Pizza Box

Posted: August 19, 2010 in Uncategorized
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Ase o fuku onna (woman wiping sweat) - a wood ...

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I left the class abruptly. my knees had begun to bother me every time I kicked the shit out of a kicking bag, or even stomped on the floor. I enjoyed the sweating, the vigor of the stuff and then I had to endure the breaks, the runs to the water fountain, the forced wishes of careful driving like anyone gave a flying fuck about the other. when they kicked you they really did hurt you and I would complain and huff and  puff but to no avail they just kicked the shit out of me and once in a while they would apologize. it was mostly stupid shit and i got to the point where i just couldn’t stand to see their threadbare pant legs, their toe nails, their tee shirts against the rules and the yells, the whispered conversations the constant self-satisfied comments about not watching fucking TV and the sweat in the car. when we arrived it was hard to find a spot and when we left it was hard to find a spot filled. I hated the smell of the city in the summer time and the freezing wind in the winter time. so i just stopped showing up i did not call, i did not write. i did not consult. i did not respond i did not even answered the telephone. some of them sent me messages to make sure i wasn’t really coming back, or was I,  we just needed to know. why the fuck people want to know what is going to happen. it is already happening now so what room is there for what is going to be  later on. months later i found out that Jerry had also quit. he had brought pizza to a black belt house party and the people assumed he was the fucking delivery boy. he is 46 years old. he is good-looking and civilized. he is black and he was carrying the  pizza box because he is a bachelor and they had told him to bring a dish to share. nobody fucking looked twice at him so he went inside and sat the pizza box down on a table. he walked out and someone asked him in passing why so soon he said he was tired and he, like me, never went back again. the instructor sent my son a postcard from London. thinking of you. I suppose they do, think about us on some level I do not grasp.  SHUMBEE, my comrades

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