Get your kicks in school first
By Colin Goh
Amid the unceasing financial gloom here in New York, many pundits have been flogging that hoary old adage about there being no such thing as a free lunch.
So we were understandably thrilled last week to receive a free dinner.
'I'm buying.' It was one of the Shaolin monks with whom we've been hanging out since we moved to the Chinese enclave of Flushing. 'I just got my green card, and it's all thanks to you.'
'No, no,' said the Wife. 'You got it on your own merit. All we did was help a little with your paperwork.'
'Don't be too modest,' I shushed her. 'You want this free dinner or not?' Anyway, I felt our contribution to his success shouldn't be shortchanged. After all, despite being an extraordinarily talented pugilist who'd won many martial arts tournaments, he'd been unable to overcome the arcane language and procedures of immigration laws in the United States, which is when (ahem) yours truly stepped into the ring. As we would soon learn, however, our warrior friend was about to be bested by an even lesser adversary.
That evening, we joined him and two fellow monks at a neighbourhood eatery, along with their Shifu (teacher), his wife, their baby and several other friends.
They weren't actual monks - the Shaolin Temple operates both a monastery as well as a martial arts performance school, but makes all students, regardless of section, shave their heads and don robes. Their non-ecclesiastical status became apparent, however, when one of their buddies broke out the booze, including a massive bottle of vodka.
'Bah-tum-ss ah-puh!' yelled the youngest monk, Pigsy, as he began pouring the plonk. (We'd taken to referring to the trio as Monkey, Pigsy and Sandy, as per Arthur Waley's translation of the Chinese classic Journey To The West.)
'Bah-tum-ss ah-puh!' echoed Sandy, the cheerful green card recipient, as he raised his glass towards his Shifu and Mrs Shifu.
'Bah-tum-ss ah-puh!' added Monkey, as he poured cheap orange soda into everyone's vodka. (They were from mainland China, after all.)
Three hours later, everyone was pretty much plastered, and the party only ended when Shifu decided to call it a night, allegedly for his baby's sake, even though the wee tyke wasn't complaining.
In fact, the little fellow was downright mellow, because all night, he'd fended off every attempt to be fed milk. Rather, he'd stretched out his arm for any shot glass in sight, making 'Enh! enh!' sounds, and his father finally caved in and let him have a sip - or five.
Looking at him dozing peacefully, I whispered to the Wife, 'File away for future reference.'
'Does anyone have a bottle of Tylenol?' one of the fellow carousers asked, as Sandy settled the bill. 'For the monks, just in case. They have to wake up early for training tomorrow, and I'm sure they'll have a massive hangover.'
'No break for them?' I asked Shifu, who only wiggled his eyebrows evilly. As we lived nearby, I headed home and brought back a small bottle of painkillers from our medicine cabinet.
'We'll return it to you tomorrow,' slurred Sandy. 'We probably won't need it anyway.' I patted his back, and nodded knowingly. With all the upping of bottoms that had gone on that night, I knew he was, as the idiom goes, talking out of his a**.
The next day, however, I was apprised of an unexpected turn of events.
'I'm sorry, um, but your bottle...' Sandy mumbled sheepishly over the phone. 'It's... been, um... ' I could hear the embarrassment welling in his voice. 'None of us could open it. It was stuck. We tried so many things, but... well... Monkey, he... chopped off the top with a cleaver.'
I told him in my most sympathetic voice to forget about it, but it was all I could do to stifle my laughter.
These medal-winning warriors, schooled in centuries-old traditions of combat, had been thoroughly defeated by a simple child-proof cap. Not being able to read English, they couldn't follow the instructions printed on the bottle. I could only imagine what had transpired that morning - the three of them, temples pounding, blood pressure rising, eyeballs bulging, desperately trying to prise, twist, maybe even bite the bleddy cap off. Those pills caused a bigger headache than they were meant to cure.
So, children, as you dream your Jet Li dreams of kicking butt, you'd do well to hit your texts just as hard. Not only is the pen mightier than the sword, but the book is more useful than the fist.
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