Description: Episode 4: Rusty Venture OR Yoga Fire! When Rust attends one of Nataya's meditation classes, the last thing he probably expected to get was a lecture from the inscrutable Wandering Monk Girl. However, the end result is a realization that sometimes a dream deferred can be put back on track, with the right motivation!
Adult education is a great way to keep busy, and Pacific High is a great campus to have it. Once the halls empty of students, the small classrooms and the relatively quiet atmosphere make the place handy for lots of people to come by to learn, to earn their high school equivelancy papers or just get some new learning in.
It's also a fantastic way for people with skills to teach a few classes for a few buck. The pay isn't great, but it's better than nothing, and Nataya's going to take any supplement to her income that she gets. It's not that she's poor. It's just complicated.
And so there she is in the gym with a class about twelve people, showing them all how to meditate in the lotus position. The class is mostly made up of people that ae thirty or older, seeking a nice respite from their busy schedules of working in offices or otherwise making Southtown's economy hum like a well oiled machine.
"Alright everyone," Nataya says, facing her class. "Let's take a deep breath in... then out. Close your eyes... that's great! Okay, now, clear your head. Hey! I said "cell phones off" Mr. Mitsuyama! Alright, now, just find a sound that makes you calm. A key work or a hum... anything that centers you."
She's not hard to find. She's the small figure in the gray leotard, sitting cross legged in front of the group on her own meditation mat, which is basically a really tattered tatami mat that's been so worn out it can be rolled into a tube and carried about. As the class tries to settle in, Nataya reaches over and turns on a stereo, which plays soothing, esoteric music deisgned to put someone in a trancelike state. She stands as everyone goes into their meditations, and picks up a water bottle, observing.
She walks between the two rows of people, giving comments to the practitioners. "Back straight, Ms. Tanaka. Remember to keep thos shoulders square. And no sleeping!"
Labor Day looms over the horizon. That means that tomorrow is a great day to spend resting up for any stupid, ill-informed, embarrassing, or outright dangerous things one may do the day before. This year it's extremely convenient in that it gives Mr. Rust a three day weekend to (almost) do what he will while the fall semester looms over the horizon. He could've gone back over to the docks in an attempt to train up again, what he did when he first came here before the work piled on and started to limit his time (and energy) to get much done outside of work. He could've hit up some local gym. He could've gotten himself into another incident at some other bar after having a few too many of his favorite beers again, as 'fighter types,' according to some nancy boy nerds in fancy labcoats, are sometimes seemingly wired to do.
But no. Foregoing the awkward pauses and questions that might be posed by a stereotypically ignorant US male about calming pursuits other than 'alcohol' and 'sports' and 'night out with the guys' along with 'night out with the guys where we drink alcohol and watch sports,' Mr. Rust is one of those twelve people down there, sitting in the lotus position with only a mild misgiving for what minor but not reclaimable losses of flexibility he's had over the years. His toolbelt, busted and broken as it is, hangs over near the coat racks. Ol' Rusty, although pipes lack feelings, could be personified by boredom and sadness at its continued irrelevance as it just hangs there from its makeshift sheath pocket in said toolbelt, doomed to simply watch its wielder and a bunch of other over-thirty people sit in funny ways. It is securely fastened enough that it won't comically hit the floor at an inopportune time... maybe.
"Center," the shop teacher mumbles as he thinks about what makes him feel centered. Before long, in his head the music ends up being replaced by jackhammers, regular ol' hammers, construction vehicles, and the swear words of people who manage to hurt themselves on the job. Familiar. His upper body tilts forward a bit more than might be considered good for the position everyone's attempting to achieve, but hey, this isn't going too bad... so far.
Nataya pads around her her bare feet, stopping every so often to pat someone back into place, or to make sure someone's kneecaps aren't going to fall off. Meditation and yoga are part and parcel for the course and not everyone's built for it in the crowd. "Alright, now I want you to stretch your arms over your head, and then lean forward as far as you can go," she calls out as she steps by Rust, and she gives him an encouraging smile.
A series of monas and groans issue as certain people that aren't really built for this thing hear old joints pop, snap, or strain in the process of getting into another meditative position, but that bruning in the body is just a sign that you're alive. At least, to Nataya it is. For everyone else, it may very well just be another sign that they're getting too old for this nonsense.
She settles back down on her old mat, placing the water bottle next to her and placing the top on it gingerly. She keeps things simple, knowing that this is a beginner's class and peopel just aren't going to twist themselves into pretzels no matter how amusing it might be to a passer-by. She tries to ensure strains are to a minimum and that there's maximum burn with minimum pain. After all, meditative yoga is supposed to be a trimming experience and a great anaerobic workout.
However, the session isn't without it's casualties. One older gentleman gets stuck in a stretched out position, and Nataya is forced to pop a few shoulders back in place, particularly for burly ex atheletes that get a little overexcited about the process of getting back into shape so that they can fit in their college pants, or impress their wives or girlfriends or whomever they see fit to impress.
By the end of it, Nataya's packing her things, chatting with a business woman type, attractive for a thirty five year old. They're discussing an intermediate class and times when Nataya notices Rust, wherever he may be, and waves cheerfully before going back to chat with the woman, who seems incredibly interested in continuing her yoga education.
Howard Rust, if not infamous for the combover, that he carries a weapon everywhere, or is one of the only capable-ish fighters among the staff of Pacific High... is known, perhaps a little too well, for the exaggerated degree in which his joints complain about almost any sort of stress on his person. It is difficult to tell if he is comforted vaguely by the fact that he's not alone in suffering that way, or slightly inadequate in so far as BATTLE SCARS (of overworking) go compared to that other man that was behind him. The sour look on his face from the arm stretching? That isn't because of his own pains. He's used to his shoulder going 'um no I'm not doing this I'm protesting.' But a pop even louder than /he/ can manage, holy crap, what did that man go through? That guy becomes the one who needs help getting out of his position in the end.
This one instance in the now recent past aside, he seems to take to the class well enough for a guy whose body is seemingly over the hill even at the surprisingly tender age of thirty-seven. It is at least some minor reassurance that he is nowhere near as badly off as he thinks he is, although his back... doesn't like a single part of it. From the corner of one of his nondescript brown eyes he waves with his left hand briefly before he goes back to popping his back, grunting while gingerly massaging it with his other hand. Getting older sucks! One day the superpowered teenage miscreants will likely suffer through the same crap he does. Deep down, time may very well be the sweetest revenge an aging man can have against psychotic youngsters.
Arthritis is merely the karmic retribution of those deeply hidden desires and curses!!
Done with the nattering of old housewives desperate to get into an advanced calss taught by a hunky young man instead of a slightly too cheerful woman, Nataya steps over to Rust without dely to offer him a hand up. "Hey there. Glad you could make the class. You're doing pretty well for a beginner," she says, her voice not carrying the usual patronizing tone that younger people seem to love to use on their elders when they're better at them in something.
Nataya herself, when viewed up close, is apparently dealing with problems of her own still. Bandages on her face and wrappings around one of her ankles suggest that she's been on the losing end of a few fights recently, but it doesn't seem to bother her overmuch. Instead she runs her fingers through her hair to get the mop of black out of her face so she can get a better look at Rust.
"I just talked to a miko today about fighting. The usual teenage angst stuff, but she seemed to take my advice to heart and beat tht tar out of me for my troubles," she explains with a laugh and offers Rust one of the fantastically plastic seats that seem to infest every high school ever created.
"Have a seat. let's talk about where you are with your resolve and where we're going from here, yes?" She smiles as she tosses him a spare water bottle, waving to one of the younger men in her group wearing pink tights. Nataya doesn't discriminate... but that color looks rotten on him. She resolves to let him know next class.
"Glad I could make it," but is he really? Although the words are heartfelt, there was... scant little that would prevent him from doing so. Unless he were overtaken by the predictable sorts of whimsy often attributed to men of his culture. Anything more he has to say about how he's done well for a beginner is interrupted with another pained grunt as he rubs a hand up and down his outer thigh with one eye squeezed shut, as this stuff is serious business at even the lowest level. This keeps his mouth shut long enough for her to discuss her recent day as he finds himself guided towards one of the plastic seats. Even highly affluent schools can't get rid of the cheapo classics. Plastic seats for everyone!
"Yeah, sure," he finally answers after deciding he will be the master of his own muscles and joints and they will kindly shut up and let him exist as he wants to peacefully for the moment. They do not agree. Too bad for them. He was curious about the injuries and meant to ask, but now that she's laid it out for him and seems to be laughing about it, it must not be too serious. She's gotta be tough.
He catches the water bottle with the hand less likely to suddenly go reach down and rub gingerly at whatever part of his anatomy is aching him at the moment, a nod and a mumbled 'thanks' as he decides he doesn't want to chance his wrist so he just twists off the cap with his teeth, deposits the cap in his laugh, and takes a big enough gulp to drink half of it outright. That takes care of his dry throat he always seems to get.
"You've," a small cough as some water gets in places it shouldn't, but one hard chest pat later he seems to get it licked, "you've heard about people attacking schools and other places full of children over the last couple months, right?" It's been a couple months since the big one that struck Pacific High, but that sort of those news and events do linger around a while between the rival schools.
"Bits and peices," she admits, sitting atop one of the benches used for assemblies and lunches at the schools. "Specifically, that miko explained to me that the YFCC was destroyed. I try to avoid getting involved in larger issues. It's far too easy to get caught up in troubles and issues you don't understand." She picks up her water bottle and drains the last half in a sitting.
She points a finger at Rust as if it was a gun. "I'm not going to lecture anyone. What you do with your spare time is your business, unless you're going to spend it training with the likes of me. Needless to say, if you want to train up to defeat some monster, it's best not to tell me about it. I like to train and grow for the sake of training and growing. The heroics are best left to the heroes."
She shrugs nonchalantly. "That being said, if trouble comes to find me, that's a completely different story, and I suppose it might be the story for you. Did trouble come to find you, Mr. Howard? Are you after some kind of balance in your life... or are you out to use the excuse of duty to children and school loyalty to cover the fact that you want nothing more than to pick up that old pipe over there and brain some toothless goon under the hot spotlight to the roar of an adoring crowd?"
The smile she gives isn't mocking. It's not smug. It's just there, and the words are honest if not a little blunt. Nevertheless, it's clear that the woman's not too interested in hearing about the recent attacks, but is more interested in Rusts's reason for being. She leans forward, chin on her hands, elbows on her knees as she waits a response.
His face pales at the mention of destruction. Something so earth-shaking around the local community, just learning about it now? (To be fair he slept in most of the morning, the newspaper box was empty over two streets, and they were working on the internet lines most of the day but still!) What the hell do those psychos want? That's abstract thought for another time, scratching the back of his head - where he still has some hair that makes a poor attempt at matching the local 'spikes' fashion - which stops the moment as she points at him like a gun. It's a good pantomime. Uncanny.
She's just as good at commanding the direction of a conversation from a surprise entrance as she is when the two have already been face to face for a while during the meditation class. When he first came in he thought to himself, 'if she starts asking difficult questions maybe this time I can speak ahead.' He has a lot to learn about that. A guy who often /has/ to speak over the slightly more unruly youth that believe they are owed something when they are being given the ropes on how to take part in adult society. Even if his field is not part of his school's general focus on humanities, and the fact most of those kids would rather pay someone else to do the work he's trying to teach them.
Heroics are best left to the heroes. True, he's just a working man doing what he can, stuck with a mundane job that is nonetheless about the best he'll ever hold, not the sort of guy that can freely prowl the streets and right all the wrongs of the world. He rolls his right shoulder around a bit as something of a faint memory of something from many, many years ago.
The big question comes after the shrug, which is oddly synchronized in timing to the shoulder rolling. Maybe they're linking thoughts at some sort of subconscious level. He's ready to speak up after 'did trouble come to find you,' his head lifting up, why yes it di-- 'are you after some kind of balance in your life,' he manages to pre-empt her at long last this time with a thoughtful "uuuuuuh."
...or not. 'use the excuse of duty to children and school loyalty to cover the fact that you want nothing more than to pick up that old pipe over there and brain some toothless goon under the hot spotlight to the roar of an adoring crowd?' Who does that sound like?
He knows who that sounds like, his face slightly sour from one part surprise, one part wild shot in the psychological dark after how well she seems to have pinned him down, and another because those exact words sound like, to him, could have only come from one source.
"You sound like my dad!" He blurts out at last, for lack of anything more profound or educated to say about his reason for being. Eventually his head lowers, looks off to the side... not to the side where the coat racks were hung, the emptier side as if trying very hard not to make eye contact with that pipe of his. "It's, uh... b- complicated," he fumbles around words in his head to best describe it, the 'b' being the very beginning of 'both' but deciding a split second later that this other word is much more accurate an answer. Or excuse?
She shrugs once. "I don't beleive in excuses," she says, admitting a basic tenent in her philosophy. "Look. Nobody's judging you here. But the fact is, I think you're a man that's been pretty confused about what he wants out of life. You obviously want to make a difference. You care about your job and since you're here it's clear you care about your well being."
She leans back, using her arms to prop herself up as she kicks her legs slightly. "But you're denying everything you want because of... what? Because this is socially more acceptable than smashing someone's face in for a living? An excuse is the brain's way of making a cushion for you to fall on. If you're going to cushion every fall, you're going to forget the consequences of falling. Nobody ever learned from being coddled, and avoiding pain is just avoiding the issue."
Her voice is calm, and though it might be a little preachy, she doesn't really try to make it sound that way. "Mr. Howard, I want to help you acheive your goal of being a fighter. I'm not telling you to drop everything and become a bum on the streets that wanders the world in search of the most powerful foe. There's a line between dreams and reality and that's not one I'm willing to cross. But as long as the spirit is still willing, there's always a chance. But, in order for anyone to help you, you need to stop making excuses and hiding behind pretenses. Be a fighter, or don't be a fighter. There's no need to champion a cause as a reason."
5rShe hops off of the table. "So how about it?" She asks, re-wrapping the prayer beads in her duffle bag around her arms, the long strings of 108 beads apeice being laid into place carefully. "Are you ready to drop the excuses and be what you always wanted to be?"
The teacher's obvious discomfort still takes form in a frown, half-open eyes, a near-refusal to make any eye contact to begin with, and continued other childish conspiracy thoughts as to whether or not his father went and stealth-hired a shrink from Thailand. Does he even have the income to, he wonders. Nobody's judging him here, bah, maybe not /here/ but over there, in these walls, over in his office, over the phone, just about anywhere he gets colorful opinions about the way he does things.
What is he denying himself everything he wants? His knee cracks in a way that sounds more like a fighter with a similar name to the very sound effect. And like every other crack he suffers when he wants to simply move. He's starting to get crusty, he's not young. Where would he go without what he has now? Maybe back home, to certain people he can't decide as to whether or not he wants to see them again. The very demands from the same critics for nearly every inch of spare time he is fully awake. 'Nobody ever learned from being coddled,' Nataya speaks as he gets up off his chair and sweeps his view slowly from nothing to Nataya to the coat rack, back to Nataya.
She wants to help, is what goes through one ear, catches the chunkiest part of the meaning, and lets some of the small details leak out the other because the meaning is too big to fit back out the other ear. She can help him be a fighter again, but can he take those steps forward? The added motivation alone from NESTS attacking his school wasn't enough to conquer the challenges in his way.
'So how about it?' She asks as he breaks eye contact and ambles over to the rack. 'Are you ready to drop the excuses and be waht you always wanted to be?' The pipe hangs pitifully from the toolbelt. It wants to be loved. But pipes don't have feelings, but his right hand, in times of stress, always feels incomplete without it. This is a time of stress and difficult questions.
A low, prolonged, slow groan comes as he narrows his eyes at Ol' Rusty, who is there for the taking. So, what're you going to do. Take it in your hand, or mount it somewhere in your living space like an old trophy or photograph, like this - except less askew. He wouldn't let anything hang this askew where he lives on his professional honor in construction.
His fingers on his right hand waggle before they grasp one end of it. So, what's it going to be. Is this still a part of you, Howard? His shoulder pops again as he gives it an additional stare while Nataya may be left waiting for her answer. He lowers his head, closes his eyes. This is it, a defining moment far more than any outcome of an encounter with a thug, a pervert, or a superhuman monster with hair so luscious and great that he may have shaved a year or two off his lifespan from sheer jealousy as to why /he/ had to start losing his hair so young.
The pipe slides out of his belt much more cleanly and simply than it ever has, the scrape of rusted metal against fabric a precursor to his right hand giving it a good spin before swinging it upwards at the thin air behind him in an uppercut swing, holding it at the apex of the strike. The Cement Upper. Simple. His old trademark. He gives the pipe a look against a flickering overhead light that he's going to have to replace when he gets a chance.
"I'll say this," he says after a moment of defeat that at least a good few minutes of his tomorrow will be spent on that light a voice almost exaggeratedly serious in tone as though it were a matter of life or death to say this. "I didn't feel silly swinging it just now."
The woman nods. "Just remember why you're doing this," she intones, the last bead wrapped into place as she gathers up her robe, slipping it over the bodysuit she wears. "It's not the glory. It's not the ability to help others. It's to fill a void that's keeping you from happiness. Develop your skill like you're training to use a tool. If you train to use a hammer to make a table, that's all you'll ever do with it. If you train to use a hammer on it's own... there's no limit to what you can accomplish with it."
Nataya doesn't appear to be aware of Rusts's introspection. Then again, there's a lot she doesn't say that she does observe. Whether it's merely powerful skills in perception or something else, she'll never say. And why? Who can tell. The woman's a quiet, inscrutable puzzle to a lot of people. Why she does the things she does is alien to most people that she meets, but one thing's for certain. No matter what she does, she does it in the interest of balance.
Whatever the motivations, whatever the reasons that other people move or act on her own words and actions is beyond her. But as long at the effect of her life causes the natural order to be set in place... Nataya can continue on.
"You're going to want to take a lot of anti-inflammatories tonight before you go to bed, and a few hundred milligrams of Tylenol for the pain. This class is pretty famous for tearing people up their first day," she says with a small smile. "I want you to get a nice rest, because after that, we're going to start training. There's no 'going easy'. I'm learning as you are. The only leg up I have right now is tow years of dedication, which might be eclipsed easily by however many years you've been wanting to finally take a step forward. But here's the deal: you don't quit until you're satisfied with the results. I don't give up. Period. We have an understanding?"
She cinches the belt to her robe briskly and stretches out her hand as if to make a deal, her eyes set on his, her lips in the same omnipresent smile she always favors. It's an offer she'll make once. After that, everyone is on their own. After all, there are plenty of people that need help that might actually want it. Maybe. That's how she likes o think, anyway.
The man holds his posture for a while, not to take in the moment of the decision, but because he's trying to evaluate at a glance what else he might need to do with that light. It's a reflex he can't help, someone's going to ask him to do it and he might as well know what to do and what to bring up the ladder the very first time as opposed to having go up and down a few times. He lives with his aches well enough. But sometimes, some small steps are the difference between 'I can still work' and 'no I need to stop for today and get a heat pack or something.'
Not the glory. Not the ability to help others. It's to fill avoid that's keeping you from happiness. This is something he's always wanted to do, but yet, aside from recent great fortune in landing a job typically people with thousands of pretentious Ph.Ds and the advantage of nepotism get and thus getting an opportunity to go move to, and live, within one of the cities responsible for some of the absolute best fighters this world has ever seen... he's never been able to make much progress as a fighter. Everything's nagged at him and held him back. Free time ends up turning into extra sleep hours.
He finally turns back to make proper eye contact again in time for what she speaks next, and also not to end up locking his arm by holding it that way for too long, resting Ol' Rusty on his right shoulder. He nods his head at the anti-inflammatories, that's a nightly thing for him. The Tylenol... not so much, most of the aches he's just tried to tough it out in hopes they'd go away. He's done that for years and the results of being too headstrong about that have shown plain as day.
He walks forward, exchanging the hand that holds Ol' Rusty to reach out and take her hand, he clears his throat loudly and nods his head briskly. He doesn't wear a smile. He's tired, exhausted, sore. But the words can overcome the blank, neutral, sleepy expression he's developed since the lessons came to an end. "We have a deal." The hand is met, and a shake is to be given if she allows it. He wills himself to grasp the hand with definite firmness, as if to say, 'suck it, aching knuckles, I'm shaking and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.'
Two years of dedication. He hasn't had serious practice since he decided to get a college education about... eight years back, by now? The exact date escapes him. But he did a bit of fighting in his youth. In sporadic moments here and there. He's got experience - it's not going to be her talking him down all the time. Maybe he can impart something back in turn, whatever it is.
Log created on 00:59:16 09/01/2008 by Nataya, and last modified on 04:51:22 09/01/2008.