My debauchery wore heavy on me at the dojo the next morning. I was sluggish and lazy. My sensei, Kato, had no mercy. Not for the first time, I wondered if he somehow suspected what I’d done over the weekend. I respected him too much to ever let him see just how out-of-control my life sometimes got. But he seemed to have a sixth sense about him and knew when I had gone off the deep end.
Slipping into the well-lit wide open loft space of the Dojo instantly calmed me.
I’d been studying Budo karate for the last ten years. In high school, a cheerleader cornered me in the hall and called me a Wop, a Dago, a Guinea Negro. I started to walk away. But then she called my dad a greasy Italian.
I punched the girl in the face hard enough to give her a black eye before her friends tackled me, managing to give me a few cracked ribs before a teacher broke it up. In the emergency room, my dad told me he was hiring someone to come to our Pebble Beach home every day after school to teach me martial arts. He said I could pick the style I wanted to learn. I did a little research online and decided to study kyokushinkaikan, also known as Budo karate, because I liked its code of honor.
I’d copied my favorite passage about the honor code onto a slip of paper I kept in my wallet:
“It is the duty of a warrior, not only to protect one’s life, but to protect one’s spirit. Warriors must train their hearts along with their bodies so their spirit is fierce and invincible.”
The other reason I chose Budo was because I read that knowing the art could mean this: The destruction of an opponent with one blow. It seemed so efficient.
I knew I was too arrogant to excel in karate the way I wanted to because so much of the Budo philosophy involved being humble and of gentle spirit. I was more attracted to the ass-kicking part. But deep inside I knew if I were ever going to grow to the skill level Kato was, I’d have to get my shit together mentally and spiritually and emotionally. Like Kato.
The first thing I’d done after I moved to San Francisco, after taking shooting lessons and getting a permit to conceal and carry, was research my new dojo. Kato was one of the best sensei in the nation. As soon as I learned about his dojo, I knew I wouldn’t settle for any other one.
At first Kato told me his class schedule was full and started to walk away. In frustration, I did a half-hearted kick at the wall. With lightning speed, Kato caught my leg with hands that felt like bands of steel and gave me a look so fierce I nearly ran out the door. Instead, I looked him in the eye and confessed everything to him — that Budo had saved my life and that it was the only thing that was keeping me afloat. His eyes searched mine. He saw it was the truth.
He threw me a robe and we began training that day.
Kato was in his forties and a firm, but gentle task master who commanded respect by his presence alone. He kept his sleek black hair longer in the back and his toned and fit body put Michelangelo’s David to shame. It was no surprise that many of his students had crushes on him.
Today, Kato must have sensed I needed some guidance because he worked me twice as hard as he usually did, telling me to concentrate and pushing me until I was begging for a break.
I rarely sweat, Kato worked me so hard that by the time he let me take a break I had rivulets of perspiration dripping down my temple. I gulped down two bottles of water and wrapped a wet towel around my neck.
Kato wasn’t even breathing hard. He sat down beside me. “Got plans later? Susie is making your favorite.”
“Oh man, I promised Dante I’d come up for lunch.” I guzzled my water, ignoring how some of it dribbled down my chin.
“Susie and the boys are going to be disappointed,” Kato said, handing me a clean white towel.
“Not as much as I am,” I said and grinned, wiping my face. “Tell her thanks. I’ll stop by sometime next week. I need my Susie fix.”
Kato was one of my favorite people in the world, but I loved his wife, Susie even more. She grew up in Berkeley, raised by two old hippies. She was a stay-at-home mom who baked her own bread, grew her own vegetables, and made her own granola. She wore her long hair in pigtails, wore armfuls of jangly bracelets, and dressed in flowing skirts that brushed the ground. She pretty much exuded the Zen that Sensei Kato taught his students.
Kato and his family lived in a rougher area of the Mission but were close with all their neighbors. His two little boys called me Gia-Ko, a riff off of Gai-Ko, which roughly translates to a derogatory form of “Westerner/Non-Japanese.” They think the pun is hysterical. Even Kato smothers his smile when they say this, but when Susie — who is usually so mellow — caught them saying that once, she chased them around the house with a dishtowel. I hugged Kato goodbye. “Tell Susie I’ll take a raincheck. And I’ll bring the wine.”
After I got home and showered, I retrieved my Ferrari out of the garage and pointed it north.
The drive to Calistoga was cathartic. Not as soul freeing as cruising Highway One south, but still it felt good to roll down all my windows and sing along to Beck’s Odelay at the top of my lungs with my hair blowing wild.
Traffic was light. Not many people were heading north on a Monday.
“Dial Dante,” I said once I passed Santa Rosa.
“Yo, what’s your ETA, paesana.”
“Be there in thirty.” I hung up and cranked up the Beastie Boys, singing along.
Eighteen minutes later, I pulled into Buena Sera’s parking lot. The white-washed walls of the restaurant were surrounded by purple, blue, and red flowers on vines and in big pots.
Dante was waiting for me outside at a shady table under a trellis of grape vines. He stood when he saw my car. Even from across the parking lot, the white of his smile against his olive skin made my stomach flip flop. Today he was wearing white linen pants and a white shirt with the buttons done enough for me to see his smooth, tan chest. And once again it was clear I would forever be half in love with him. But I knew deep having him for my best friend was worth more than anything else on God’s green earth. Except maybe if I could bring my parents back to life.
He met me at the entrance to the outdoor dining area and grabbed me in a tight hug. I sniffed and he pulled back, searching my eyes. “Everything okay?”
I nodded and made my way to the table where a chilled bottle of Prosecco waited along with some prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe slices.
“As soon as I see you, everything seems right in the world,” I said, folding myself into the white metal chair and putting my sandaled feet up on the chair adjacent to me. “Maybe I should just move and be your busboy, girl, whatever they’re called. Hell, I’d even wash your dishes.”
“Gia, you know you’d go crazy up here. You’re a city girl. You’ve always been one. That’s why living in Monterey was so hard for you, remember mia cara?”
As a teenager, I’d get so restless that I’d break things in my room and cry and shout and then before I knew it, Dante would be out front in his beat-up, decades old Porsche 911 and he’d drive me up to Santa Cruz where we’d spend the evening watching punk rock bands. That soothed me for a little while, but then we’d have to go back to Carmel and Pebble Beach and Pacific Grove. The Monterey Peninsula was, as the saying goes, “a great place for the newly wed or the nearly dead,” but for a teenager like me, it was soul crushing.
Dante and I settled in at the outdoor table and I leaned back in my chair, relaxed. The waiter brought a glass of Pinot Grigio and some tomato and basil bruschetta. I didn’t complain. I’d already scarfed down the cantaloupe and was eager for more food.
“How’s Matt?” I said, helping myself to a third bruschetta. Matt was Dante’s long-time boyfriend. I’d grown to love him nearly as much as Dante.
“He’s great. He’s in D.C. right now.”
Matt was a newly elected U.S. senator who would now split his time between Calistoga and D.C. I’d forgotten the session had just started. “You getting out there soon?”
Dante’s face lit up. “Next weekend. Can’t wait. It’s only been a few days, but I miss that guy. More than I thought.”
“He’s a keeper, all right,” I said.
“Hey!” Dante said, slapping the iron table with his palm. “I have a great idea! Why don’t you come with me? Matt’s got a huge townhome. He’d love to see you. I know you’ve always wanted to go to D.C. We can stay over an extra day and go exploring.”
The thought of all the museums was tempting — the Smithsonian, the International Spy Museum, and the National Portrait Gallery. But it wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t want to be a third wheel, no matter how much they told me I wouldn’t be.
“Maybe next time,” I said.
“I tried to call you back the other night,” Dante said. That’s when I remembered leaving drunken messages for him from the bar at Anarchy. He looked hurt.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I was busy.” He knew what I meant. His forehead scrunched up. He didn’t like my casual sex life. He closed his eyes and let out a big sigh. “I’ve been patient and tried to be understanding about the way you’re dealing with your parents’ death, Gia. But I can’t keep quiet any longer. Matt and I talked about this the other day and we agreed. You need to hear this. I love you and I can’t watch you destroy yourself anymore. There’s more to life than being high and fucking pretty boys.” He looked at me.
I gulped and looked down into my drink. I had no answer. He was right.
When I first moved to San Francisco right after my parents died two years ago, I enrolled in art school believing I was following my dreams finally at age twenty. I even organized protests across the city in my spare time. But then the careful façade I had built around my grief crumbled and I found myself skipping class after all-night drinking sessions and then ultimately dropping out.
Since then I spent my time buying expensive shit I didn’t need, getting shit faced and sleeping around. Each night blurred into the next. I’d usually end up both drunk and stoned if I was able to score some pot. Unfortunately, none of these activities ever took away the constant reminder that I was alone in this world — an orphan. I had no family anymore. My brother Christopher didn’t count.
“Listen, Gia. This isn’t like you. What happened to the Gia I knew who scoffed at all the other girls in high school who wore designer clothes?” He pointedly looked at my red-soled Louboutin stilettos. They’d cost $1,500 but were practically one of a kind. They were turquoise studded with turquoise spikes. They were kick ass. “What happened to the Gia who dreamed of joining the Peace Corps? Or the girl who talked about finding true love? Do you think this is how your parents would want you to grieve them? It’s been two years, Gia. You are twenty-three years old. It’s time to move on.”
I stood up so quickly my chair toppled over, but I didn’t turn around, just kept walking.
“Are you crying?” Dante yelled behind me.
When I got to my car, I rummaged in my bag for my keys. Fuck. He was right. Fuck. Coming here was a mistake. His disappointment stung. My vision was blurry, making it nearly impossible to find my keys. I crouched down, dumping my purse contents out on the ground until I saw them. I shoveled assorted lipsticks, concealers, spare pens, and old cough drops back in my bag.
When I stood, Dante was there. He grabbed me in a bear hug and buried his face in my shoulder. “Gia, I’m sorry for upsetting you. But I’m not sorry for saying what I did. I love you too much to sit back and let you destroy yourself. Will you please come sit back down?”
“I got a date. I gotta go.” It was true. I did have a date, but I was also trying to avoid the pity I saw in Dante’s eyes. I started to turn. Dante reached out and pulled me toward the restaurant.
“It’s only four. You have time. Tell me about him?”
I looked at Dante’s open, happy face and the truth I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge to myself finally came out.
“He’s a loser.”
Dante’s smile faded. I glanced down. When I looked back up, I saw another wave of disappointment cross his face. But it was true. Blake was using me. For my body or my money. Or both. I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before. The knowledge stung, but I felt a wave of gratitude that I hadn’t fallen for him. I’d fallen for guys in the past only to realize they were more interested in driving my Ferrari than getting to know who I really was.
Dante cupped my chin. I could barely meet his eyes. “Gia, you are better than that.”
Was I? I didn’t know anymore. I wondered if my poor batting average in love was because my expectations were unrealistically high. I grew up watching my parents’ seemingly unearthly love for each other grow stronger every year. It made me feel hopeless at ever finding a love like that. Then, when I lost my parents I decided it hurt too much to give a shit about anyone or anything.
The older I got, the more I believed that I was fucked when it came to having any type of real, intimate relationship. Falling head over heels with my gay best friend in high school was just the beginning of my losing streak with love.
Dante stood watching me, waiting. I picked up my cell phone and sent a quick text. Dante raised one groomed eyebrow.
“Just canceled my date,” I said and was rewarded with a big smile. We headed back to the restaurant.
The shadows had grown long by the time I finally got up to leave. As I drove away, I looked in my rearview mirror. Dante stood in the middle of the driveway with his hands on his hips. I kept glancing at his silhouette. He never moved. Finally, when he was a small black dot, I stopped looking.