his conversation.
Just then a young man was coming in the front door. He was tall and skinny and he wore thick glasses. He was carrying a basketball. He was already heading to the right to the basketball court. But then he stopped. He turned to face our tiny gathering. “That how you talk to people?” he said.
At first I thought he was talking to me. We all looked at each other.
“You need to leave,” he said.
Now we could see who he was talking to. I wanted to say, “Be careful, he has a knife.” But before I could say anything the basketball left the man with the glasses and bounced off the angry man’s forehead.
The ball knew who owned it and it went right back to its owner’s hands.
The victim said, “You haven’t seen the last of me.” He was pointing at the lady behind the desk.
“She won’t be seeing you HERE. You won’t be coming back HERE,” said the man with the ball, and the ball scored one more time as the angry man stormed out. This time the ball bounced on its way back, but it was still a good throw.
I looked at the man with the glasses. “Want some cake?” I said. “We’re having cake to celebrate our skills.”
“No, I’ve got a game,” he said. He turned. He dribbled his way down the hall.
“There’s no dribbling in the hall,” I said.
But he was so far ahead he didn’t hear me.
Copyright © 2011 by Thomas Lee Joseph Smith
