104. ...No sign of a ninja school.

(life story)

3/3

This is part three - The Conclusion - of a three parter. You can use the handy links below to skip back and tuck in to parts one and two, if you haven’t already done so…

Part One - 102. ...a cruel and rusted knife...

Part Two - 103. ...ask about the Ninja school.

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Getting this last part written has actually been quite difficult. Shifting the first part, the actual mugging stuff, out of my head and trapping it in words on a page had an interesting cathartic effect. It turned the experience that had been living in my mind into a story I’d told. It felt good. A visceral, tangible feeling of having let go. Continuing to tell the story felt less necessary. I'm working from old phone notes and I don’t recognise the guy who wrote these as me. I know it happened, I have the memory, but that Paul was scared in a way that I just don’t identify with any more. It feels like something that happened to someone else. I haven’t enjoyed writing from the perspective of that version of me.

I think this incident, the not-mugging and my subsequent efforts to be less muggable going forward, was an important turning point in my life so here’s part three which, thankfully, is the end of that beginning.

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There’s an audio version at the end. Skip down if that’s more your pace.

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Photo by Riley Briggs on Unsplash

I have a familiar, nervous, tummy and I don’t want to get off the bus. The rain, traffic lights and street lamps have combined on the glass by my face to make a pretty hexagonal mosaic in orange, green and red and I’d be happy sitting here watching Edinburgh pass through this kaleidoscope. I don’t absolutely have to press that stop button. I could keep my hands in my pockets, sit on the bus to the end of the line, stay seated and ride back home. But the shadow of the man who didn’t mug me looms up, I remember his scars and missing teeth and the sneer of him as he spat “Gies yer fucking wallet” in my face.

I rub the soft edge of the note in my pocket that says “7:30 -9pm Tatsujinryu Ninjitsu” and the address and there it is ahead, the oblong monolith of the sports centre. Someone else presses the button to request the stop and the screeching wet brakes tell me to get up.

I thank the driver and step out into the rain. 

There’s been a suggestion of autumn recently and my ‘comfy loose clothing’ isn’t warm enough or at all water proof so I scamper across the road, sloshing through puddles and up to the yellow lit reception doors. When I get there my wet shoes offer another excuse to turn around and go home. You can’t show up for your first day at ninja school with wet feet. It’s getting dark out though and I’m tired of being scared.

The friendly receptionist looks up as I enter, and beams a smile across the foyer.

“Hello”, she tones at me. She’s happy and friendly.

“Hello, I’m here for the…” I reach into my pocket, fish out and consult the handwritten note for the hundredth time, “Tat-su-jin-ryu-class”. Her happy expression drops. There’s confusion on her face and I immediately worry that I’ve mispronounced Tatsujinryu. Should the “tatsu” bit run together? Is it “ree oo” or “rye oo”. I’ve disrespected the dojo already. I look like a racist. Maybe I am a racist. I’m an awful, horrible man. I’ve made a terrible fool of myself and if I had any self respect I’d turn on my heel and leave. But then she’s smiling again and responds kindly, “I don’t recognise the name, let me look on the computer”. Her eyes drop to the screen and she starts to search. Click, click of the mouse then tap, tap, tap - pause to check, “is that Tee ay tee to start?” she says? 

“Yes, I think so. I’m pretty sure.” A lthough, I know it is. I’ve typed it at least a half dozen times this week, in my lists and planner, but the question over pronunciation has thrown my confidence and I could be convinced to question the spelling of my own name right now. 

She looks puzzled, “I don’t see anything here” she says. 

I feel my fluttery, nervous stomach lurch. I’ve come to the wrong place haven’t I. This is exactly the kind of fuckupery that stops me getting anywhere in life. 

“Maybe it’s booked under the teacher’s name?” she suggests. “Do you have a name I can search”. 

Of course! 

“It’s Calum…” I offer up. As I say it I realise I don’t know his surname. Come to think of it, did I call him Calum or did he introduce himself that way? Where did I get Calum from? Have I got his name wrong and insulted my new teacher before I’ve even met him? This discomfort and uncertainty is exactly why I don’t do new things or go to new places. Why would I choose to subject myself to this level of torment? 

The receptionist’s fingertips tap on keyboard keys, trying to unlock the puzzle for me while internally my self loathing superego dismantles my character. 

Eventually she looks up “No, there’s nothing here for Calum either”. 

“Look, it’s fine, thank you. I think maybe I have the wrong place. Or the wrong night. I’ll have messed up, misunderstood. It’s eh, it’s a ninja school anyway…” Her expression lifts. “…so it’s probably a silly… idea”.

“No, you mean those basement guys”. The way she leans on the word “those” suggest that the basement activity has been staff room or afterwork pub chat. 

I set off chanting the directions she’s given me in my head as I go. Through the double doors, along the long corridor to The Big Windows, turn left, all the way down the stairs, through the door, last squash court on the right. 

My wet feet squeak on the municipal lino. The corridor has windows all along one side that look down into the three storey void of the main sport shall. I feel exposed. Tiny people far below chase shuttlecocks on badminton courts. Their voices and sports noises are muffled by distance and glass and I feel sure that they must be able to hear my feet squeak as I go past. I know that at least one of them will be looking up, watching me and laughing, asking their doubles partner, “is that that guy’s REAL walk”.

I probably look ridiculous. Nearly forty in damp clinging joggers, on my way to ninja school.

What a bellend.

I try to walk more casually without morphing into The Fonz. Henry Winkler was 28 when he played Arthur Fonzerelli. Too old by far to be hanging out with a bunch of high school kids. I wonder how old the ninja school crowd will be. Is it going to be me in a dojo full of teens? I should turn around and go home. I would if I knew how to get out without passing the woman at reception. 

Ruminating on The Fonz and how stupid I look seems to have kept my mind busy for that first part of the directions because I’m at The Big Windows without really realising. On the other side of the glass, far below me, footballers run about on fake grass. There’s no sound at this lonely end of the centre. The laughing, shouting folks who can do team sports are always a distance away and separated from me behind glass. A fluorescent tube hums above my head and my breath’s a bit huffy and I zone out for a second thinking about why I’m so shit at group activities. 

I’m here now though. Look at me addressing my fears like an absolute hero! I pep myself and turn to where the staircase should be and yup, there it is. Let’s go Paul! Onwards and downwards! I lean over the bannister and look three flights down to where the scary movie broken strip light flickers at the bottom. Of course it does. 

Down and down the steps, the muffled sports sounds and laughter diminish to nothing. I can hear my breath and shoe squeaks, the flicker of the strip light and maybe a distant boiler or plant room rumble. No other people. No sign of a ninja school. I feel like a fool. In the silence of the basement I feel isolated and alone.

“All the way down the stairs, through the door” she said. No mention of a pin code. I’d rattled this locked door a couple of times before I noticed the keypad. Wet feet, locked door dejected, I’d had enough; this was the last sign I needed. I was wrong, my plan to get confident and strong was beyond stupid. I huffed out a sigh, called myself a prick out loud, and then turned on my toe and was face to face with a ninja. 

I mean 100% ninja. All black ninja suit, full face ninja mask with just the eyes bit open - ninja ninja. 

The ninja doesn’t talk.

“I’m the prick”. I say.

To their credit, the ninja doesn’t laugh at this. 

“I mean, I was talking to me. Myself. You’re not… a prick. I’m looking for tTat…su…jin…ryu… Calum?”

The ninja might have smiled for all I could tell. They leaned past me to beep, beep, beep, beep the keypad and push the door open, then we’re both turning and walking down a narrow, door lined, corridor toward darkness. As I walk I’m thinking..

I literally have an appointment to meet ninjas and I’ve met a ninja so none of this should be a shock but, it’s very clearly ninja o’clock!

And then it’s time, I’m here, we’re here, in silent shadows, at the last door on the right. My ninja leans past me to rap a complex rap rap rappity rap on the door which opens to reveal a bright squash court absolutely rammed with ninjas. 

A robust black shape separates itself from the mass, shouts something that sounds Japanese, and bounds over to me. “You must be Paul! I’m Calum. Come on in, take your shoes off. This is Margaret and Kai. They’re new too.”

A towering overweight teen and the most fragile old lady I’ve ever seen stand off to one side and I join them. 

I’m not going to go into details about what happened in that squash court over the next hour. Let’s pretend they imparted some brief but valuable wisdom about the space between ribs and how to get at and extract an attackers offal.

Over the next week and a bit I attended half a dozen different martial arts classes before taking a wee break to lie down on my living room floor while my spine settled back into some kind of alignment. I tried about a dozen I think including: Aikido, Jujistsu, Ninjitsu, Kali stick fighting, Kickboxing, Muay Thai, Judo, Karate, some light MMA and Krav Maga.

None of them really stuck.

I did learn something though. I learnt that I could be scared and still forge forward. The fighty classes set a bench mark of possible and since then I’ve taken courses, done workshops, signed up for groups and activities that I’d never previously imagined myself capable of. As the evidence of my own confidence built up denial became less feasible. It has become increasingly difficult to think of myself as a coward.

This time last year I started training Krav Maga and this time it has stuck. Around the same time I began performing my own poetry at open mic nights. Part of the reason that guy in Victoria Park thought it was ok to try and mug me was that I looked like a victim. I didn’t like myself much, I didn’t have any self respect and it showed. I don’t think I look like a victim any more. I like who I am now and, more importantly, I respect myself.

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Here’s the out loud version. It does have some mild swears so mind how you go if you or folks near you are sensitively disposed.

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Thanks for coming with me on this. I think those of us who’s paths have become windy, overly complicated and painful often try to escape into discovery and seek teachers in far flung places. I didn’t travel very far geographically. My own hero’s journey is pretty mundane. But it was, despite how ick the word sounds, a journey, and I do feel like a bit of a hero. Is it ok to be your own hero? Is it a bit like laughing at your own jokes? I’m ok with that.

I’m probably done with the autobiographical stuff. I’m pooped. Next week I’ll write about farts or swans or something.

You can subscribe, like and share to your hearts content. Comment. Let me know you’re out there.

That said, and I’m reiterating from the previous post, ALL the names are changed to protect me from ninja attack. If you’ve heard this story before I’d thank you very kindly not to comment indiscreetly.

The ninjas were kind to me and I mean no disrespect.

Thanks again.

I love you bye.

Paul.