Things Are Heating
up at Lincoln Rec. Sticky cuts through the lane and Rob busts an elbow in his ribs. Knocks him to the ground and scowls.
Sticky springs back up and continues through the lane.
Dallas swings the rock over to New York on the right wing. New York holds it against his hip, surveys the situation, then chucks it over to Sticky at the head of the key.
Sticky sizes Rob up with a couple jab steps and spies the lane. He makes a quick hesitation and slashes past. Rob reaches out to hold on, but Sticky’s too slippery. As he scoots into the lane, Trey steps over to cut Sticky off, but this leaves Dante all alone up top. Wrong answer. Sticky instinctively whips the ball over his head and hits Dante in perfect rhythm for the jumper.
Ball rips through the net.
Dante points at Sticky as he backpedals down the court.
Sticky points back.
Tied up,
Dallas says.
Next bucket wins,
Trey says.
Now y’all playin some ball,
Old-man Perkins yells from the side. He reaches down and starts lacing up his old-school Nike Airs.
It don’t matter which one of y’all wins, though,
Johnson says.
Cause we on next, and we ain’t losin
. He nods his head at Perkins. Reaches out a fist for some daps.
It’s one-thirty in the afternoon and Lincoln Rec is bursting at the seams with guys waiting to play. Everybody dribbling around on the sidelines to get warmed up. Throwing bounce passes to each other and sneaking up jumpers when the action’s at the other end of the court.
Next team that scores sits the other five down. Sends them to the back of the line. A five- or six-game wait means a good two hours sitting up in the bleachers, watching.
Watching instead of playing.
Only guys with heart look for the rock when it’s game point. When everything’s on the line. Guys confident enough to put a team on their shoulders and good enough to bring it home. This is where you find out who came to win and who’s happy just playing. Who’s willing to rip somebody’s head off when the pressure’s on, and who’s likely to cower in the corner like a puppy.
Bring it down to me,
Rob says in the post, digging an elbow into Sticky’s middle. Holding and grabbing. Pushing.
Come on, Slim, bring it down
.
Slim dumps it in, clears out to the top of the key.
Rob backs Sticky in, frees up enough space to work his unpolished post moves.
Trey comes over to set a screen but Rob waves him off.
He spins into the lane and makes his move to the cup, muscles toward the basket like a linebacker. Lowers a shoulder and blasts Sticky in the face as he powers the ball up to the rim. The skin under Sticky’s right eye splits from the blow and blood starts zigging and zagging down his face. He goes down on one knee and watches Rob’s shot toilet-bowl around the rim and fall through.
Game over!
Trey yells, and fires wild fists through the air.
Get off my court!
Big Mac says.
Rob stands over Sticky and flexes his biceps.
Too strong,
white boy!
Sticky runs his fingers across his cut and stares at the blood.
The next five are already making their way out onto the court, stretching arms and legs, jogging in place. Shooting warm-up jump shots and talking matchups.
Dante scoops the ball up and fires it against the backboard. When it ricochets back at him he punches it with a closed fist. The ball caroms past Dallas, who’s squatting next to the door, covering his face with his hands.
I can’t believe
we lost to them fools,
he says to no one in particular.
Trey and Slim give each other daps and head for the drinking fountain.
Sticky presses his shirt against his cut and studies the red blotch of blood. He gets up and walks toward the wall behind the basket, leans against it. Dabs his shirt against his cut again and studies the red blotch of blood.
Fat Chuck takes earthquake steps up to Sticky and touches a fat hand to the back of his head. He pulls Sticky’s shirt away from the cut and investigates.
Damn, Stick. Looks
kinda deep
. He turns Sticky’s face into the light, investigates some more.
Sticky shakes out of Chuck’s grasp and presses his shirt against his cut, studies the red blotch of blood.
It ain’t that
bad,
he says, talking more to himself than Chuck. And what flashes through his mind at that point is Anh-thu. He was planning on hooking up her birthday perfect. Walking up to her at nine tonight with a big shiner wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.
Check it out,
Fat Chuck says.
I got some Neosporin in the
car.
He holds his hands up in the air.
At least you gotta let me
help you clean up in the bathroom, Stick. It ain’t like you
gonna be playin anytime soon anyway
. He points to all the guys on the sideline, waiting to play.
Sticky looks at all the guys, does some quick math in his head and figures he won’t be playing again for another hour and a half, minimum. For a second he considers taking off. Handling the stuff he’s gotta handle for Anh-thu’s birthday early and worrying about ball tomorrow.
Rob struts by with a devil-like smile on his face. He ducks into the drinking fountain for a few seconds and comes up gargling. He spits.
On the strut back he leans in near Sticky’s ear, tells him in a quiet voice:
You know you can’t handle all this muscle in
the post, white boy
. He flexes his guns and laughs when Sticky shoves him out of his face. Then he pimps back out on the court for the next game.
Chuck wraps a meat hook around Sticky’s neck.
Don’t
worry about him, Stick,
he says.
Rob ain’t nothing but a fool.
You can trust me on that one
.
Sticky presses his shirt against his cut, studies the red blotch of blood. He looks up just as Old-man Perkins checks the ball into play and another game starts rolling.
It digs in Sticky’s stomach when he thinks about Rob hitting the game winner on him. How he let Dante down. Dallas. How because he didn’t play good enough defense they’re all sitting on the sideline now. Waiting. Watching. Not a worse feeling in the world, he thinks. And then Anhthu’s face flashes through his head again and it makes him feel better. Maybe his day of hoops is off to a bad start and he has a cut on his face, but at least he gets to see his girl later on. At least he gets to chill with her. And the fact that these thoughts make him feel better surprises him. He wonders if it’s a good thing or a bad thing in terms of his dedication to hoops. In terms of the fact that hoops has to be number one in his life. Always. The truth is, maybe he shouldn’t be so excited. Maybe this feeling is wrong. Especially considering he just lost the game for his team.
Stick?
Fat Chuck says.
You comin or what?
Sticky looks up at Chuck. He presses his shirt against his cut again, studies the red blotch of blood. Then he pushes off the wall and follows Chuck out the gym door and across the parking lot, toward the run-down public restrooms.
Fat Chuck Is
dabbing at Sticky’s face with a wadded-up rag. One he pulled out of the bag he wears around his waist. (Big red blotches framed by white cloth.)
Hold still, boy,
he says, and moves Sticky’s head to the side.
Wet concrete is cracked under their feet. Jagged fault lines running into cement walls full of graffiti: thick black ink, spray-painted vato letters, blood. The kind of thing you might find in any kept-up-by-the-city restroom. Saturated toilet paper clogs both floor drains, forming ankle-high puddles you have to step over to get where you’re going. And there’s no getting around the sour smell.
Chuck’s breath is tequila. Fingers salt. He puts pressure on the cut and Sticky flinches.
Yeah,
he says.
Just like I suspected. Looks like you gonna need a couple stitches, Stick
.
Sticky pulls away to check himself in the eroding mirror. Moves his face right up to the glass for a closer look: A thin uneven cut jetting across the skin under his right eye. He takes the rag from Chuck and wipes away the blood. Watches it quickly pool back up.
Chuck takes Sticky’s head, tilts it to the side again and squints:
Maybe a butterfly, though
. He moves him into better yellow light.
But I’m thinking . . . Yeah, I’d say most likely
some stitches
.
Sticky leans against the sink and flips through daydream channels: clipboard forms, explanations, rides to and from, insurance numbers, fancy doctors, rubber-gloved fingers, long needles in his cheek, a sun-bright dentist light. He puts his fingers to the cut and cringes when the salty sweat stings.
Nah, man,
he says.
I ain’t got no time for no stitches
.
Chuck stares at Sticky’s reflection and shakes his head, puts a fist to his mouth to catch a cough.
Chuck is: fat boy licking double-scoop all grown up. Gray sweatpants, gray sweatshirt, grass-stained high-top Converse. Celtic colors. Chuck is: Lincoln Rec’s team mom or resident die-hard fan. Never even tossed up one jumper in all the months he’s been showing up. Old-man Perkins warns everybody:
Don’t let the man plop down in front of you up in them
bleachers. That cat’s so fat he’ll cause a total eclipse of the court
.
Chuck catches another cough and spits in the sink.
All
right, Stick,
he says, wiping his mouth.
It’s your call. I’m just
sayin, you could use about three or four
. He folds up his fat arms and leans against the wall.
I was takin Rob, too,
Sticky says.
I saw the game,
Chuck says.
Sticky pushes away from the mirror and goes for one of the stalls. The first three are occupied by homeless. Green trash bags next to callused streetfeet. None of the stalls have doors. Homeless dudes pick heads up slow as Sticky passes, show empty eyes. The fourth is wide open and Sticky quickly slips down his hoop shorts and reads the walls.
Chuck steps up to the mirror, plays with the ends of his chewed-up mustache. Twirls uneven hairs together and then smooths them out. He tries on six or seven different facial expressions and then laughs at himself.
Where you from anyway, Stick? I mean, where was you born?
Sticky is: hands on knees, back straight. Defensive stance so that none of him is touching the metal bowl. He says through the wall:
I was born in Virginia, I think. That’s what
my papers say. But I don’t remember it none
.
Chuck runs nubby fingers across the gray stubble of his cheeks and neck.
Well, you gotten pretty good at ball,
he says.
I
been watchin, and you gotten pretty damn good
.
Sticky pulls up his hoop shorts and flushes.
A guy with flies comes staggering up to Sticky’s stall and knocks on the wall twice. Politely. Sticky whips around wide-eyed.
This cat’s a rotting burrito. Greasy gray hair and beard sticking out of a tightly wrapped Mexican blanket. Half-dead eyes. Callused clay feet under nappy frill.
Excuse me,
sir,
he says, drawing out each word.
You sharing this room
with anyone?
Sticky smooths out his shirt and shorts on the scoot-by, tells him:
Go ahead, man, take it. I’m done
. He walks the six or seven steps back to the sink and thuds the faucet with the heel of his hand. Water shoots out strong and he washes up. He turns and watches the blanket dude slowly stagger into the stall until it’s just his clay feet under the stall wall.
The water shuts off and Sticky dries wet hands on hoop shorts.
Gotta watch them vagrants,
Chuck says.
They’ll creep up
on you sometimes
. He moves closer and puts a hand on the back of Sticky’s head. Positions salt fingers next to the cut and pulls it open a little.
Like I said,
Chuck says.
It’s up to you. It’s my cut, I have
em stitch me up so it don’t leave no scar. Don’t mess me up
down the road with the ladies
. He elbows Sticky in the ribs and laughs.
I already got a girl,
Sticky says, checking himself in the mirror again. The blood is coming back molasses-slow now. It’s caking up everywhere except in one little spot.
Matter of
fact, I gotta go get some stuff for her birthday tonight. That’s
why I gotta hurry
.
Chuck shows the whites of his eyes. He finds Sticky’s eyes in the mirror and says:
So you already gots you a little
honey then?
Sticky nods.
And you tryin to get her a little somethin?
Chuck reaches both hands behind the back of his head and links his fingers. He looks up at the ceiling.
I see,
he says.
Sticky’s mind is hoop channels again: three-game wait, max. Dante and Dallas probably got picked up already, but he could hook up his own squad. Get one more shot at Rob. Redeem himself. Anh-thu’s birthday stuff can wait. He’s still got business to attend to. His heart picks up its pace and he holds the rag out to Chuck (white framed by red at this point).
What should I do with this?
Chuck looks at the rag.
Don’t give it to me, Stick. Go on
and throw it away
.
Sticky dabs one more dab. Nothing. He throws the rag on top of the overflowing trash. As he turns to leave the bathroom, Chuck wraps a meat hook around his thin elbow.
Hold up, Stick,
he says.
I know you all anxious to get back and
ball, but let’s first figure out this birthday thing
.
Chuck releases Sticky’s elbow and folds up his arms. He glances at the door, looks over at the stalls.
How much money
you got?
Twelve bucks.
Twelve bucks?
Sticky nods his head.
Shit, Stick,
Chuck says.
You can’t do nothing with no
twelve bucks
. Chucks looks at the floor, takes his right mitt and adjusts himself a little.
Well, hell, you ever snatch some
lady’s purse?
Sticky leans back against the sink and starts messing with the empty soap dispenser.
I ain’t gonna take no lady’s
purse,
he says.
I’ll swipe somethin from a store, you know, but I
can’t be rippin off no lady’s purse
.
Oh, I see, you some sorta moral thief, right?
Chuck throws his hands in the air. He reaches up to scratch the top of his head and looks Sticky right in the eyes.
Stealin is stealin,
Stick. Don’t matter if it’s from a store or some little old lady, it’s
the exact same state of condition
.
Sticky hops up on the sink and stares at the floor. He gets his legs swinging like a little kid might.
Chuck walks over in front of the door, puts his hands on the overhang and looks out. Fat-man sweat stains under both arms. Shirt raised where you can see his stretch-mark stomach climbing up over his sweatpants drawstring.
You
need money, Stick. I’m gonna tell you that right now
.
Sticky gently touches his cut with his fingers.
Chuck lets his eyes wander outside again, looks both ways. Brings a hand down to adjust his sweatpants a little. He turns and lumbers back into the bathroom.
That’s your
only option, the way I see it
. He puts a round hand on Sticky’s shoulder.
Sticky slides off the sink. Feels warm Fat Chuck energy pass through his shirt and skin.
First-stall resident pipes up. At first he’s whining and coughing. Both Chuck and Sticky turn to the sound. Chuck drops his hand. Then the homeless guy starts slurring out some crazy political statement.
Down with the white man,
he says.
It’s the white devil that done it to us,
he says.
Shut up, old man!
Chuck yells.
It’s the white devil,
the guy says again.
Shut up!
Sticky gets the water shooting out again, splashes it on his face. This type of talk never gets to Sticky simply because he’s never seen himself as white. He hears it all the time. The antiwhite stuff. It’s up in the bleachers. It’s out by the hot dog stand. It’s in Jimmy’s office. Guys always talk a little lower when they spot him coming. Or they say things like
We don’t mean you, Stick
. Or
You’re different, Stick
. But the truth is, it never would have crossed his mind. That they might group him with the whites. It’s something that has never even occurred to him.
Sticky cranks out a few paper towels and rubs his face dry.
Anyways,
Chuck says.
What you gotta do is find some old
rich-looking broad walking an empty street. Come up from behind her and snatch her purse. Simple as that. If she tries to
scream, smack her over the head
.
I hear what you sayin,
Sticky says, hoping the lecture is over. He nods a couple times and tosses the damp paper towel on top of the rag. But as he starts toward the door, Fat Chuck picks him off again.
Only one other idea I could come up with,
Chuck says, running a fat left hand up Sticky’s inner thigh.
Sticky fights to get away, but Chuck has too much bulk. Too much power. Like being posted up by Rob on game point.
Do me this one favor,
Chucks says, struggling to keep Sticky still.
Do this one thing for me and I’ll personally drive
you there. Buy whatever she wants
.
Sticky jerks his arm back, yells:
Come on, man! Lemme
go!
But before he can gain any leverage, Chuck shoves Sticky’s hand into his lap.
Sticky fights even harder. He pushes and pulls, kicks, scratches, bites. But Chuck won’t let go.
That’s it, white boy,
he says.
I’ll buy your little girlfriend
whatever she wants
. He grabs Sticky’s head with one hand, pulls down the front of his sweatpants with the other.
The homeless guy starts whining again. Sticky’s Nikes squeak against the concrete. Something pops when Chuck leans all his weight against the sink.
Sticky finally spins out and pulls away. He boots Chuck in his sloppy stomach two times quick and darts into the parking lot.
Chuck doubles forward and holds himself. He goes down on one knee and then hurriedly grabs the sink and pulls himself back up. Before both feet are even on the ground he is sprinting out into the parking lot toward his car. Duck-footed. Stomach bouncing.
Sticky rushes into the gym and goes straight up to Dallas, who’s sitting in the bleachers.
That faggot Chuck,
he says, sucking in breaths.
He tried to . . .
Dallas straightens up, says:
What, boy?
Chuck tried to make me . . .
Sticky shoots a look out the gym door and tries to wipe Fat Chuck off his hand.
New York and Dreadlock Man stop shooting. Dollar Bill looks up from tightening his laces.
Dallas stands up.
Sticky tries to catch his breath. Tries to wipe Fat Chuck off his hand. Onto his shorts. He points out the door, toward the parking lot.
Chuck tried to make me suck him off
.
Dallas looks down the barrel of Sticky’s finger. Outside the gym. He spots Chuck lumbering through the parking lot and takes off sprinting. New York takes off too. Dollar Bill. The game stops and Trey and Slim ask what’s going on.
A group of Lincoln Rec regulars drop everything and take off after Dallas and Dollar Bill.
Jimmy hears the rumbling outside his office window and rushes out.
Wh-wh-wh-what is it?
He brings up the rear of the pack, yelling the whole time for someone to tell him what’s going on.
Sticky races after the pack.
When they reach the parking lot, New York spots Chuck squeezing into his old, paint-chipped Buick. Everybody charges after him.
The suits on the sidewalk stop walking to watch this pack sprinting through the lot, cutting and leaping over cars.
Chuck slams his heavy door shut and fumbles through his bag for his keys. When he finally gets ahold of them he frantically shoves the car key into the ignition and cranks it. As the big boat coughs and turns over a few times, he looks over his shoulder. It finally starts and he pulls it into reverse, tires squealing as he hastily backs out of the parking spot.
New York is the first to arrive just as Chuck is slamming it into drive. He pounds on Chuck’s hood and kicks the door in. He reaches for the handle but misses, yells:
Faggot!
Chuck floors it. Tires spinning to grip pavement. Smoke lifting into the air.
Dollar Bill and Dallas catch up to New York. Dreadlock Man picks up an empty forty bottle and heaves it at Chuck’s car. It shatters against the back door. Old-man Perkins and Johnson catch up. They both pick up rocks and fire them at the Buick as it speeds through the lot. One of the rocks crashes through the driver’s side window. Chuck ducks, puts a meaty hand up to save his head.
They all stop running when Chuck rounds the last island in the parking lot and peels onto the street.