Wednesday, September 18, 20XX

Sometimes, I wonder why I'm at where I'm at. I'm feeling much better, so I don't expect this entry to go down the sad and wild direction. It's a different kind of wild. A strange self-reflection, strange because I feel us young guys rarely take a moment to just relax and think. I don't know how girls are. Maybe they're the same, or maybe they aren't. They're a different breed of human so I don't try too hard to understand.

What I'm thinking about is whether I'm making the best use of my time. Since the letdown, I've vowed not to follow the delusional path of working myself down. I choose to live as freely as possible, with some restraints, but not too many. I joined a lot of fun clubs since then, and here I am, in another one. With Mr. Kafka gone doing volleyball stuff, and Claire doing moving-leg stuff (the ancient and traditional method of transportation, but sportier), I realize how out of place I am. I don't really care about these things too much, but it's something that's come to mind. I'm curious.

Curious why those two are a part of a club like this. They obviously have better things to do. Us seniors have enough on our plates, finalizing our resumes for college and whatnot. Why spend it at such a lousy club? I say that, but I'm really liking it here.

That's the thing. They aren't like me. I'm a lazy, good-for-nothing, sometimes sad, often whimsical person. If I were in a story, for argument's sake, then I suppose I would be nothing more than a side character, the comic relief of some sorts. Maybe that role would fit Mr. Kafka better, I dunno. Anyway, I would definitely not be the hero—I'm not amazing enough for that. Nor do I want the attention. Main characters attract a lot of trouble. I want to live in peace, thank you very much.

I seek a quiet life. A lonely bearing, flavored by my whims, occupied by my musings.

Mr. Kafka and Claire do NOT seek to live quiet lives. That's what intrigues me.

Mark is much the same. Trust me, he does not lose to a competition of impressiveness with them. He is up there, in the upper ranks, the upper tiers. Right now—for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, on purpose or not—Mark is one of the most infamous people in school, after that incident. I did a little digging today, and I found out about three other minor incidents that involved him, none of his own making. So, it's reasonable to say he's the type to attract trouble.

But his status as a trouble-maker aside, he is impressive in other ways as well. Besides being well-versed in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (a fascinating art, which I was graced with the opportunity to witness close-hand), he seems to be a solid student. Not as impressive as Claire, of course, but he gets the job done, and done well. He also appears to be popular with a lot of girls, which I don't find surprising. Despite his unapproachability, he has his fair share of unrequited lovers, a sort of hidden and collected follower-base. Mark has this strange magnetic charm. That charm is ineffective on guys, however, with many appearing to have some sort of grudge against him for one reason or another. He is especially disliked among many of the sporties. In those cases, his popularity may work against him.

Our school has many martial arts clubs, including a dedicated BJJ club. Why isn't Mark there, but here in this random place? I heard Mark's family owns a small dojo downtown (which explains some things), so maybe he already has a place to practice. Or, maybe he's too strong for the club. Both lines of reasoning didn't feel very compelling to me. He could be spending his time much more productively.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

So, as a caring club-member, I did the obvious thing, the thing I do best: ask personal and private questions for my own benefit without much forethought or hesitation.

When I asked him, he scowled intensely, clicking his tongue heavily in mad irritation. He looked like he remembered something pretty displeasant; people that caused him a lot of trouble; a regrettable period of his past.

"You made me remember something pretty displeasant; people that caused me a lot of trouble; a regrettable period of my past," Mark said, displeased.

Wow, what a psychic. Check that out. MewTwo who???????

I'm getting my sources mixed. Back on topic, now.

He looked pretty frustrated. Besides a few other points, the definitive factor is his scowl: it grows the more irritated he is. I am sensible enough to know when not to pry. I changed the topic. I asked him about jiu-jitsu. Surprisingly, he lit up, talking at length about it. It's the most I've ever seen him talk, which even now is not much, but it's better than nothing. I was getting into it. He exuded passion, and I'm a sucker for that kind of stuff. It was a cool discussion, minus his usual derogatory tone.

I asked him all sort of things. Do you need to be strong to be good at it? How does it compare to other disciplines? If you choke someone out, is it possible to perform CPR chest compressions to bring them back to consciousness? Can you speak Brazilian? And have you ever been to a Brazilian steakhouse—obviously, I asked all the important questions, of course. I really pushed the conversation—now that I had him, I was gonna ride the heck out of that flow. I wasn't gonna let this end too soon.

Unfortunately, it ended too soon. I learned, among other things, that the official language of Brazil is Portuguese ("seu idiota"), you CANNOT (I repeat, CANNOT) perform a reverse-heimlich meneuver on a defeated foe, and that Mark isn't actually a black belt, but he's pretty up there (school rumors and over-exaggerations, unsurprisingly).

The conversation ended too soon because I foolishly asked him if he could teach me a couple moves. Talking with him got me all fired up and I wanted to do something with this infectious passion. He looked me dead in the eyes and stood up. A fire lit within him.

"Come at me," he said. He wasn't kidding.

I was joking, I said, nervously. He relaxed his stance and I turned around and CHARGED AT HIM.

I CHARGED AT HIM.

AND THEN I DIED.

I didn't die. Actually, before I knew it, I was on the ground, looking up. I didn't even see him move. It was crazy. His arm was around my neck, and the airflow was cut off from my lungs. Then he let me go.

Could it be? Mark Rodger's second of nine secret techniques, The Shadow Choke, a deadly finishing move that has ended the lives of hundreds, thousands, millions of people. Scratch that, TRILLIONS OF PEOPLE. I mean, why not include the whole world and then some, it's that powerful of a move, after all. Bewildered and incredibly fascinated, I stood up and ordered that he teach me a move!

He stared at me intimidatingly.

I stood up and demanded he teach me a move!

He stared at me intimidatingly.

I stood up and asked humbly if he could teach me a little something, if he has the time and if he wants to.

From there, with much back and forth deliberation, he ended up showing me a simplified version of the finish he performed on me. Apparently, it's not the infamous something forbidden something people-crushing something Shadow Choke, but a move called the Marcelotine, named after the legendary Marcelo Garcia.

I couldn't get it, after so much time and effort. Laying on the ground exhausted and beaten up, I again marveled at Mark. He does this every day, with great skill and passion. I'm grateful he took the time to teach me.

I was going to say thanks for teaching me, it was fun! but he abruptly talked about a training plan covering the next few weeks to prepare me to learn the move. It'll be tough, he said. But with my teaching, even the likes of you can do it. He said, a devilish smile beaming on his face.

Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah.

What trouble and pain did I get myself into. I did not ask for all this.

He handed me another Quest bar. I took it begrudgingly.

Heh.

Challenge accepted, you monster. I'll freakin get it done.

Aching and writing, I munch on some mint-chocolate goodness preparing myself for the arduous road ahead, enjoying the post-war club space and comfortable silence requiring no words yet fulfilling an unlikely connection, a shared bond.