On the outskirts of Chicago's West Side, in a slightly old but well-maintained detached house, the Miller family's dinner was underway, but the atmosphere was far less relaxed than the Gallagher family's a few miles away.
Dave Miller had been holding it in all evening.
Watching his son Danny eat silently, he recalled Shane's performance at the Alibi Room that afternoon and Shane's extremely cost-effective quote. He felt it was time.
He cleared his throat first. "Honey, listen to me. I found a trainer this afternoon."
As he spoke, he observed his wife Eileen's reaction.
"The price is only half of the West Side's, and that kid... I think he can bend rebar."
His wife, Eileen, was a front desk supervisor at a clinic, mainly responsible for handling medical insurance explanation forms.
Her hand holding the fork paused. "A trainer from where?"
"The South Side," Dave answered quickly.
"I met him at a bar. He set up a training place for himself in a warehouse next to the bar. I've seen it; the equipment is quite complete, and he looks very professional."
He emphasized the word "professional."
"The South Side?" Eileen's brow furrowed tight.
"You mean you want to send Danny to the South Side for training? Dave, I really don't know what you're thinking. Is your brain filled with cement?"
As she spoke, she put her knife and fork down on the plate, making a crisp clatter.
"You know what kind of place the South Side is. Chaotic, unstable, a blind spot for law and order. Do you want Danny to get hurt in a place like that?"
"Can you not start acting out a cop movie every time you hear 'South Side'? Let me finish—"
Dave tried to explain, but Eileen spoke faster, interrupting him directly.
"Near a South Side bar, a self-renovated gym? Hmph~" Eileen snorted coldly.
"Does that sound reliable? Dave, are you sure it's not some underground fight club? Or—forget it, God knows what kind of messy place it is!"
"Does he have a formal license? Does he have safety filings? What qualifications does this trainer have? If Danny gets injured during training, who's responsible? Who do you go to? The bar owner, or that trainer of yours who can bend rebar?"
Not giving him a chance to speak, Eileen's barrage of questions made Dave start to feel very irritable.
"He looks very reliable! I saw him with my own eyes beat a construction worker in an arm wrestle!"
Dave raised his volume and slapped the table.
"The point is his price is very cheap, and it looks very effective! His training plus nutritional meals total only a little over $400 a month. That calculates to about $50 a session. This can save a lot of money. Have you calculated that?"
"'Looks reliable'? 'Looks' means bullshit!"
Eileen didn't back down at all, staring tightly at her husband.
"He has no license, no procedures. What's missing isn't just a little bit, but the entire responsibility and safety!"
"But I came up that way back then! The South Side isn't as scary as you think! You..."
Dave retorted somewhat agitatedly.
Just as the incident was about to escalate again, Danny raised his head.
Actually, his parents had argued many times about his training.
Sometimes it was because of money—because private trainers in the West Side were too expensive, his dad would veto it directly.
Sometimes it was because of the method—his dad thought training meant going to the construction site to carry cement for two days, while Eileen felt he was being irresponsible to their son.
In the end, every argument would end with two fixed phrases: one would say "You're too pretentious," and the other would say "You're too rough."
Then his fitness matter would continue to be dragged out, until Danny felt like a dog on a leash, just one step away from the door, but never able to walk out.
"Dad, stop talking."
There was no expression on Danny's chubby face, but his eyes were full of exhaustion.
Dave froze, the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. "—What's wrong, son?"
Danny looked at his father's face, slightly red from agitation, then at his mother's tight face. He sniffled and said, "Can you let me try? Just try once, okay?"
Eileen looked at her son, her tone softening.
"Danny, why are you so obsessed with joining the varsity team? There are many ways to exercise. We can do it at home—"
"I just want to try."
This time it was Danny who interrupted Eileen, but his tone carried a plea. "I just want to become a bit stronger. I want to prove myself. Is that not okay?"
Joining the football team or basketball team was just a cover.
The real reason, which Shane had actually guessed correctly, was bullying.
At school, he was given nasty nicknames because of his size. In PE class, people would always "accidentally" bump into him.
In the locker room, his clothes would often "fly" to the top of the lockers.
His wish deep down now was just to become a little stronger, even just a little bit, so that those mockeries and malicious pranks could stay a bit further away from him. That would satisfy him.
As for why he didn't tell his parents? He tried.
He told his father, and Dave, who had scrambled up from the bottom of the South Side, would only say: "They hit you, so hit them back. You're not small, what are you afraid of?"
Dave would only think, isn't this just petty playing around? Bullying in South Side public high schools is what's really life-threatening.
And in his simple logic, his son's size should be very intimidating.
What if he told his mother?
Eileen would get very nervous, saying she wanted to tell the teacher, but also worrying about leaving some record that would affect his further education.
In the end, it would often turn into "You have to learn to get along with classmates," or "Is it something you did wrong yourself?"
Caught between these parents with completely different reactions that couldn't truly solve the problem, Danny gradually learned to be silent.
Seen this way, the plight of children all over the world is sometimes surprisingly similar:
Speaking out about bullying might not bring rescue, but more likely understated misunderstanding. But if silent, one can only endure it alone.
And now, looking at her son's slightly red eyes, the reasons for refusal that Eileen had prepared suddenly got stuck and she couldn't speak.
She had never seen her son show this kind of expression.
The entire dinner table was quiet for a few seconds. Finally, Eileen spoke: "Okay, if you really insist so much, we can try."
"You agree?" Dave's eyes lit up.
"I agree to go for one trial class," Eileen immediately added a condition.
"And we have to find a time to go there together. I want to see the venue with my own eyes, see how he trains, and if there's basic safety awareness and protection. If there's even one thing I feel is inappropriate, this matter ends here. Understood?"
"Okay, no problem! I guarantee you'll be surprised when you go there. I'll contact him after I finish eating."
Dave spoke extremely fast, afraid his wife would go back on her word.
Heaven knows how many ways he had thought of for this matter. Now there was finally a glimmer of a solution, and it was quite cheap. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.
After dinner, Dave walked to the living room and took out the simple business card Shane gave him.
Ring—Ding-Dong
Shane's iPhone 4, placed on Karen's desk, began to ring, breaking the rustling sounds in Karen's bedroom.