His dad: “Just don’t get it. What’s the appeal of all that? No one military in the family. We’ve never talked about war outside of damning it.”
Mom, whispering: “He’s a boy. Isn’t this what boys do?”
“Sure. But he doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t patrol the house. He doesn’t even want a gun. I can’t think of any kid I’ve ever known who wanted to play soldier without a gun.”
“He doesn’t like guns.”
“I know. I know. That’s what worries me.”
Mom, scoffing: “If he was into guns that would worry me more.”
“Do you think he’s too sensitive?”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why say it, then? Sensitive is good. Women like sensitive men.”
“He’s ten. He’s not looking for women.”
Mom, shifting: “Do you think the boys at school are teasing him? Bullies? Maybe he’s getting into fights. He wants to bulk up.”
“No. He would have said something.”
“Maybe this is just something an only child does.”
“Maybe.”
“He never seems bored, though. I think this is coming from outside.”
“I never worried it was us.”
“You never would.”
And neither of them did get it. It wasn’t about bullies or looking tough. It wasn’t about war or violence. It was about power. It was about control. Laser, when he talked to himself about it, decided it was akin to meditation. It was training his body for perfection, prepping it for the rigors of the outside world. He wasn’t sure why he felt this was important. There were, to be honest, no imminent threats. For Laser Mechanic steeling himself was, at its basest, all about expression.
It was his first true stab at art.
Laser would control his breathing over dinner with annoying relatives. At sleepovers with friends. At Grandma’s. He would camp out behind the large potted fern in his mother’s living room and use his cheap telescope to spy on his babysitter while she yapped on the kitchen phone with Hilda, the cute Austrian exchange student.
Then ninjas came into vogue. At least in Laser’s mind.
It was an ad in the back of some ratty old comic book that got him tuned in. Ninjas. Throwing stars. Nunchucks. The whole deal was white hot. But he never sent away for any of the ninja training manuals advertised. Laser decided to train himself.
It began with itches.
Whenever he’d get an itch he’d hold as still as possible and not scratch. And not scratching made them come alive. He’d let the itch burrow under his skin. Rustle every sensitive hair and nerve fiber as it moved. After a few minutes he’d be sweating but kept his breathing calm. Relaxed. Laser’d think about other things, maybe sex, maybe smoking a bowl with Jeffrey Cancer out behind the school shed. Eventually his skin would turn numb. Cold. And the itch would retreat and his mind would be focused. That was more than commando style. That was ninja.
Then came the breathing.
Laser could stand behind the other potted fern in his mother’s bedroom for hours ignoring and conquering an itch but if he was breathing like a cow it wasn’t going to matter. Mastering breathing control was a necessity. It was critical. But the training was hard. Laser had to really develop his lungs. Swimming was the best for that. Laser learned to hold his breath for longer and longer periods of time. He’d even hang upside down in the deep end of the pool, legs over the tiled edge, arms crossed. Laser would close his eyes in this position, letting the water noises fill his ears, drifting up and down with the swimming pool tide and making like a nautical bat.
Then began land-based training, which was all about regimen. Land-based training was relatively easy. Laser’d find a secure and quiet spot, maybe behind the couch in the basement, maybe under his bed, and he’d just lie back and breathe. Focus on something, like water damage on the ceiling or the fine fur that hung from the bottom of the bed. Lose himself in the water damage or the fur. Memorize the lines, the shapes, the shadows, even the mildewy scent if he could pick it up. Once he was focused, reining in the breathing was a snap. He could make it so shallow, so subtle, that you couldn’t hear a thing. Almost ninja perfection.
Who knew what it would lead to? Laser’s parents certainly didn’t.
They were actually surprised when he dropped out of high school and went to Japan. There, he taught English in Osaka and trained with Masaaki Nishina, forty-second linear grandmaster of the Yon-po Hiden Ryu, “The School of the Four Secrets.” The headmaster had only opened the school to Westerners a few years before he arrived and Laser was the last student accepted that year. Master Nishina liked Laser’s conditioning. Training was not like it’s portrayed in kung fu films. Laser was not trained to catch flies with chopsticks or break bricks with his big toe or fast for two weeks. Mostly it was meditation. It was spiritual refinement. Laser spent six months at the school before picking up a sword. They didn’t believe he had asthma. Actually, they didn’t believe the disease existed. Master Nishina said, “It’s your American constitution.” While Laser nodded in agreement his chest ached every night and later, when he wasn’t supervised as closely, he snuck albuterol into his room and would puff on it in secret. He told himself this was okay because changing his constitution was nearly impossible and he was satisfied with that one sliver of inbred failure. Didn’t Master Nishina also say “the perfect man is like an urn with a hairline crack”?
Eventually Laser mastered the eighteen disciplines of ninjutsu. He was a seventh dan shidoshi in Yon-po Hiden Bujinkan Ninpo. When someone would ask him what the hell that meant, exactly, he’d respond: “It means I have complete control over my senses. That I can kill with my mind. It pretty much means there are maybe fifteen people in the entire world who can sneak up on me.”
But Lulu?
No way she could get away with a sneak attack. She could never hide from a team of marauding assassins either. She’d be dead meat. Laser isn’t exactly sure why but it pisses him off enough that he decides to get up.
Laser stands in front of his bedroom mirror naked and posing.
He’s disappointed in what he sees. Long gone are the fatless days of muscular perfection. Now, Laser’s had to assimilate to American norms. He’s lost some of his edge. He’s gone flabby at the boundaries. Laser studies his muscles like he can measure them with his eyes. The mirror is full length so his whole body is there and there are parts he’s ignoring. Mainly it’s his gut. The immature beer belly that’s just made an appearance in the last two months. He sucks it in and sticks it out. Neither makes him happy. He groans and gets dressed. Pulls open the curtains and lets in the diffuse Newark light.
All for a good cause, he tells himself. Practically undercover.
Lulu moans.
“Sorry.” Laser shuts the curtains again. He goes out to the kitchen and has a spoonful of peanut butter and a tall glass of milk.
When he returns to the bedroom, Lulu is awake. Her bleached blond flattop sparkles in the morning light. She isn’t wearing a shirt and she’s smoking. “What day is it?” she asks. “Feels like I’ve been in here forever.”
“Tuesday,” Laser says. He sits on the end of the bed and clips his nails over a small wastebasket. Nearly every nail clipping misses the basket and