Pickles

Okay, so I kind of felt like writing a story.... Just a short story, with no real point. It gave me something to do, anyway. So here you go, if you were interested in reading it. I'm not the most skilled writer because I'm out of practice, and yes, I know it's my fault. Anyway, I had someone give me an idea, and they said it had to start with the words "I wish someone had told me..." and I couldn't go back and erase or change anything.

*****

I wish someone had told me about the pickles.

I never liked pickles to begin with. They smell horrifying and, although I've never touched one to my tongue, probably taste worse. They look awful, with their slimy, warty, sickly-green skin. The green juice in pickle jars always makes me wonder just what sort of animal has urinated in it, and what it had been drinking beforehand. Just the sound of the word “pickle” is enough to make me cringe in disgust.

Fortunately, it's not a problem I commonly face. When I buy a cheeseburger, of course, I always have to make sure to ask if it comes with pickles, and if so, could they kindly be removed. Other than that, pickles don't play a large part in today's society. I worry about them about as much as you might worry about suddenly being struck in the face by a particularly large cow patty filled with Chap-stick tubes. Well, maybe I worry a little more than that, but you see my point, I hope.

So when I started my karate lessons, the thought of pickles was about as far from my mind as a flying cantaloupe on Mars. I mean, okay, maybe I did have occasional nightmares of nunchakus with pickles instead of wood, but who doesn't, ya know?

My karate instructor, Sensei Getz, told me over and over that I had to toughen up. “What are you made of, jelly?” he would roar at me while I did weak kattas. “That didn't sound like a yell to me!” he would tell me as I punched the air. “Repeat after me: AAAAIYY!!!!!!!”

“Aiy!” I tried, punching my fist into the air.

“AAAAIYY!!!!!!”

“Aiy,” I repeated, punching with the other hand.

Sensei Getz positioned himself right in front of me and punched, stopping his fist an inch from my nose. “AAAAAIYYYYY!!!!!!!!”

I jumped backwards and fell on my rear. Sensei roared with laughter. “Get up, boy, and put more spirit into it!” He turned on his heel and left me to my practice.

The next day, my weak yell hadn't improved much. Sensei tried screaming at me. He tried pummeling me. He tried humiliating me. But my yelling didn't improve. I just plain didn't see the point of yelling while punching my fist into empty air.

Friday morning, Sensei came into the dojo and walked straight over to me. Looking me in the eye, he said, “What makes you want to scream, boy?”

Sighing inwardly, I tried not to look as annoyed about his persistence as I felt. “Sir?”

“Are you scared of spiders?”

“Uh... no, sir.”

“Hm. Snakes?”

“No, sir.”

“Worms?”

“No, sir.”

He gave me a disappointed look. “What disgusts you, boy? What is the most revolting thing you can imagine? What makes you want to shudder and retch just by thinking about it?”

“The thought of you ever getting married, sir.”

That comment earned me fifty laps around the dojo, but it was totally worth the stunned expression on the sensei's face. It took me all of practice to finish those laps, and by the time I had finished and collapsed in a red-faced, panting heap at my mother's feet, the other students had been gone for over an hour, leaving my mom and the sensei to “talk.”

To my surprise, Mom didn't say anything about my mouthiness on the way home, or that evening, or even the next morning. I knew better than to breach the subject myself, of course, so I just pretended nothing had happened as well as I could with muscles that screamed in pain from all running too much.

It was several days before I was mobile enough to make it to karate practice. I stumbled in late, having hastily put on my gee and the white belt with two yellow stripes on the end symbolizing my completion of the two beginner's kattas. All the other students were already at work by the balance bar, strengthening their kicks.

The sensei had obviously decided I was a special case. An evil grin spread across his face when he saw me. He made me do twenty push-ups for being late, and then dragged me to the back of the room with him.

“Ten punches. Now!” he ordered.

“Yes, sir!” I yelled. I dropped into a wide stance, hands in chamber position, and punched.

Sensei pushed me, and I fell back a step. “Yell!”

“Yes, sir!” I pulled my hand back and punched again. “Aiy!”

Sensei pushed again. “Yell!”

Punch. “Aiy!”

“Yell!”

Punch. “Aiyy!”

Sensei shook his head. “Wait there.” He walked off, and I straightened up as I waited for him. He was back in moments, carrying a large jar of pickles.

That was five years ago. I'm now a third degree black belt. My yells can be heard three buildings away from the dojo. But to this day, they sound less like “AAAAAIYY!!!” than “EEEEWWWWW!!!”