Good People (9 page)

There were any number of long rallies that concluded with someone doing something spectacular, an impossible get, a well disguised drop shot, et cetera.

The crowd would explode whenever something like this occurred.

To be fair, it seemed as if the crowd leaned toward my friend's sister in terms of support. This was probably due to the size differential, as most root for the underdog. She is no more than 5′ 2″, maybe 110 pounds if she's retaining water.

She'd prompt the loudest ovations, which were either spurned on or accentuated by her joyful exultations.

Whenever she did something dramatic, she'd yell, Come on.

I never speak while on court, as I find such behavior coarse and vulgar.

I can't say I recognized anyone in the crowd, which continued to gather as the match went on. You'd think
I'd have seen someone I knew, as I'd spent any number of hours at my window, looking out and down at my neighbors.

I'd recently purchased binoculars so I could see even more, so I could look into the windows of the surrounding buildings. So far I haven't seen anything worth noting.

I haven't learned a damned thing.

I did notice that the courts emptied of other players as our match went on. Most of these players took a seat and looked on in awe, I'm sure.

I took this second set 7–5 and everyone had to settle in for a long afternoon.

During the changeover, my opponent called for the trainer. Apparently, she was complaining of a sore shoulder. I overheard her saying something about a rotator cuff, but I suggested it could be a torn labrum. I told her I'd once suffered a torn labrum. I said, More often than not it requires surgery.

I told her if she decided to retire that it would count as a loss. I said, I'm sure your brother will be proud either way.

I'm not above gamesmanship.

By this time I could feel the heat and the effect it was having on my body. I had bouts of dizziness every few minutes. I had to change my shirt for the fifth time. I ate a banana. I drank coconut water. I liked to have died.

I admonished one of the ball boys for not properly holding the umbrella over me, as the lower part of my left leg was in the sun and felt as if it were baking.

My friend's sister started taking something off her first serve on account of her shoulder problem and I was able to take advantage of this. I stepped into her first serve repeatedly and gained the advantage on most points from here on out.

I wear a bandanna to absorb sweat so that it won't get into my eyes. Many players favor headbands and wristbands for this, but I've never worn any kind of band on the court.

I took the third set, but she came back in the fourth.

We were approaching the fifth hour of play.

I couldn't feel my hands. My calves burned.

My friend's sister has great stamina and didn't exhibit any difficulties. There is something almost superhuman about her.

I didn't allow myself to think about sleeping with her, what that experience would be like, as we were playing. Maybe once or twice my thoughts drifted to her ample bosom or I got distracted as her skirt flared in the wind, which was kicking up and becoming more of a factor as play went on.

I started taking more time between points. I pretended to get distracted by birds and planes and people moving about in my field of vision. I'd step off the service line, pretend I didn't like a ball toss, call for time in the middle of her serve, et cetera.

We'd decided there was to be no fifth set tiebreaker, which was probably a mistake, but one we were both eager to make.

The fifth set could only be described as epic.

Match play was suspended at 24 all on account of darkness.

By this time the crowd had dwindled. People had to go home and eat dinner, talk among themselves, live their own lives.

I could describe the various games, extraordinary points, long rallies, but most of it is a blur, to be true.

I do remember one perfect topspin lob and my friend's sister's running it down and hitting a perfect between-the-legs cross-court winner.

At this point we were the only two remaining at the courts, out there in the gloaming, and I dropped my racket and applauded.

We agreed to resume play tomorrow.

I'm certain after a night of rest I can prevail.

So, when I told my friend I was about to sleep with his sister, it wasn't exactly true, but it could very well happen tomorrow.

Telling him to sit tight was good advice, though.

I was at mine own window. How you can tell it's mine own is that's me looking out of it.

Everything looked the same, the people and dogs and whatnot.

It had started to rain and was coming down sideways.

I didn't know where my friend's sister was spending the night. But I was sure she was going over the match in her mind, replaying the points, agonizing over particular decisions, when to come to net and when not to, for instance. She'd try to devise a winning strategy for tomorrow, and I was doing likewise.

No one was thinking about her brother or the stakes or the nuances of defenestration.

I couldn't see into anyone's window, as I'd misplaced the binoculars recently, but I'm sure everyone was huddled together at home, discussing the extraordinary feats they'd witnessed that day and what was still to come.

I considered calling my friend to tell him that everything was still to be decided, that his sister was doing him proud, that there was still hope for him, but I decided against it.

My friend's sister is a great player and it's a privilege to stand across the net from her.

I'm glad it's turning out this way. That everything is still to be decided.

We are the only two playing.

Someone Great Like Socrates

T
HERE'S MORE THAN ONE REASON
I tied you to that bedpost.

If you recall, it'd been raining. That's first and foremost.

Also, the bathroom and how you were always in there cleaning it.

I can't count how many times I found you hunched over the tub, your hair up in that bandanna, listening to the stereo loud and scrubbing away to the rhythm of the music.

I can't tell you the toll this took on me.

There's so much I can't tell you.

I needn't remind you that neither of us was in good health nor spirits at the time. I think I was sleeping sixteen hours a day and you were up to a quart of gin.

All of this taken together could devastate anyone, I think.

I, like you, am human. Like you, I know nothing.

The rest we can sort out later.

If there is no later, please allow me to say this: Be careful who you look at on the subway. They might want money or to kill you.

You have to question the mentality of anyone who willingly looks at another on the subway.

Someone great like Socrates would say the same thing had he lived in the city.

If you get yourself killed, I would count it as an unspeakable tragedy, even if I don't know you anymore, even if by then you're already dead to me.

Socrates himself was put to death on a subway, I'm almost certain.

He made the mistake of looking up when someone asked for everyone's attention and they made him drink hemlock for his troubles.

This isn't the kind of information you can get just anywhere.

You know what you're giving up.

Do you remember the time I tied you to that bedpost and we discussed Socratic paradoxes and the peculiar ways of the world? I believe I was accused of something horrific and I needed you to sit still long enough to explain myself.

I believe I made myself clear while I was applying the ointment.

The gist was have you ever boarded a train and gone someplace because why the fuck not?

Maybe to see what a new life might be like on the windy side of an old one?

Maybe to get away from the panhandlers on the subway, to say nothing of the philosophers and murderers?

To say nothing of bedposts and slipknots.

If you do this, remember me to any perfect stranger once you arrive and tell them what I've always told you, that I know nothing. Tell them, in spite of this, I said take special care.

Always, please, take very special care.

Why We're Trapped in a Failed System

S
HE WAS SORRY FOR THE RAIN
. I told her it wasn't a problem, but I did my part and apologized for the trees. This sort of discourse continued for a couple of years. Then one morning I said not everything was our responsibility. She took exception rather vehemently. She said this is why we're trapped in a failed system. She said this is why people commit desperate outrages against themselves and others. I wanted to argue with her, but I noticed that her eyebrows were misshapen as they performed calisthenics on her face. I can't tell you how much this upset me. Sometimes I am far too sensitive and shouldn't be allowed outside where there are other people. Not everybody knows this about me and those who do tend to shun me. To these people, I say clean up your own yard work and then get back to me. I hadn't said this to her yet, but I was getting reading to. I always have to get into a particular mind-set
to accomplish anything. Even making breakfast takes a half hour's worth of silent meditation. I think she knew something was wrong at this point, because she stopped talking about why things were the way they were. I tried not to look, but it was clear her fingernails were uneven and unpolished. I told her I couldn't take this anymore. I may've said this at a certain pitch, which I'm sure was unsettling. She picked up her head and looked at me square in the jaw. It was like this for a while, two people trapped in a failed system, trying to look at each other. I am here to report that I was the first to crumble, but what's worse is, she couldn't summon the humanity to place a hand anywhere on me as I wept.

A Cloud That Looks Like Jesus

I
LEAVE THE HOUSE BECAUSE
it's a better chance of getting killed off out there all at once. I'm sure the apartment I live in is killing me off but it's taking it's time so far and it might take years to finish. Why I think this is my eyes always burn in the apartment and I cough a lot. I try to remember to buy eyedrops and cough medicine when I leave the house, but I almost never do remember. Why I don't remember is I think about getting run over by trucks or shot to death by hoodlums instead. I see the trucks speeding by and imagine what it'd feel like to get run over by one. I'm sure it would hurt. I saw a movie once where a woman was run over by a truck and she lived on for about five minutes afterward. This woman was covered in blood and lying faceup on the concrete after she got run over by the truck. Actually, I think it was a city bus that ran her over, but what difference does that make
after you're already run over? Once you're run over, it doesn't matter what kind of vehicle did it to you. She didn't understand what had happened or why it happened to her. This is something I know all about. I don't need a city bus to run me over to not understand what happens to me and why. The list of things that I don't understand about the world could fill up four city buses, if not more. I shouldn't even get into it, so I won't, except to say that I don't know what it is in my apartment that's killing me. There's some kind of poison in there, coming in through the pipes or up from the basement or down from the roof. But I'd rather get into this woman, whose legs had been separated from the rest of her, I think. I was trying not to look, so I can't say for sure what happened. It seemed that part of her had been severed, part of her was elsewhere. Maybe it was parts of her that were elsewhere. It wasn't what I wanted to see, as I don't like the sight of blood, of parts, of ripped-open innards. I imagine it'd be the same if I'm the one run over, that I wouldn't want to look down and see what parts of me had been separated from the rest. I'd rather look straight up at the sky. Maybe it's a cloud up there, a cloud that looks like something else, maybe a president or Jesus. I've never seen this kind of cloud, but I've heard other people do. I think that'd be a nice thing to see after getting run over. This woman that did get run over, though, she didn't look up at the
sky at all, let alone see a cloud that looked like Jesus up there. A young lady was trying to comfort the woman as she lay dying, the parts that remained intact. She cradled the dying woman's head in her hands. I wonder if I get run over by a truck if someone would do this for me. I don't think anyone's ever cradled my head before, so it seems doubtful they'd start then. This woman that got run over, though, she had a nice head and I'm sure some people cradled it before the truck ran her over. People probably took strands of her hair and tucked them behind her ears. They probably smiled as they did this to her. This woman, it appeared as if she didn't want to get run over by the truck that ran her over. It appeared that she had better things to do than get run over by a truck that day. My thing is, most days I don't have anything better to do, so if I do get run over by a truck, I hope this comes across to whomever might see me lying there. I hope they realize that this man had nothing better to do today, so it's just as well this truck ran him over. I hope they realize that this man's apartment was killing him off anyway and that it was best to get it over with all at once. Maybe this'll be the day that I finally do remember to buy eyedrops and cough medicine. Maybe the truck will run me over on my way home from the drugstore and the person that cradles my head in the street will go through my pockets for identification and find the drops and medicine.
Maybe I'll ask them to pour some drops into my eyes so they won't burn as I look up at a cloud that looks like Jesus. Even still, I should think I'd like a hoodlum to come over and fire two rounds into my head rather than have this same hoodlum cradle me in his arms and then have this hoodlum pour eyedrops into my eyes so I could look up at the clouds. I should think I'd like everything to end all at once and forever should it come right down to it, so to hell with the cloud that looks like Jesus. Sometimes when I do go out into the street and walk around I try to eyeball the hoodlums to see if they're really as tough as they seem, see if they want to throw a couple of shots my way because that's preferable to getting run over by a bus, depending on their marksmanship. The list of what I don't understand might take up twelve city buses, but I at least know that much about the world.