” … I saw that Fred was playing this guy. It wasn’t that I was conscious of HOW he was playing his mark, that’s my adult self realizing it here and in this now.”

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Ok my dear reader… In order to avoid a different kind of head-on collision here. I feel I need to explain something so I can get back to the relatively chronologically woven yarn I’ve been spinning thus far.

If you recall, in Tuesday’s post I was about to continue with what happened (in early February of 1979) after Maria had asked me to help her “get rid of Fred” but I needed to backtrack and tell the story I am going to finish with this post first. This part of the story which took place in early November of 1978.

I’m really glad this happened (In my old age, I’ve learn to embrace head-on collisions with life) because this memory only came back to me because of the process of writing the other one. Perhaps you (my dear reader) didn’t need me to point this out. If that’s the case, thank you for bearing with me just now.

Oo(^_^)y-~

——

So… I’m sitting on the couch of Fred, Maria and the boy’s two bedroom apartment above the one with the bloodstain on the living room floor. I’m sitting on the couch, listening to Fred and the “rich white kid from the suburbs somewhere” talk about fighting. The “rich kid” is going on and on about Taekwondo and Fred is staying cool… playing his mark.

I’m listening to the two, and thinking of what a prick this “rich kid” is compared to the waaay cool Fred Berdine. Fred’s coolness here, has significantly diminished my suspicions that he’s been lying to me all along about the rock band.

For now.

Right now, in this moment… I’m ready to believe him again. Right now, I’m kinda impressed.

As I said before, I have no interest in fighting in general and although I’ve enjoyed a few marshal arts films, it’s just not my thing. What has me impressed here is how Fred is responding to this pricks opinions about fighting, about marshal arts and about Taekwondo specifically. This kid thinks he knows a thing or two about it, but from the way Fred is asking just a few certain questions, I can tell he knows more. Fred is holding back. He’s certainly not letting the kid know everything he knows, but he’s also performing for me as much as he is for the kid.

My nineteen-year-old self is not aware of that last part though.

The kid is in the middle of the room, going on yet again, in yet another repeat of his basic argument that Taekwondo is the most effective marshal art form because of it’s “emphasis on speed and agility according to Choi Hung Hi’s Theory of Power.” I can tell that he’s very enthusiastic about this because he’s moving all over the room as he talks. Kicking and striking the air in sudden, jerky movements, and making “HA!” sounds as he does this.

The kid is not all that good. I don’t know anything about marshal arts but I know this. It’s so obvious that it’s almost comical to me and I might have said as much but then the kid stops jumping around and turns to Fred.

“Hey man, what’s that marshal art you said you were into?”

Fred smiles, he heard the kid’s question but acts as if he didn’t.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said the name but I can’t remember now, Tai something or other…”

“Tai Chi.”

“Yea, that’s it. Tai Chi. Show me some Tai Chi Fred. What are the basic strikes n stuff?”

Fred takes a breath. He’s on. He’s in total control now. Whatever his plan. Whatever con scheme that he’s been playing with this “rich white kid from the suburbs somewhere”… he’s just been handed a crucial element for whatever point he needed to be at, regarding whatever it was they just acquired this evening.

My nineteen-year-old self is impressed by the coolness of Fred. My adult self is fascinated by the way my returning memory of the entire thing is affecting my perspective, my evolving judgement of Fred and who I think he my have been.

“Tai Chi has no strikes… that I can show you.” Fred replies after an inordinately long pause.

“No strikes? What do you mean, no strikes? Every marshal art has strikes. Show me man, I wanna see em.”

“I said Tai Chi has no strikes that I can show you.” Fred stands and walk towards the kid. “The basics are a series of Katas. They resemble dance more than a fighting technique.”

“A dance? You mean like ballet or something? That’s for pussies man. How can something like that be called a marshal art?”

Fred then did something that has my adult self very unclear about exactly what it was I saw that evening. He moved very fast. To be honest, I can’t remember it well enough to be able to say how it actually looked to me. Whether Fred was moving like my adult self knows is how a real expert in marshal arts would move, or whether he was simply moving fast and doing a good job at looking like he was the expert he most certainly was wanting us to think he was.

Whatever the reality of Fred’s expertise may have been, the effect of his movement was exactly what he wanted. The kid wasn’t good enough to have anticipated it so he was caught completely off guard.

Fred had moved very quickly and very directly at the kid. He reached out his arm and placed a few of his fingers on the kid’s neck, just under the jaw and applied just enough pressure to make him realize how vulnerable that spot was to even those few fingers.

“The very few strikes we have in Tai Chi… ” Fred then said dramatically, “are all kill shots.”

To be continued…