The sun was barely up, but Zach had been for some time. The light spilled through a small gap in the curtains, reflecting off the spoon he was using to shovel cereal, chocolate flakes, into his mouth. He had gotten up early to rewatch the Karate Kid, which in this case meant he was replaying the training and, more importantly, the fight scenes. He wondered why they had bothered to put the romantic subplot in as he fast forwarded past some awkward flirting, it had little bearing on the movie after all.

He paused the movie, went to get his third bowl, then watched the last fight of the movie again, studying the main character’s crane kick carefully.

When he finished his third bowl, he quietly considered his options for training while returning the bowl to the kitchen. There was one obvious option…

Collecting his mother’s old calendar towels from the cabinet under the sink, he tied one around his head, checked in the bathroom mirror to see if he had hidden the embroidered ducklings properly and found only an odd mesh of faded browns and yellows around his forehead.

When he was certain he looked the part, he headed to the garage to wax his father’s car.

“Good… Morning, Zach,” Mister Brooks said as entered the garage, frowning at the scent of wax, “It’s not my birthday yet and I gave you money yesterday, so what do you need?”

“Just training, dad.”

“Great, son, but I do need the car, so if you could mop the floor or something instead.”

Zach finished the wax off motion, then stepped back from the car.

“Well,” Mister Brooks said to himself, “I did I say I didn’t want you to sleep the summer away.”

“And I’m not… Hey, dad. Is it okay if I got actual lessons?”

“Karate lessons?”

He scratched his head, then simply raised and dropped his shoulders, “As long as I’m not driving you to the city every week, you can do whatever the heck you want, son.”

He opened the door to the car and was half in before he finished the thought, “As long as it’s legal of course.”

The car door shut and Mister Brooks rolled the window down.

“You could ask Bart, he’d probably know where to start.”

“Who?”

“Kevin’s father? Mister Jenner, who runs the bar. He might know someone that can help. Could you get the door?”

Zach nodded, did as told then watched his father’s black Town Car roll past him.

“Oh and Son,” Mister Brooks said when he was next to Zach again.

“Yeah?”

“Be back by two. You and your brother have to pick up Tara’s birthday present.”

“He can’t do that himself?”

“He’ll need help. You’ll see.”

Zach frowned, pushing the button to close the garage, stepping outside immediately afterwards.

“Oh and one last thing,”

“Yeah?”

“Take that towel off your head, you look stupid.”

“Thanks dad,” Zach replied, doing as told and discarding the towel to the outside door handle of the garage.

He waved to his father as he left the cul-de-sac, put his hands firmly in his pockets and started to walk.

Zach had to admit to himself that the walk towards the strip mall was rather Dull without Tara’s incessant narration. On the other hand, it had given him ample time to think about how he would dedicate every waking hour to becoming a martial arts master.

That said, it was only a short walk to the mall and he hadn’t even managed to think of the crowning move to what would be his personal Karate style. He was considering Tiger Fang for the name, though he hadn’t decided what that meant yet.

While he contemplated this, he was surprised to see another pedestrian at the opposite side of the road. A jogger.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a jogger in quite some time, as most of the usual suspects had switched to aerobics, which they could do in the privacy of their own homes.

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He watched the runner passing him by, wondering who the girl in the sheer pink shorts and top was. It clicked when she approached him. With her hair in a neat high ponytail, that cheerfully swished with every step, instead of the teased curls she had last time he saw her, he barely recognized the girl from the video store. To not give her the impression he was staring, he kicked a rock, which skidded against the damaged asphalt and, with an unlucky chance found its way between her legs, skidding off against her white sneakers.

She turned to look at him as she past by, one eyebrow raising, but her pace didn’t slow.

“Sorry!” Zach called after, giving her a sheepish wave.

She turned her head back, the ponytail flicking back and somehow managing to seem more annoyed than the girl herself.

Zach shrugged, he had apologized after all, and kept walking

Zach wasn’t the first visitor to the bar that morning. Just like every Tuesday, a driver rolled a bright colored truck, filled to the brim with bottles of soda, onto the lot and took up twelve spaces. He got out, not concerned with whose possible parking he had blocked, took a pack of a cigarettes from his pocket and leaned down against the rig to enjoy his smoke.

The driver was a man fresh from the stereotype catalog. A yellowed wife beat, a cap showing his wish for Reagan to win the most the recent elections covering his mullet, and a pair of cut off jeans with a ridiculous amount of keys danging from a key-fob that struggled to keep the weight near the man’s waist.

Zach muttered a good morning to the smoking man and found mister Jenner, who was also smoking, outside his bar, which was very aptly named ‘Jenner’s Bar’.

Mister Jenner was an older man, who had fought in Europe and, while there, had proceeded to lose three fingers, most of his friends, a fair few of his marbles, and, most importantly, his patience for bullshit. On the positive side, he kept his witticisms, good cheer, and easy manner, which made him perfect for running a bar in a town that saw a motorcycle gang pass through at regular intervals.

“Zach!” he said when he spotted the boy, “Haven’t seen you in ages! What brings you out here so early?”

Zach had always been a bit intimidated by the tall man, who still suffered from a thousand yard stare, his eyes perpetually locked on the horizon to look for Nazis. As such, he had some problems talking familiarly to the older man.

He shuffled his feet and coughed.

“Out with it, son.”

“I was wondering, sir, if you might have heard of anyone offering uhh…”

“A pair?” the man grinned.

“A pair of what?”

“Nothing, son. What are you looking for?”

“Karate lessons,” Zach managed to squeak, “...sir.”

“Karate?” Mister Jenner responded, taking his cigar from his mouth to thoughtfully tap the ashes to the parking lot.

“Think you’d have to go to the city to learn karate…”

“Karate?” a new voice cut in, “Who the fuck wants to learn fuckin’ karate?”

“Leave the boy alone, Hank,” Jenner warned the trucker.

“I’m not starting shit, Bart, but the kid should know that he wants to a proper American, he don’t need any of that oriental chink shit.”

Mister Jenner took a long drag of his cigar, waiting for Hank to continue.

“You wanna yell, break boards or something, kid?”

“I..I uhhhhh.”

“Look, you wanna yell. Yell. This is America after all.”

“Uh...huh.”

“And if you just eat three square meals a day, lots of red meat, you don’t need none of that sissy oriental shit. You can be as strong as Hulk Hogan, kid.”

“Show us,” Jenner replied, tapping another dust of ash from his cigar.

“Come here, boy…”

“I told you to leave the kid Alone, hank,” Jenner stopped him, then pointed to a large brown planter. One that clearly had not seen any green in it since it had been placed, having been bombarded to an ashtray for passers-by.

“How’bout you show us on that.”

“You want me to suplex a fucking jar of dirt?”

Mister Jenner put his cigar between his teeth, waiting for the noise of another truck to pass by before finally answering, “That a problem?”

“Let me at it,” the trucker said, pushing his cap into Zach’s hand, then walked wide-legged up to the planter, as if he were expecting the earthenware to challenge him.

He wrapped his arms, massive from driving his rig, around the planter and, with a lot of sweating and grunting, moved the container.

To Hank’s credit, he actually manage to get the dirt filled earthenware from the ground. However, he had not counted on the weight when it came to his chest, which was where the planter gained the advantage. There was some stumbling, some cursing. First, just a handful of dirt ran into the man’s eyes, then, just as he tried to get grip on it again, the full weight took its toll, knocking him to the floor and covering him under half a layer of cigarette butt filled dirt.

Mister Jenner laughed, put his cigar between his teeth again, then walked over to push the jar aside.

“Got some respect for that chink shit now, Hank?”

Hank spat out a mouthful of dirt as an answer.

“But I’m sorry, son,” Jenner said to Zach, “I don’t know anyone outside the city…”

The second trucker spat out his cigarette in another planter, then frowned at his dirt covered colleague on the ground.

“If this is some sort of blackface show,” the driver said, “Y’all crackers have another thing comin’.”

“Morning, Elijah,” mister Jenner greeted him “This is uhh. Hey, Hank, what do you want to call this?”

Hank remained firmly on the floor, not responding to the bait.

“Short version,” Jenner continued, jabbing a thumb at Zach, “The kid wanted to learn Karate. Hank thought to show him a proper American sport.”

“And now we here?”

“Now we’re here,” Hank confirmed.

“Karate huh, boy?” Elijah asked, getting a tin of chewing tobacco from his overalls, “Ain’t nobody offering that out here, but...”

“But?”

“My brother, runs an… Adult bookshop he calls it. In the city. He got a pile of karate videos in, but he ain’t sellin’ ‘em.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, they from behind the wall.”

“Told you it’s commie shit,” Hank called over, dusting himself off and getting a fresh cigarette from his pocket.

“Number two,” Elijah continued, ignoring Hank, “Even if you into packing fudge, you ain’t gonna be jacking it to a bunch of crackers in pajamas slapping each other, is you?”

“I wouldn’t know, Elijah, but remember there’s a kid here.”

“The boy know what jacking it is, Bart. He probably do it all the time…”

Zach pointedly pretended not to hear this part of the conversation and tried to steer it back to the matter at hand.

“I can’t go in there and I’m definitely not going to ask my parents to pick it up either.”

“Lemme give you his number, boy. You can order over the phone. Wave of the future!”

“Thanks,” Zach said, not sure if he was let down or relieved. He had wanted his own Mister Miyagi, but a video would allow him to work at his own speed, even if he didn’t speak German. Karate should be in Japanese anyway, which he also didn’t speak, but one problem at a time.

Elijah took a notepad from his pocket, wrote a name and number, handed it to Zach, then wished him a nice day.

A moment later, the adults forgot he was there, starting a conversation about the peanuts Elijah was delivering.

Zach carefully stuffed the paper in his pocket, then ran home.