Monday Night Secret

As uchi deshi in the dojo it was my responsibility to make sure everything was set up and in order before class.

Floors clean, swords unwrapped, training gear laid out by the side.

All the teacher had to do was walk in and everything was ready before class.

It was also my place to notice things and prevent any issues before they became issues.

It was only on Monday nights when it happened.

The Russians would come to class carrying not only their dojo bags but also a small gray colored tackle.

They would each put it in a storage cube near the door along with their shoes and jackets and where very careful with how they moved them.

Something important was in those boxes.

I didn’t ask because it wasn’t my place but I was still curious, so I arranged myself to be there after class when they were leaving, a chance to see if they would open one of the boxes, or in moving it if any noise was made. I observed how they lifted and held them, how they balanced them along with their dojo bags.

My observations didn’t reveal anything conclusive.

It took another week or so of classes before there was an opening in my conversation with one of the senior students of the dojo, a chance to guide the conversation and see if they knew what as in the boxes.

What boxes was the response.

The ones the Russian’s brought to class only on Mondays.

Why didn’t I just ask them?

At this point that was all I really had left.

I gave it another week to mull about it and I couldn’t think of any way so I asked them outside of class once we all left the dojo for the evening.

There was dojo business and this wasn’t dojo business.

I pointed to one of the boxes and asked them about it.

After a brief conversation among themselves in Russian they invited me to come with them, they would drive me.

The five of us crammed into a car that could barely seat four, not including our dojo bags, and we were off.

It was 10 PM on a Monday night as we pulled into a large empty shopping mall, all the stores long closed for the evening, and continued to the back lot which was surprisingly filled with cars.

Getting out, they lead me through an unmarked back door leading down a set of stairs and along a long hallway, now somewhere underground as they each carried a gray tackle box in hand.

At the end of the hallway was another Russian guy sitting at a folding card table with a cigar box stuffed full of money on the table.

As I walked with the Russians one of them started to speak, quickly switching to English.

Five dollars to get in, and we play for money.

Five dollars per main event if you qualify.

Once we all paid up the Russian at the card table opened the door for us and let us in.

It took me a moment to cross the threshold and enter the room, just what was I looking at?

The room was full of maybe thirty or so men, clearly Russian, gathered around tables, while a makeshift bar serving drinks was set up in the corner.

On each table as set up a plastic race track as the men raced small cars around alternating between cheering and cursing.

It was at that point that one of the Russians open his tackle box and the mystery for me was solved.

Inside was a number of die cast cars, each resting in a slot in the box.

Was I really looking at what I was looking at, to which one of them replied in English with a Russian accent.

Hot Wheels.