Ichi, ni, san, shi… Benny’s only been a Wal-Mart stockboy a couple of weeks, part time after school, and he’s already managed to screw it up. He grinds his teeth, literally bites his tongue, listening to the dweeby Assistant Manager spout words like “progressive discipline” and “termination” and “reimburse us for our property.” How many jobs has he been fired from the past year? Two, but really it’s three if he counts the deli he quit before getting fired. Of course, he still threw a full Boar’s Head bologna tube (and a couple of punches) at the assistant manager’s face on his way out, but at least he wasn’t officially a deli employee when he did it. Progress, right? Whatever. He only works because his mom says she needs help with the bills. He breathes in deep that particular Wal-Mart scent of body odor and cheap plastic, and silently repeats, Ichi, ni, san, shi…
Counting in Japanese is the only thing that has stuck so far in a month’s worth of free karate lessons on Tuesday nights. He looks across the desk at the Assistant Manager’s stupid face, his dumb mustache, idiot necktie, and doesn’t think it would be difficult to karate chop the moronic look off his face. Ichi, ni, san, shi…Benny’s mom thought karate would help with his anger issues. Same as when she came upon Groupons for yoga. Or meditation. Or scream therapy. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he does feel less angry after karate. He hasn’t been tempted to punch any of the other stockboys, and not just because one of his knuckles might still be broken from his last fight (again, the deli assistant manager). His mom says it’s nice to see his smile. After all, it’s been over a year since his dad ran off with a pool tech at the Pinch-A-Penny he managed. Ichi, ni, san, shi…
Benny’s not really listening to the Wal-Mart Assistant Manager. He can practically feel the snug fit of the foam gloves he wore as Sensei counted off his punches on the practice dummy. He hears the numbers in Sensei’s voice. Ichi, ni, san, shi… He told his mom about Sensei. About how Sensei is teaching him to count to ten in Japanese. Sensei is Japanese for “good father.” He thinks. He’s not sure. But he’s probably right. He’ll most likely ask his mom to sign him up for paid karate lessons once the free trial is over. He wants to feel like he feels after karate on Tuesdays all the time. Ichi, ni, san, shi… The Assistant Manager is still talking about how “pallet jacks aren’t toys” and “ghost riding company equipment off a loading dock” is a level three infraction. Ichi, ni, san, shi…
Manager is derived from the old English “bad father.” Benny only remembers how to count to four in Japanese. But soon he’ll learn how to count all the way to ten. He’ll get there. Eventually. If he keeps up with karate. “Who raised you to act like this?” the Wal-Mart Assistant Manager wants to know. Oh, Benny forgot, he learned one other thing from Sensei. Benny stands up. Tilts forward at the waist. Before a fight, you bow to your opponent.
Mario Aliberto III is the author of All the Dead We Have Yet to Bury (Chestnut Review, 2025), and his short fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Fractured Lit, The Pinch, and other fine journals. A graduate with a Creative Writing degree from the University of South Florida, he lives in Tampa Bay with his wife and daughters, and yet the dog still runs the house. Find him online at marioaliberto3.com