by Sam A. Patel
Whales. Suckers with fat wallets. “What are the stakes?”
“It’s a zero-sum game. Fifty grand, heads-up.”
“Fifty grand? Where did you get fifty grand?”
“On margin.”
Of course. If we had fifty grand to start with, Martin wouldn’t need to play. He was playing to win that fifty grand, which meant he had to borrow the buy-in to win the pot. If you think that sounds crazy, it’s only because you’re not Martin Baxter. His system reduces the gambling coefficient down to nearly zero. In that sense, Martin Baxter doesn’t gamble—he works the numbers and trusts the math. For him, blackjack is like a cash machine.
“See that?” Martin glances at me as he wins five out of six hands against the card shooter. “They haven’t invented a shoe yet that can beat me.”
That much is true. That’s the thing about people like Martin—even when they’re unemployed they’re never really out of work. How could they be? Minds like his are far too active to ever go limp; they’re always cooking up something, and they always find a way to get by. That’s one thing Martin always says and I believe: when you’re smart, you can always think your way out of a jam. And it isn’t just true of mental smarts either. It applies to physical smarts as well. You know, muscle memory.
“PK training in the Free City today,” I remind him as I turn and hoist myself up the stairs.
“Okay,” he says. “Stop, drop and roll!”
Stop, drop and roll. It takes me a second to figure out why that sounds so familiar. Until I realize…“that’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re ever on fire. But I guess the principle applies to PK as well.”
“Bowling too, I would imagine.”
“Sure, why not. Why waste a perfectly good mnemonic?”
“Why, indeed.”
“Good counting,” I say as I reach the door at the top of the steps.
“Good jumping,” he replies behind me.
We don’t say luck. Martin and I are both dedicated to math, logic, and the laws of the universe. Neither one of us believes in luck.
Pace waits for me at the end of my driveway with two bladders full of water slung over his shoulders. Today is his turn. He and I are both members of the TerraAqua water collective, Chimpo and Dexter aren’t, so we take turns bringing extra water for them. Although that’s probably going to change very soon. In the last two billing cycles, Pace’s family has been past due on their fees, and with the overdue deadline coming up fast, I know their days are numbered.
We tap fists. Pace is shorter and leaner than me and wears a constant quarter-inch buzz cut. Constant. Seriously, he must buzz his head twice a week to keep that length because I have never once seen it grow out of that quarter-inch setting. As for the barely visible stubble on his chin, I suspect it’s all his Filipino genes will allow.
“Have you heard the news?” he asks.
“I just saw it on the Free City newsfeed.”
“Newsfeed? What are you talking about?”
“They just found another runner with his arm cut off?”
“They did?” Pace jerks back with surprise. Clearly this is the first he’s hearing of it.
“Why, what were you talking about?”
The distraught look on Pace’s face says it even before the words. “Hermes offered me the job.”
“Congratulations,” I say.
Pace gets oddly defensive. “I don’t have a choice,” he says. “I’m not stupid. If it was just the TerraAqua fees, we could find some other way to get by. But now we’re behind on everything. I don’t really want to, but what choice do I have?”
“It’s okay Pace.” I understand why he’s freaking out, but he needs to get over it if he’s going to survive out there. “Maybe they’ll even let you run with Dex. Then at least the two of you can watch each other’s backs.”
“Yeah,” he says, instantly relieved. “Yeah, that would be good.”
Worry is not the right description for the look on Pace’s face but neither is fear. Something in between maybe. “Come on, Dragon. You’ll be fine.” I slap him on the back and recite the parkour club’s motto. “There are no limits, only plateaus.”
Dex’s words, not mine.
2
Dexter Drake is the black kid in the white hoodie who plants his hand on the railing and kicks his feet high into the air, so high that all I see are his sneakers sailing across the clear blue sky as I hurdle over and push off the same. I’m half a foot behind him. I’m always half a foot behind Dexter. That’s a fact permanently cemented into our heights. He’s an inch over six feet tall, I’m five inches under—half a foot between us. Fifty yards back, Pace and Chimpo bring up the rear.
Just ahead, a woman in designer clothes carries two big Fifth Avenue shopping bags in each hand as she chats away to the person inside her comm shades. Blind. Even though she can navigate her surroundings through the transparent image inside her lenses, she is completely oblivious to the world around her.
Dexter points her out and gives me the motion to scissor around. This is one of the things he loves most, what he calls popping a bubble. Getting in so close that you shatter the illusion of their tiny little world. I’m sure most people would regard this as a bunch of kids making trouble, but what we do is neither rowdy nor unruly, it’s just the Dragons’ way of announcing that we too exist. We are here, and we deserve a bit of your attention, even if we do have to startle it out of you.
Dex and I pick up speed and run straight for her. I mean straight for her. And soon she’s gaping at us and screaming something that must be shrill and unsettling to the person on the other end of her call who can’t see us approaching beyond the borders of their screen. Three steps away.
“Oh my God!” she screams, drops her bags, and covers her face with her hands.
Dexter leaps off the ground and pushes to the left. I leap and push to the right. And with a wisp of air that makes a strand of her hair dance, we sail around her in a way that touches no part of her but the electrons of her aura.
“Top of the morning to you, ma’am,” Dex says with a tip of his cap.
“Have a nice day,” I say, coming around the other side.
The woman is still shrieking through her fingers when we land and keep going.
Pace and Chimpo will not attempt this. In fact, after seeing us do it, they’ll go out of their way to give her an extra-wide berth. Pace may have the skills to execute such a stunt but he lacks the personality to get away with it. And Chimpo? That one still makes me laugh. Chimpo once attempted this on a very large suit who must have been a wrestler before he put on the tie, because in one fell swoop the guy dropped his briefcase, caught Chimpo in midair, and let out a giant guffaw as he lifted poor Chimpo over his head and body-slammed him into the gutter. Needless to say, Chimpo won’t try that again.
Dexter heads for the subway station two blocks from the Free City magnet academy, the same one that used to be my stop less than a year ago. That gives me pause. I know it shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Following on Dex’s heels, I have to wonder what my life would be like right now if Martin hadn’t lost his job.
If things had gone according to plan, I would have graduated the magnet academy one year early with one full year of university credits already under my belt. That would sound impressive to most people, but that’s because most people get to accomplish things against a normal benchmark. I have Martin Baxter as mine. Martin who got his PhD at 20, authored his first major paper at 22, and formulated his proof for the nonlinear transgression of imaginary variables by the time he was 26. That’s my benchmark. Even still, entering the New England Institute of Technology—Martin’s old alma mater—one year early with another year of credits would have been a very respectable accomplishment. But then one day without so much as a warning, Delphi Advanced Microdesigns, the tiny outfit that Martin had co-founded, was swallowed whole by Grumwell. Grumwell, the one corporation that Martin always s
aid he would never work for. And just like that my whole life changed. One day I’m setting up a physics lab in the best secondary school in the Free City, the next I’m the new kid walking through the blighted halls of Brentwood High.
Dexter and I stop at the subway kiosk and wait for Pace and Chimpo to catch up. They’ve all done the track jump before. I’m the only one who hasn’t. You might even say that this is like my initiation, though none of us think of it in those terms. The Brentwood Dragons parkour club isn’t just a bunch of kids playing jungle gym. It’s an entire philosophy of movement. A system for navigating the world. For us it’s a way of life, and we are dedicated to it.
As a rule, the Brentwood Dragons only ever take part in exhibitions of parkour, never competitions. There are PK competitions out there, but that isn’t what we’re about. As a team, the Brentwood Dragons hold true to the core principles of parkour, which are as ancient as any martial art. We’re like the Buddhist monks who believe that every movement is the thing that speaks for itself. The essence of parkour is a spiritual journey of self-discovery—to find one’s balance with nature, to find one’s balance within oneself. We’re not like the new breed of traceurs who are only in it for the money. What they fail to realize is how that mindset destroys the essence of parkour. That’s not us. We don’t train in secrecy. We don’t hoard our techniques into secret playbooks to use against our fellow traceurs. We share all. For us, it isn’t about who gets there first and how fast, it’s about being the best you can be. It isn’t about beating someone else’s score, just getting there the best way you can. That is what we believe. That’s real parkour.
I catch sight of myself in the front window of the corner café where I used to get my blueberry muffins. This might be the same subway stop, and I might be the same person, but the reflection in the window looks nothing like it did back then. Back then I dressed like a preppy even when I wasn’t wearing the magnet academy uniform. Since then, the dress slacks have become chinos, and the Oxfords have been replaced by cross-trainers. I still wear collared shirts, only now they’re untucked and made of flannel. My hair is still a mess, probably even more so now that there is more of it. I never did care for brushes, combs even less. I suppose that’s one of those things a mother would have gotten on me about, if she’d bothered to stick around.
“You ready?” Dex asks.
I turn away from my reflection. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Dexter grins and slaps me on the back.
It’s hard to imagine sometimes, but if you look hard enough, you can always find the silver lining in every darkened cloud. For me that silver lining is Dexter Drake.
The first time I ever saw Dexter was on the run. Three guys from school had chased me down the abandoned part of Main Street and into an alley where I managed to trip over my own feet and fall into a pile of boxes before they even touched me. I used to do that quite a bit—trip over my own feet. After knocking me around a bit, they finished up by taking my Urban Dweller backpack—the City Sport model in bright orange canvas with black suede trim that comes equipped with watertight utility compartments and a removable hydration vessel. I didn’t want to lose it, but I wasn’t about to take a beating over it. Keep in mind that this was before I grew six inches in a year, so there wasn’t much I could do about it yet, just lay on the ground and wait for them to finish robbing me.
Suddenly as if from nowhere, literally nowhere, this six-foot-something kid comes crashing down like a superhero in the middle of the alley. The very first thing I noticed about him was the downward furrow in his brow, which formed a sharp V with the wide arch of his nose. It gave him an expression that was altogether menacing. And he snarled.
“Give the kid back his bag.”
The three guys all took a step back before they remembered there were three of them.
“Get lost, Drake. This is none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“Come on, let’s get him.”
And the next thing I knew, it was three on one.
Watching Dexter fight was like standing before a giant waterfall. There was something fluid in the way he moved, even amidst this violent rush of fury that could chop off your head if you got too close. He could not be contained. With every shove, every kick, every twist, and every flip, he let loose a full blast of gravity and water that came crashing down upon them until they ran off.
Dexter tossed me my bag. Then he did something I never would have expected. He ran to the wall…and kept going. Ran two steps up the wall and grabbed the old fire escape. Hoisted himself up and continued climbing. All the way up, using ledges as steps when he had to. The next thing I knew, he had scaled the building and was disappearing over the ledge onto the roof. I kept my eyes trained. Somehow I knew he wasn’t done yet, and I was right. A moment later Dexter leapt off the rooftop and sailed clear across the gap five stories over my head and onto the opposing rooftop. I just stood there amazed by what I had just witnessed, on the ground and above.
Dexter and I were destined to become best friends. Not because there is such a thing as destiny, but because the outcome was inevitable. I knew that if I was going to survive in Brentwood, I was going to have to learn one of two things: how to fight or how to run. I guess that’s what they mean by having a fight-or-flight response. The trick, regardless of which you choose, is to make the choice and stick to it. Like Martin always says, proficiency is the key to success. So the very next day I checked the bulletin board at school and was faced with two options. The first was the Brentwood High mixed martial arts team, which practiced a combination of Krav Maga and Keysi Fighting Method. I took one look at that and knew that was just asking for trouble. The second option was the Brentwood High parkour club, officially known as Brentwood Dragons PK. I knew that was more my speed; now I just had to become proficient at it.
That was how I became a traceur, which means “tracer” in French, the word used to describe people who practice parkour. And that was how Dexter and I crossed paths once again. But even if I had gone the other way, chosen fight instead of flight, it wouldn’t have mattered. You see, Dexter was the captain of both teams. That’s what I mean about inevitable outcomes. Fight or flight, our friendship would have happened.
Three turnstiles stand between us and the platform stairs. With Pace on my left and Chimpo on my right, the three of us Kong vault over them in unison. You know that move where you dive headfirst to plant your hands on either side of the gantry, swing your legs up and over the turnstile, push off and land on the other side? That’s a Kong vault.
Dexter takes another way down altogether. It’s a twelve-foot drop from the upper deck to the subway platform. Dexter vaults over the railing—reverses—and grabs the floor of the upper deck on his way down. It’s a tough grab that requires an incredible grip, but he hangs on like it’s child’s play as his legs swing wildly to shake off the excess momentum. Now lowered by his height and the full length of his arms, his feet are just a short drop to the platform. He releases and lands. That particular combination is a simple vault–180°–lache, otherwise known as a Turn Down.
The local train has just gone through and cleared the platform of passengers. The next train coming up the tunnel is an express that will not be stopping at this station. It will just shoot through and continue on its way.
The train bears down. Pace and Chimpo are already bouncing on their toes. Dexter is next to me. The four of us will do it together but in the end it’s my leap to make. I’m the reason we’re here.
Dex puts up a fist. I bump it.
He turns to me with a look of courage. Not for him but for me. He’s doing this for me. He must see the nervousness on my face because he grips my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Even through two layers of clothing I can feel the hard callouses on his hands. Callouses from jumping. Callouses from fighting. His courage surges into me and fills me with a sudden rush of bravado.
“Remember, Jac
k,” he says in a voice so deep it flows like cough syrup. “There are no limits, only plateaus.”
3
Pace and Chimpo go first. Run to the edge of the platform and leap off. Fly over the tracks and land their toes on the concrete ledge on the other side. Grab onto the molding that separates the upper mosaic from the dirty white tiles below. Hang on.
This one is called a precision jump because it requires leaping off one object and landing on a precise spot on another. This precision jump in particular is not nearly as difficult as it might seem. The molding has a deep lip for a solid grab, and the ledge is large enough to land half your foot on it if you know how. Dexter knows how. He turns 270 degrees in the air and lands with the outside half of his foot along the ledge, grabs the molding with three fingers and turns into the wall to plant his other foot and hand.
The headlamp of the train lights up the mouth of the tunnel.
I run.
A slant of light comes racing across the tiles as the train comes screaming into the station. I plant my foot on the edge of the platform and hear Dex’s reassuring voice.
There are no limits, only plateaus.
I leap off the platform. All I see is a blinding spot of white as the train comes at me in slow motion, and through the large front windows, the conductor’s eyes go wide. I pass the crest. Now it’s not the train but the wall that comes rushing toward me. This is when I realize I’ve put way too much into the launch. No matter how well I land, it won’t be enough to keep me from…
SLAM!
Straight into the tiles. It flattens my nose, but I manage to hang on. Hug the wall.
Behind us, the train roars past with a billow of debris and the loud mechanical clank of carriage wheels hitting track joints. I can feel the train at my back, only inches away, its seams and rivets tugging at my shirt as it races by. Even after the final car goes by, and I turn to see the back end of the train disappear down the tunnel, the adrenaline is still pumping through my body.
