Chapter 3

George lounged on the sofa with his legs draped over the armrest. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t sleeping. He was waiting. Any moment a car horn would sound, his father home from work, and he would take both of his bags outside and leave this place for Vacaville, California. He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to go.

            His father first told him three weeks ago, just before graduation. George was trying to get permission to go to Virginia Beach with friends. They were going to stay in a beach house.

            “You can’t. You won’t be here,” his father answered him.

            “Won’t be here? Why not? Where else am I going?” George asked. He had no clue what his father was talking about. He had no plans whatsoever. He figured he could take the summer off, have some fun before he turned eighteen in November, and then start looking for work in the fall. He could start saving up for a car or whatever.

            “You’re going to stay with Ricardo Gracia, my cousin. He’s a black belt in Jiu-jitsu. He’s going to teach you grappling for a while. You can do that while you decide what you’re going to do with your life.”

            George was first stunned, then incredulous, then furious. He heatedly tried reasoning with his father. Why send him away to a relative’s to learn karate or whatever? Didn’t he already explain to his father what his plans were? Wasn’t he a man, able to make his own decisions?

            “Apparently you’re not,” his father snapped back. “You haven’t made a single decision about what to do with your life except to spend the summer doing nothing.”

            George was angry, angrier than he could remember being in a long time, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. As his father’s words repeated themselves again and again in his head, he tried to say something that would prove him wrong. Something to show him that those things he said weren’t true. Something logical. But those words never came.

            Over the next few days, he tried changing his father’s mind. He even looked up job openings, colleges he could apply to, and technical schools. But his father’s mind was made. “You’d only being doing any of it to stay,” his father said, and he was right. George was going. And that was that.

            It wasn’t until just a week ago that Ignacio had mentioned that he was sending George to California. George was shocked. He was so angry that his dad had decided to send him away that it never occurred to him to ask where. He’d be going to the beach after all!

            Since then he also discovered that Ricardo Gracia, his father’s cousin, was the winner of the first four Elite championships. So he’d be learning real fighting, too. Maybe what his father did was a good thing. He would have to say goodbye to some things for a while, but he was sure he’d be back soon enough. All he had to do was figure out what he wanted to do with his life, right? And in the meantime, he could go to the beach, get some exercise, and learn some fighting. Visions of California’s legendary girls danced in his brain and he smiled. Maybe he wouldn’t miss Williamsburg as much as he thought.

            The car horn sounded. George swung his legs off the arm rest and grabbed his things. He stepped out into the sticky humidity of June and ran to the car. He would have to hurry to catch his flight.

 

            Hector sat in the locker room alone. It was a high school locker room, not unlike the one that was in the high school he’d graduated from only a year ago. But it was late, long after classes let out and student activities had ended. The gymnasium, usually a gathering place for basketball games and pep rallies, had been transformed into something different altogether.

            Hector was average height, but in good shape. Beads of sweat clung to his body, and he resisted the urge to cool himself off in front of a fan. His hands were taped like a boxer’s, and strapped inside the light gloves that padded his knuckles but left his fingers free. There was tape wrapped around the wrist strap, and the initials of the official who’d inspected his gloves earlier. The red shorts he wore were meant for surfing. Under his black, hooded sweat shirt he wore nothing.

            A booming, amplified voice called his name, and heavy metal music soon followed. It was time for Hector to fight.

            The room he stepped into was unrecognizable as a basketball court. It was dark and foggy, except for the spotlights focused on a black, circular cage erected in the middle of the court. Crowded around the cage were spectators sitting in metal folding chairs with even more seated in stands to either side of the gym. A walkway led from the locker room to the cage, and Hector walked down it alone.

            Once he reached the cage he removed his black sweat shirt. No one was there to take it for him, so he tossed it at the foot of the platform that held the cage above the floor. An official met him there and wiped petroleum jelly across his forehead and cheekbones, and then he directed Hector to take a walk around the outside of the cage. There was a narrow ledge on the outside of the black fence, so Hector walked and waved to the hoots and cheers of people who paid eleven dollars a ticket. Then he stepped into the cage, where his opponent waited.

            The announcer introduced both fighters. He named Hector a Jiu-jitsu fighter, and his opponent a mixed martial artist, but Hector knew better. He’d seen this guy fight once before. He was primarily a wrestler, with no outstanding ability to finish off his opponents. His striking and submissions were nothing to write home about. At the sound of the bell, Hector felt he had this match already won.

            He was almost right. Hector opened the round with a push kick to the other fighter’s legs, and he shot in for the clinch immediately. The takedown, the guard pass, and the mount took little time, but Hector’s opponent was slippery from sweat, and holding him in anything for long was difficult. Still, Hector was in a winning position. He straddled his opponent’s chest and delivered just enough punches to convince the wrestler to extend his arms in desperation. It was just as planned. Hector whipped his body around the exposed arm and lay on his back, slowly stretching out the arm. In a moment the elbow would lock out, and the wrestler would have to surrender or risk a broken arm.

            But it didn’t happen. Hector’s opponent, sensing the danger to his elbow, reached out and grabbed his trapped hand with his free arm. His bicep curled and they struggled for a moment, Hector fighting to keep the near win, the other fighter inching his weight little by little on top of hector until their positions had reversed. Hector was now on the bottom, and he’d lost the arm lock.

            The next hundred and twenty seconds for Hector were frustrating and exhausting. The wrestler was able to keep his place on top of Hector for a while, and though he made no attempt at chokes or arm locks, he occasionally pounded his fist into Hector’s face. It was jarring, though Hector knew it was not so hard he would be knocked out any time soon. Finally the other fighter’s grip on Hector slipped, and they both kicked away from each other and stood to their feet. The crowd cheered.

            Hector was furious with himself. He was fighting someone inexperienced, with unimpressive striking, and almost no submissions. He was strong, Hector admitted, but what was that supposed to be against his training? He’d spent six years learning Jiu-jitsu from arguably the best trainer in the world, and yet here he was: tired, bruised, and no closer to a submission than he was at the beginning of the round. It wasn’t fair. He deserved to win.

            Hector lashed out with his fists. He wasn’t even conscious of how many punches he’d thrown, or to which part of the body he’d thrown them. He was nothing but anger, now. Nothing but frustration, indignity, and fire. Some of the punches connected, and the wrestler rocked back on his heels like a drunk. His back fell against the cage with a muffled clang. Hector was on him, all of his tactics forgotten. All of his training behind him. This was not Jiu-jitsu he was using. It was raw instinct.

            He didn’t feel his fist connect with the wrestler’s jaw, but it did, and somewhere inside him a light went out. The wrestler teetered, and then slumped to the floor in a tangled heap. Hector went to follow him, still angry, not aware the fight was over. But someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him back. It was not until a moment later that he realized he was out of control. He stopped struggling against the referee, and he went back to his corner.

            A few minutes later he was in the locker room again, leaning his head against the lockers. He hadn’t yet gotten dressed, or even toweled himself off. He was still in his shorts and gloves, drenched with sweat. His hair was matted against his forehead. He was just standing there, brooding.

He gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into the locker. The clang echoed through the showers, but the crowd outside was too loud for anyone to notice. Hector was surprised by the dent that his strike left. He’d expected his hand to hurt, but he felt almost nothing through the layers of padding and tape still wrapped around his fist. He finally started getting dressed.

            Hector’s amateur MMA record was now 1-0, with one win by knockout. He didn’t win with Jiu-jitsu.

 

            George’s eyes opened as the pilot announced their decent into Sacramento, California. The local time was 11:00 pm. George started gathering together his things scattered across his lap and the empty seat beside him: an MP3 player, headphones, a video game magazine, and a bag of jerky with only the scraps left at the bottom.

            He left the plane with his backpack of items that kept him entertained through two reconnecting flights in Chicago and Denver. He’d been traveling for what felt like days, though he’d only left his home early that afternoon, and he felt inexplicably grimy, as though he had a thin film of oil all over his skin. It was his first time traveling so far alone, but instead of being the thrill he’d expected, it was quite dull. He’d had no one to talk to for hours.

            As he passed through the security checkpoint on his way to baggage claim, he spotted a man holding a handwritten sign on white copy paper that read “George Peligro”. The man was short, white, and curly-haired. He didn’t look like he could’ve been his father’s cousin, though he looked he might be around the right age.

            “You’re George?” the man asked. When George nodded, the man shook his hand. He had an incredible grip. “I’m Scott Brown, I work with Ricardo over at the academy. He couldn’t make it, so he sent me to pick you up.”

            George thought Scott was a nice enough guy. He was polite, though very to-the-point. He moved George through the airport with a brusque efficiency that told him that Scott was a very practical man. They didn’t stop or even slow down for anything until they got George’s bags, and then they left without wasting another minute. They got into Scott’s powder blue Chevy Coronet and immediately hit the road, going no more and no less than eight miles above the posted speed limit.

            Scott asked George about where he was from, and then told him he’d lived in Virginia for a few years too. He was in the navy until he retired only a few years ago, and he spent some time in Norfolk, the huge naval base only an hour from George’s hometown. George thought this explained Scott’s relentless pace of getting from point A to point B. It seemed like a habit someone might pick up in the military.

            “So how far to the beach?” George asked.

            “From Vacaville? Oh, I’d say it would take about an hour, maybe more to get there from the academy,” Scott answered.

            “Driving?” George asked, his eyebrows raised. Scott nodded.

            “Not everywhere in California is close to the beach, you know.”

            George’s face fell. He knew his California adventure was too good to be true. He flew for hours to get to California, and now he was no closer to the beach than he would have been if he’d just stayed home. He should’ve figured his dad wouldn’t intentionally send him to a place where he could have that much fun.

            Since it was night, there wasn’t much to look at during their fifty minute ride to the academy. George could catch glimpses of palm trees at the edges of the streetlights’ glow. Between his discovery of the distance to the beach and the apparent lack of scenery, George was disappointed with California as a whole.

            Eventually they got off the interstate and started through a town that might’ve been the same size as Williamsburg, albeit with fewer trees. Storefronts and traffic intersections seemed much like those he’d found in his hometown. He still clung to hope that California really was populated by beautiful women, though he hadn’t yet seen enough people to convince him otherwise; almost everyone seemed to be indoors at this hour.

            Scott hadn’t driven very far from the interstate when they pulled into a strip of outlet stores. George could see the unlit signs advertising almost every conceivable brand of shoe, clothing, sports equipment, and kitchenware. Every shop was quiet and dark.

            Scott finally pulled his blue Coronet in front of one shop between a Footlocker and a Pampered Chef. When George looked to see where exactly he was, he realized they weren’t in front of a store at all. Inside the dark windows, George could see a large open space with padded flooring. He could see that the walls were decorated with posters and plaques, though he couldn’t make them out. He could see punching bags, weights, and other things he didn’t quite recognize. One object looked like the armless torso of a man on some sort of stand. George backed away from the window and looked up at something on the outside of the building.  A large sign above the tall windows read “Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu” in blue and white letters. Above the words was a symbol George thought he’d seen once in a book somewhere, though he couldn’t remember where. It was a picture of a snake curled into a circle. It was eating its own tail.

            “Welcome home,” Scott said.