Chapter 16 #2
The voice was not loud, but it cut through the noise like a katana blade. It carried a weight of authority that made the air in the cage freeze. Everyone froze. The Lakers guy looked up, his fist still raised. Standing at the entrance of the court was Mr. Kim.
The old man was wearing his grey work overalls, looking like any other mechanic, but his posture was unmistakable. He stood perfectly straight, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn't look angry. He looked disappointed.
"This is a place of play," Mr. Kim said, his eyes scanning the court. "Not a slaughterhouse."
He walked onto the court. He moved slowly, deliberately. He walked right up to the Laker guy, who was a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier. Mr. Kim looked him in the eye.
"He is foolish," Mr. Kim said, gesturing to Ran, who was spitting blood onto the asphalt. "He has a darkness in him. But he is mine. You will not hit him again."
The Lakers guy blinked. He looked at Ran, then at the old man. The rage drained out of him, replaced by confusion and a strange sense of respect. You didn't mess with the elders in this neighborhood, especially not the ones who looked like they knew how to kill you with a thumb strike.
"He threw the ball at me, old man," the guy muttered, lowering his fist. "Cheap shot."
"And you have taken your payment," Mr. Kim said calmly. "Two hits for one throw. The transaction is complete."
Mr. Kim looked down at Ran.
"Stand up, Ran-ssi."
Ran groaned, wiping the blood from his lip. He pushed himself up. His face was already swelling, his left eye pulsing with heat. He looked at Mr. Kim, ashamed.
"Kwanjang-nim," Ran mumbled.
"To the shop," Mr. Kim ordered. "Walk."
Ran limped off the court, Michael hovering nervously at his side. The crowd parted for them. The Laker guy picked up the basketball, shaking his head.
"Freak," he muttered, but he didn't follow.
The back room of Kim’s Auto Repair was cool and smelled of oil. Mr. Kim sat Ran down on a metal stool under the harsh fluorescent light.
"Michael," Mr. Kim said without looking away from Ran’s bruised face. "Hot water. Towel."
"On it, Boss," Michael scrambled away to the utility sink.
Mr. Kim inspected Ran’s face. He tilted Ran’s chin up with a rough, calloused finger.
"You have a hard head," Mr. Kim observed. "But a soft spirit."
"I shouldn't have thrown it," Ran said, wincing as he spoke. "I just... I got mad."
"You were not mad at him," Mr. Kim said wisely. "You were mad at the ball. You were mad at yourself."
Michael came back with a steaming towel. Mr. Kim took it, wringing it out with powerful hands, and pressed it gently but firmly against Ran’s swelling eye.
The heat was intense, shocking the pain into submission. Ran hissed through his teeth.
"Hold it," Mr. Kim commanded.
Ran held the towel to his face. Mr. Kim wiped his hands on a rag.
"You are a mechanic now," Mr. Kim said. "If you want to fight, come upstairs to the dojang. I will teach you how to fight so you do not have to get hit. But do not bring your street brawls to the pavement. It is bad for business."
"Yes, sir," Ran said.
"Get back to work when the swelling goes down," Mr. Kim said. He turned and walked back to his office, his footsteps silent on the concrete.
Ran sat there, the steam rising from the towel. Michael leaned against the workbench, looking at him with a mix of concern and amusement.
"Man," Michael let out a nervous laugh. "That was... spectacular."
Ran peeked out from under the towel with his good eye. "Spectacularly bad?"
"We got smoked," Michael chuckled, the tension breaking. "8-2. And then you try to decapitate the guy with a Spalding. I’ve never seen anyone lose a game and a fight in under five minutes."
Ran started to laugh, but it hurt his jaw, so it came out as a wheeze. "I thought I still had it, Mike. I thought I could just... turn it on."
"Yeah, well, the switch is broken," Michael said, grabbing a wrench. "You moved like a rusty forklift out there."
"And you fouled him six times," Ran countered.
"Strategical fouling!" Michael defended himself. "I was trying to slow the game down!"
They looked at each other—two grown men in grease-stained jumpsuits, one with a black eye, both realizing they were far past their prime.
"We are pathetic," Ran said, the sadness creeping into his voice, but it was lighter now. It wasn't the heavy, drowning sadness of the last five years. It was a shared, ridiculous sadness.
"We are," Michael agreed. "But hey, you took two punches from a giant and you're still sitting up. That counts for something."
Ran lowered the towel. He looked at his reflection in the polished chrome of a car bumper nearby. His eye was purple and shutting fast. His lip was split. He looked like a wreck.
But for the first time since he left Pietermaritzburg, he felt something other than numbness. He felt the pain. He felt the heat of the towel. He felt the embarrassment.
He was alive.
"Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time," Ran said, touching his bruised cheek. "Let's stick to fixing the cars."
"Agreed," Michael laughed. "My ankles are killing me."
"And Mike?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For having my back. Even if you are a terrible bodyguard."
Michael grinned. "Anytime, brother. Now come on. That radiator isn't going to flush itself, and if Mr. Kim comes back out and catches us crying, he’s gonna make us spar with him."
"God forbid," Ran groaned.
He stood up, wincing as his body protested.
He picked up his wrench. The "Golden Boy" was gone, beaten out of him on a street court in Koreatown.
But the mechanic was still standing. And as he turned back to the Honda Civic, Ran realized that maybe, just maybe, he could start building something new from the wreckage.