High Water
Authors: R.W. Tucker
High Water
By R.W. Tucker
Copyright © September 2014 by R.W. Tucker
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States by R.W. Tucker
Edition October 2014
This is dedicated
to all the stoners,
tens of thousands of you,
that manage to hold it down
without a single problem
every day of the week.
Contents
Chris stopped gawking at the skinny teenage girls the next pool over long enough to see that his daughter was pissing in his. As a father of four and sliding quickly into middle age, he knew enough about child rearing to recognize the expression kids made when they were relieving themselves. Kasey’s face had erupted in a look of determination with her efforts accompanied by a balling of tiny fists. An invisible current of warm water caressed Chris’ plump leg. It was too much effort to reprimand his daughter for the cloud of urine slowly surrounding him. Instead Chris took a long gulp of his beer and slyly glanced at the next pool. The pretty girls had left, probably for the water slides. Chris resigned himself to watching his daughter without distraction, raising his can in preparation for another swallow.
A sudden spray to his face interrupted his drink. Warm, chlorinated water dripped from his pudgy lips through the mouth of the can. Having relieved herself, his youngest daughter was now trying to get his attention by slapping the pool’s surface.
“Daddy! I want to ride you!” Kasey exclaimed.
“Wait for daddy to finish his drink, baby.” The water had left an oily film on his tongue.
“No, I want to
now,”
she whined.
He knew it had been a mistake. Now too buzzed to be disgusted, Chris decided to oblige her. He guzzled his watered-down drink. The obscene humidity and heat in New Jersey’s largest indoor water park, Tahitian Water Adventures, was unbearable. The booze was going straight to his head and the screeching of hundreds of children wasn’t helping either. Chris gave in to gravity by flopping down into the pool, to the great amusement of his daughter. Buoyancy felt better than standing.
“I’M GONNA GETCHA, I’M GONNA GETCHA!” he cried, giving his daughter his best impression of a crazed maniac. Kasey squealed in delight as he lifted her on for a ride. Chris swam in circles around the shallow pool, buzzing his lips at the surface of the water. Kasey pounded her hands on his bare back. This wasn’t so bad. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his bobbing discarded beer can on the pool’s surface. Chris quickly snatched it up before anyone could see.
“Are you out of your fuckin’ mind, Chris? Get your mouth out of the water.”
He looked up to see Mary standing over him with her perpetually present and stained e-cig in hand. His wife shook her head at him. Her frazzled auburn hair framed a tired face. Slowly realizing where he had put his mouth, Chris frowned.
“I don’t see you in here playing with her,” he quietly replied. Mary addressed her daughter with a scowl, “Come on now Kasey. I want a corn dog,” she said and extended her hand.
“Oh boy! A corndog!” Kasey cried. Chris was left kneeling in the warm water as Kasey bounded out of the pool. .
Realizing that he was now a grown man in a pool by himself, Chris strode out of the water and over to their table. A faded red umbrella cast a shadow over his family’s belongings. Chris still didn’t understand why he put up the dirty parasol. They were indoors and the only light came in through the skylights. “Fuck this place,” he thought, and grabbed another beer out of the cooler. Feeling clammy and unpleasant, Chris pressed the icy can to his forehead and strode back to the edge of the pool.
In front of him, water slides twisted and snaked through one another like intertwined birth canals, occasionally delivering breathless children. A sprawling, unorganized line of people clutching inner tubes slowly climbed to the apex of Slider Mountain. Chris knew there was a series of entrances to these slides at the top. It felt lonely on his side of the park and his older children were likely there queuing up to go down right now.
Wiping at the sweat on his brow, Chris felt like the heat was increasingly oppressive. Didn’t they have climate control in here? Tickets had totaled over a buck fifty. He felt thoroughly fleeced and yet still stifled. Plus, the clientele left something to be desired. Tahitian Water Adventures attracted a certain group of unsavory people. The type of people that would look forward to Saturday night Laser Bowling. Chris decided today was the last time he brought his family to Tahitian. He just couldn’t wait to leave.
A cry, almost drowned out by the unrelenting noise, reached Chris’ ears. Distracted from his unpleasant thoughts, he looked for the source of the sound.
At the deeper end of the pool, standing under a misting palm tree, was a middle aged woman. She stood alone, hunched over. One strap of her black bikini top had fallen off of a slender shoulder. Oblivious to her appearance, the woman hugged her stomach, moaning loudly, lips pulled over her teeth in a grimace of distress. The expression revealed a slight but endearing gap between her top incisors. Wet blonde hair was to be plastered across her forehead, revealing the delicate features of a small nose and high cheekbones.
Charitable spirit wasn’t something Chris experienced often, but he saw nobody else around to help the woman. Chris sat his beer on the table while he grumbled out a curse and waded into the pool to help. Trudging through the water, he tried to yell over the ambient din of the water park, “Hey lady! Lady, what’s wrong?”
There was no response, just another moan. Already feeling out of breath, he swung his flabby arms for balance as he waded closer. From here he could see that she was staring intently into the water. A black spot at the bottom of the pool wobbled with refraction.
The woman was saying something to herself. Chris only began to make it out as he got closer. “My kitty… oh, my kitty, what did they do to her? She didn’t do anything. Ohhhhh, my kitty...” Perplexed, Chris peered down following the woman’s line of sight.
Floating in a pile at the bottom of the pool was a sizable, but unremarkable chunk of reddish black weave. Chris didn’t hide the disgusted look on his face as he yelled at the loony woman in front of him, “What the hell is wrong with you, lady?” “That is not your frickin’ cat!”
Very close now, Chris made sudden and chilling eye contact with the single eye that peered out from under the mat of wet hair. Much of the sclera was caked with a gold, flaky discharge. The discharge obscured much of her jade green iris and the colors contrasted strongly. ‘Caked’ was the first word that came to mind. It was a combination of stickiness and oozing that made him nauseous. The black center of her eye seemed to drink him in and Chris felt a wave of fear gathering in his gut. It was as though he stood on a cliff’s edge, ready to fall into that darkness.
Chris ignored a crescendo of instinctual calls to flee and reached out to close his hand around the woman’s thin arm. Good deed for the week, he decided. The eye turned, focusing on his hand.
“What’s happening to me?” the woman said in a small voice.
“We’re getting you out of the pool, sweetheart. Come on,” Chris said. As much as he was terrified of becoming sick, he felt obligated to help. It was what any good person would do. As Chris tried to pull the woman in the direction of the tables, he watched her head loll back. Before he could react or pull away, bile darkened with red blood vomited from her mouth. A grilled cheese and french fry combo platter spattered against his arms and belly.
Acrid odors of vomit mingled with the chemical smells of the pool but it was the strange, saccharine-sweet smell coming from the woman that put him over the edge. Chris gasped and felt his digestive system lurch. Doubled over, he forcefully vomited his breakfast into the water.
With his gut fully spent, Chris stood up groaning. The woman was striding through the filthy water toward him. Bright red blood ran out of her eye, dripping from her chin onto her bare chest.
“You. It was you.
You
took her away.” Chunks of pink vomit flew from her mouth as she bellowed at him angrily.
Terrified and voided, Chris backed away. The woman vocalized an unholy, ravening fury as she slogged through the water toward him. His protestations and squeals of abject fear were barely audible against the background noise of the water park. Chris stumbled, unable to get a good footing on the tiled surface, as the woman relentlessly closed the distance between them. Falling onto Chris, she pushed his body under the water.
Instinct kicked in. Chris used his superior body weight to throw his attacker backward. Managing to sit up, he caught his breath, but his effort only stalled the woman. Her hands continued to strike at him ferociously.
“You drowned my kitty!” she screamed, “Drowned, drowned!”
Grossly out of shape, his breathing became harried. Chris’ attempts at guarding his face against the mad woman became weaker and weaker. A wild punch to his right eye made him see stars. She followed up with fingers that clawed at his face, rending and tearing. He leaned forward to hide from her attack as more blows rained down on his back and neck. Chris screamed one last time before the woman kicked him in the temple, knocking him into the water.
Under the surface, Chris watched as a mix of lukewarm water, spilt blood, and fresh vomit slowly whirl down the central drain of the pool into the water supply below.
Holding up his guard, elbows tight and only exposing the exterior of his arms, Peter Sharpe watched his opponent warily through the sparring mask. He didn’t notice the ragged breaths fogging the plastic shield protecting his face or his beard dripping sweat down his neck. He was completely focused on the bout. After some bag work and core conditioning, Pete had been matched with a sparring partner almost half his age. The fellow student was well-trained and alert. Adam played for the high school football team when he wasn’t in the studio. He was known for being strong and quick on his feet. The teen’s brown eyes seemed narrowed, watching through his bright red mask.
In a surge of motion, Adam pressed forward aggressively. His muscle arms were seeking to blast through Pete’s defenses. Waiting until the crucial moment, Pete swept a punch to the outside, allowing him to send a hook into the back of the teenager’s skull. Pete squared himself and waited for the counter attack, but saw that Adam was dazed and shaking his head. As Pete’s’ father had said many times, “youth and inexperience would always be outclassed by old age and treachery.”
A shout came from outside, a voice confident with authority, “Adam, that’s twice now, get your guard up!” and then, with equal parts criticism, “Pete, I told you to keep it short and you’re not listening to me.”
“Yes,
Sifu
!” Pete shouted the honorific to the gray-haired figure out of the corner of his eye. He kept his eyes on Adam. The boy was heated, maybe angry at being embarrassed by
Sifu
. Maybe just angry from being punched in the back of his head.
Moving quickly to redeem himself, Adam tried another two punches, one high, and one low. Pete blocked both, but didn’t anticipate the kid spinning on a heel, sending out a backhand with the same arm. The gloved fist, a flash of red, grazed Pete’s ear. Another inch and it would have been a serious shot to the dome.
“Dang, son! That was sick,” Pete shouted as they squared up again. Adam smiled wide underneath his mask.
Pete shuffled forward and feinted. He knew his opponent would be slightly winded by the effort. Rather than blocking the blow, Adam shuffled back. Pete used the same feinting hand to smack the boy right in the face. Sparring was equal parts strength, stamina, and trickery. Pete was confident after a few years and plenty of practice. The blow connected. Rather than step away again, Adam reacted by ducking then surging forward quickly. He connected a blow to Pete’s chest. Ignoring the blossoming of pain there, Pete slammed downward on his opponent’s arm, using it as a guide to strike Adam in the face again. The boy’s head recoiled backwards with the blow. It took some additional effort to block a counter at Pete’s own head a split second later. Both boxers backed off, winded. Movements were getting slower, muscles screeching to his brain and lungs for more oxygen. Pete’s sternum felt bruised from the impact. Fortunately,
Sifu
shouted for them to stand down. Satisfied that the final exchange had been kept at short range, per his master’s orders, Pete let his guard down.
The two combatants walked up to each other to tap gloves. “You definitely schooled me,” the youth said, shaking his head.
Pete clapped him on the shoulder. “Are you kidding me? How many times have you sparred now?”
“Three. This is my fourth,” the young man said.
“I had my face handed to me plenty of times. It took a year before
Sifu
wasn’t shouting at me through every bout, and hell, you heard him, he still does,” Pete said, trying to be enthusiastic. Adam smiled, looking a little less defeated. Pete continued, trying to build the kid up, “That last bit was great. Make sure that every hit to your head is worth what you give back.” Adam nodded, looking like he was thinking the advice over.
“Good job, guys. Sharpe, when you’ve got your gear off, I want to work with you,”
Sifu
said from the other side of the studio.
Curly hair matted with sweat, Pete stripped off the sparring gear and set about cleaning his equipment. Perspiration trapped under the vinyl chest piece and helmet evaporated, cooling his flushed skin. Glancing over, Pete saw that
Sifu
was talking with Adam. Likely reminding him to keep his guard up and not move backwards. Shaolin kung fu made it a priority to close the distance between two combatants and put the opponent into a compromising position. Adam would learn this pretty soon.
Getting punched in the face repeatedly usually schooled you faster than any one piece of advice.
Wushu Shaolin Studios was started by Kyle a few years after he received his black belt from his own master. It stood on a corner a few blocks from Pete’s place. Nestled between a jeweler and a dive bar, the studio was unassuming. From the outside looking in, it appeared to be just a wide hardwood floor with some punching bags lined quietly against the wall. But Pete quickly learned that the wood drank sweat like other floors drank solvent. A few darker stains were where Pete suspected the rare sight of spilt blood couldn’t be fully scrubbed away. The studio was more than welcoming because Kyle fostered an atmosphere of egalitarianism. The old and the young could come together to learn an ancient art and train their bodies to the knife’s edge of martial perfection.
Satisfied that his equipment was clean enough to pack up, Pete walked over to the other side of the studio. He stopped by Walter, who was continuing to flounder in front of people half his height. Saturday classes were always a mess and Kyle needed the help of the older students like Pete and Walter to give the younger students direction. Walter had been given the responsibility of training some of the younger students, showing them a few of the grappling techniques in Shaolin’s
chin’na
system. From the shrieks and carrying on, Pete could tell that his best friend was again a big hit with the kids.
Walter, black, long of limb, and wiry with muscle was looking on through thick glasses. He admonished the youngsters by explaining in his deep voice that they needed to be serious, “I’m telling you, get with it, this is not a game.” They shrieked and two circled around him like a maypole. Pete chuckled as Walter ran a hand across his days old stubble. This rare sign of frustration from his normally unflappable friend showed he was clearly not being taken seriously by the youngest students. A fellow brown belt –
Sufi’s
studio still used the popular Japanese belt system – Walter had been his best friend for years. They’d met in college and had been friends through Pete’s graduate program. Walter had introduced Pete to Wushu Shaolin Studios and they’d both risen quickly through the ranks.
One of the kids was doubled over with hysterical laughter as Pete stepped around the child trying to look as smug as possible. “Trouble with the kids, Walt?” Pete ask.
Exasperatedly wiping away sweat that trickled off his short hair, Walter stepped close to Pete so that only he could hear him say, “I have never wanted to kick a child before.”
Pete laughed, “Another twenty minutes and we’ll be out of here. You called the rental company about the truck, right?”
“What?” Walt’s face was blank.
“What… you said you were going to call them,” Pete said, running a hand through his tangled hair.
“No,” he said, continuing to stare at Pete. Walter had a winning face for poker if he could only think a few steps ahead. If Zen meant living in the moment, Walter had beaten you there.
“You son of a bitch,” Pete whispered, gritting his teeth. Today was supposed to be moving day, but he wouldn’t be moving day without a truck. Seething, it was taking all Pete had not to chew Walter out in the middle of the studio. Walter held up his hand, “Chill, son, I got this.” Turning back to the kids and using his teacher’s voice, Walter shouted, “I’m done with this. Ya’ll need to get it together. I have to go do something.” The kids ignored their instructor, continuing to carry on merrily. The ineffectual teacher gave an exaggerated salute to Pete as he exited the floor, strolling to the lobby and then out of sight.
Trusting Walter to make a reservation was one of the dumber things Pete had done in his lifetime, though his friend seemed unconcerned. At least Walter knew how to drive one of these trucks. Pete rubbed at the bridge of his nose in annoyance and immediately grimaced at the sting he caused by dripping sweat into his eyes. Blinking in irritation, he remembered that
Sifu
wanted to look over his material before he left. Clearing his eyes, Pete made his way up to Kyle, who was watching two of the older students sparring.
“Everything all right?” Kyle said to him without taking his eyes off the melee. Not much got past
Sifu
in his own studio.
“I asked Walter to make a reservation for a moving truck,” Pete explained.
“Why the hell would you do that?” Kyle said, chuckling to himself.
“I don’t… goddamnit,” Pete said, quietly. It was a good question.
“Anyway, Pete, you were looking really good out there. You’re getting really fast,” he said, and without missing a beat, “CLYDE! You are putting
yourself
off balance. Stop leaning into your punches!” The student responded with something unintelligible, the words muffled by their facemask.
“Thank you, sir,” Pete replied. He was happy that his teacher could see the work he had put in over the past few weeks. Kyle blew his whistle and told the fighters to take off their gear and get some water. The sparring partners tapped gloves then joined the other students who proceeded to help them shed their gear. Companionable chatter echoed through the studio and mixed with the laughs of the children.
These were sounds Pete would miss.
“Now show me your material,”
Sifu
commanded, now entirely focused on Pete’s technique. Teachers as attentive as
Sifu
were few and far between in any discipline, let alone martial arts. After frantically navigating his graduate program for the past two years, Pete knew that all too well. He respected good pedagogy when he saw it.
Motioning to an open piece of floor, Kyle leaned against a wall. He crossed his arms, waiting and watching. Pete threw himself at each of his techniques with vigor. Kyle’s eyes, tan like scorched sand, eyed Pete’s footwork. Pete had let Kyle know at the beginning of class that today was his last day. The older man had nodded, accepting the fact like Pete was talking about the weather. If Pete’s imminent departure was a disappointment to his teacher, Kyle wasn’t showing it.
The next technique was a combination of mantis and leopard techniques. The former used for grabs, the latter for powerful strikes. Exhausted by the class so far, Pete felt his concentration waning.
There was a lot on his mind.
The damn moving truck was the first thing. The lease was up tomorrow at noon. Pete had to get the truck fully packed today and ready to leave in the morning. Walter very well may have scuttled everything. Plus he wanted to call Liz up before he left…
Stepping incorrectly, Pete felt himself go off-balance. He cursed himself for being so distracted.
Kyle stared Pete down coldly. “Again,” Kyle said, then grunted out a
kiai
.
Kiai
being the battle cry that expelled one’s
chi
, their natural, vital energy.
Pete again preformed the technique, an advanced set of moves designed to bring the opponent to the grounds. Once on the ground, , the kung fu practitioner could manipulate the opponent’s foot at will, twisting it into a break, or using leverage to force your opponent to turn over. The technique opened up more options for attack. Kung fu was flexible..
Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw Walter and Adam watching him practice. Years at the studio had put all self-consciousness about his technique behind him. While he was being watched by a master, his demonstration was intensely personal. Pete finished off by turning his imaginary opponent’s ankle in a full circle, a particularly painful way to end a fight. Pete paused to look at his
Sifu
.
“Where was your
kiai
?” Kyle said, staring intensely.
Missing a
kiai
was an amateur mistake.
“Again!”
Sifu
shouted, a challenge to Pete’s silence.
Whatever the style, martial arts was a challenge to one’s own body and mind. Kyle saw it as his job to make sure you worked to your full potential. The dynamic was a push/pull on the part of the master: pushing you to your limit and then pulling you further than you thought you could go. Pete over calculated his last step and let his guard open up, another mistake. A floored opponent would have kicked him right in the nuts, ending the fight. Pete finished as strong as he could, with a loud
kiai.
Kyle walked over to Pete, his back to the watching students.
“Relax, Pete,” Kyle said, a rare smile appearing on his grizzled face. Pete’s teacher was tough as nails, and looked the part, but his smile was always genuine.
“Yes sir,” Pete said, trying to catch his breath.
“I know you’re tired and that this was a tough class. But you’re an advanced belt and I need you to focus. Nobody trying to fight you will give you a break and neither will I.”