I rub one eye open, then the other, and wipe at the spit dribbling down my chin. “Huh? Where’s my friend?”
“There is no one remaining in my courtroom, Mr. Tusifale, except you and me.”
I slide up my seat, yet again recovering from an unfulfilled dream, and find a slip of paper tucked under my elbow. It’s the official letterhead of the county of Santa Clara, office of Judge Barrett Nguyen, chief stenographer Ms. Dendela Dido, with the message, Call me, Sexy, and let’s make a leather sandwich. Scribbled beneath that the digits: 393-0967. I ponder the possibilities and pass the prize to the judge, “Are you sure I have no friends, Your Honor?”
“Mr. Tusifale,” the judge says, finalizing his squarehood by depositing the hookup late-night bootie call in the nearest wastebasket, “I am hardly interested in joining the word game you and your attorney were playing during proceedings.”
“But you preside over the ultimate word game, Your Honor.”
“You were very lucky this time around, Mr. Tusifale. You are coy, yes, but unfortunately that is not enough in this life.”
“I know it.”
“Not everyone in your position would be able to walk away from this scot-free. I suggest you count your blessings.”
I’ve never had a talent for that. “I suggest you get the facts right next time.”
“Get out of my courtroom.”
“Gladly, Your Honor,” I say, nodding, standing to his eye level, then rising higher to full height. “Not another minute in your judgment.”
29
All the Talk
ALL THE TALK about incarceration yesterday has got me biking over to the handball courts at the Campbell Community Center. Tali left a message on my recorder about her man and me bonding. Somehow she manages to call when I’m not at the guesthouse. I understand. Why talk to someone who can aptly correct your facts and the false conclusions you draw from them? She wants to speak in that presumptuous older-sister tone where her advice is dressed up nicely without my interruptions: “I want you to be friends with McLaughlin. You need someone like him to show you other ways of dealing with things. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, little brother.”
If only my sister knew the true setup between us. That McLaughlin—the follower—is all mine. A kind friend to many, yes, the subject of sympathy, but alas a liability. She couldn’t handle the irony. McLaughlin actually believes that being around me—childless by choice—will make him a better father on two fronts: culture, manliness. He thinks that the blood of his son, which he himself lacks, might figuratively be borrowed from me; the same goes for what he calls “an abnormally high testosterone level,” which he also lacks and wants from me. Well, anyway, this is what he thinks. What he doesn’t know is that if I, as a half-breed, feel a genuine sense of cultural unbelonging, what will his son, a generation farther along in the dilution process, eventually feel, if he feels anything at all? He’ll be lucky if the kid can pronounce his mother’s maiden name. And what McLaughlin has conveniently overlooked about my “manliness” is that the testosterone has caused more than a good amount of strife. There have been hours, days, maybe weeks where I’ve been seized by the boot-stomping destructive vices of Genghis Khan. I’m always amazed at the number of lives I’ve left uncrushed over the years.
I pass the ladies speed walking on the track in their loose powder-blue cotton sweats and then the waist-high kids counting out jumping jacks in their huge helmets and way-too-wide shoulder pads. The former junior high school is divided equally to interested parties: Campbell Parks and Rec, Campbell Pop Warner, the theater town troupe, and John F. Kennedy University, one of those indeterminate Silicon Valley pop-up colleges that occupy in full capacity a class-room, a Xerox machine, a Pepsi dispenser, and a Web site-in-process. I wonder how our thirty-fifth President, that wily yet well-read Hahvuhd grad, would feel about his regal name being attached to an outfit of higher learning whose campus you can’t see from the road or find on foot without a two-page pamphlet from the Campbell Center Info Booth?
Beyond the fields: dual courts built side by side, sharing a middle wall, like two horseshoes welded together at the prongs. Designated for handball first, an ex-con’s fantasy. Tennis, racquetball, squash, and all their posh participants need to find the end of the line. In the first court, three Norteños are playing cutthroat, an old prison game, their jukebox bumping about “Scrap Killing in Soledad.” I sit down on the turf of my empty court and feel the old wash of institutionalization come over me. It’s never totally purged from the head, in the same way that hope is never purged from the heart. I’m nodding to the wicked beat, lacing up and double-knotting the strings of my shoes, pulling my beanie low over the brow. The floodlights go on and it’s just like a handball court on the prison yard.
I think back to the time when I learned the dubious history of this gang. Like everything in prison, it’s a straight-up saga and seemingly pointless. Gotta jump back to the sixties. The Mexican Mafia was solid in San Quentin, membership spilling to the streets, spanning the lengths of Cali. This went okay for a while, until one M gangster stole a boot from another M gangster. We won’t say here who was the thief, who the victim. That depends on legend, which depends on what part of the state you’re from. We’ll just say that one was from Norcal, the other Socal. The gang split somewhere around King City: Norteños from anywhere north, Sureños from anywhere south.
This also went okay for a while, okay not meaning that no one died but that nothing changed. Then Central Valley Norteños got tired of taking directives from city and coast shot callers, broke off, and formed the Bulldogs. Northerners lost half their numbers. By now the immigrants who’d originally started the gang had second- and third-generation Chicano kids who didn’t speak a lick of Spanish, didn’t ID any longer with paisas, the very farmers who were their fathers and uncles thirty years before. Illiterates in their indigenous tongue, they still used street words like oso and frajo and wila but could not use the words in complete Spanish sentences.
This meant that paisas slinging dope started kicking it automatically with Southerners, since Southerners, who were close to the border, had fresh access to their roots. The authenticator of language was gone from the depleted northern ranks; they took in a good number of whites, Filipinos, and blacks from the neighborhood, even a Poly now and then. Meanwhile, in steady wetback streams, paisas were getting far enough north to see what was going down in northern territory, squat on it, and call themselves southerners.
So these three cats playing handball on the court next to me in their 49er jerseys, red beanies, and black Ben Davis pants aren’t exactly of the same cultural composition as the paisas who jumped me at the rally. There’s hostile blood between them, they’re no kissing cousins.
I can’t see them but I can hear the plum-sized ball ricocheting off the slick surface of the concrete wall and the scuffling of their shoes against the turf, and when I look out toward the lot and see the pink-white kneecaps of McLaughlin in his ie lavalava, I’m a little worried, a little pissed. I don’t have to guess why the ball stops bouncing in the Norte court: they’re looking at my brother-in-law, asking themselves if this guy’s for real.
“Talofa,” he says to me.
Oh, he’s for real, all right.
I nod, triple-tie my shoelaces, pump my fists a few times to warm them up for the blood rush they’re about to get on the court. I don’t mean to be mean, but I want McLaughlin to see that while his loyalty to my sister and half of her culture is, I suppose, to be admired, his outfit for the most part is an indiscretion. When it ain’t wrapped around the hips of a 260-pound brown man with thick arms and legs, a flat nose, and an Afro, an ie lavalava is an obvious invitation to shallow male ridicule. He’s a mark.
My silence is successful: McLaughlin unwraps the sacred garment, folds it with the delicate and respectful mindset of a soldier with a flag at the tomb, and starts to stretch and bounce in his polyester tennis shorts.
I hear several pops o
f canned carbonation. The Nortes on the next court are breaking open beer, Budweiser no doubt. The city is asleep to the shit that’s going down in it. I say to McLaughlin, “Let’s go.”
“What?”
“I said let’s split.”
“But I thought we came here to play a few rounds of handball.”
“We did, but now we ain’t.”
“I don’t get it.”
The ball has stopped bouncing around the wall, a can is smashed, kicked. “You sure you wanna play, man?”
“Of course.”
“All right.” I’m nodding, looking up at him. I want to say, This is what you wanted, McLaughlin, this is your life, so here it is. What could possibly be more cultural and manly than hitting up a prison game monopolized by Hispanic gangbangers? Let’s see some of that down for the brown now, son. “All right, McLaughlin. You wanna play with me, you’re in it for keeps. You got my back, man?”
“What?”
“I said do you got my fucking back, bro?” His pause in response is all I need to see. Shaking my head, I stand, say, “Let’s get the fuck out of here, man.”
“Oh, no,” he says. “I got your back.”
“You ‘member how we met?”
He nods, ashamed.
I want him to recognize what really happened, and that I haven’t forgotten. “When you were flying out the door of Aulaumea’s kitchen?”
“I remember, Paul.”
“You know why you got thrown out?”
“Because I disrespected your cousin?”
“Nothing to do with that, man. It was because you were a white boy. That’s why they put hands on you. I’m telling you the way it is. You understand?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t know what it cost me, do you?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“It don’t matter what it cost me, you feel me?” I bounce the ball, throw it down the lane. “You got my mutherfuckin’ back if some shit goes down?”
He nods, gritting his teeth, looking like a high school middle line-backer on Friday night, pre-game, mid-autumn. I say, “All right, bro-in-law. Let’s sling it then, homie.”
We start up our game, and I go easy on him for a few rounds so he can warm up to the idea of defeat. McLaughlin’s awkward, two left feet, as they say, straight-tripping over himself. His arms are long and thin and he’s got that kind of bend in the elbow whereby his hands are out at an angle away from his body. His hips are wide, his coordination poor, but he’s got spirit. And his juices are flowing. I like that. It’s good to watch, it kills time. Any time I see another human dance like nobody’s watching, I don’t ever laugh, can’t. We’re moving through the game, closing down at 10–1, when one of the inebriated eses decides to jump in and join us. He’s on our court, our side of the wall, the guy didn’t even ask us a question.
Well, that’s not too bad, I guess; we got almost one whole game in before the bullshit starts up.
He says, “You gotta mix it around on the wall, homie. High. Low.”
I say, “Thanks for your help, bro, but we got a game going here.”
“Shit, homeboy, this ain’t no game.”
I say, “Eh, bro. You cut into our rally.”
He starts bouncing the ball, he’s not paying me any attention. He looks over at McLaughlin and I decide to push the bill, fuck him. “You wanna run a game, homie? You and me, one-on-one.”
“Shit. You don’t want none of this, homes.”
“You got a twenty spot, McLaughlin?” He nods yes. I say, “I’ll bet twenty bones to you going back to your side of the court that I’ll smoke you by seven points.”
“You got a bet right there, homie.”
“You lose, you go back over and be quiet.”
He stops and says, “You trying to say something, homie?”
“I ain’t trying anything. I’m saying just what I said. You want the bet or what, dog?”
He’s stopped to think it over but he can’t back down now. It’s too late: the other two homeboys have come over to this side of the wall. The taller one with tags on his face says, “What’s crackin‘, Smiley?”
Smiley takes one last swig of his beer and then chucks it away from the court. I’m bouncing on my toes, looking at the wall away from everyone, swinging my hands at the side of my knees, cracking my neck. Thinking on the Greeks and their preparatory usage of sport: an alternate way to ready yourself to mass-murder Persians. You wrestle in a friendly forum of competition to eventually kill. You race in a friendly forum of competition to eventually avoid being killed. Sport at its most basic fabric is organized prep to kill, organized prep to survive.
My opponent’s trying to use optic intimidation, to give me the maka sepa, as we say in Samoan: the evil eye of death. All right, Smiley. Schmiley. MacSchmiley. You dumpy mutherfucker. Let’s switch cultural savageries. I respect your people so much I’m gonna steal from your people. Jump back to that war-torn society where old men were a rarity, shunned as cowards.
Gonna focus on the blood sport of the ancient Aztecan game of tlachtli, a deal so real and barbaric that the cost of a slipup by the ref was a limb. Where losing teams could be seen fleeing the victors and the fans and the understood price of mass sacrifice.
This over a pseudo-soccer game with a rubber ball?
Yes, your eyes are telling me. This is what you need to prepare for, homie. This is me and my heritage. That’s what this tattoo on my arm means. That time, those people are my story.
Okay, Schmiley, okay. If I can’t have a story then I’ll have to disprove yours. Right now. Let’s do this.
He looks at me and says, “You play three-wall, don’t you, homes?”
I know what he’s getting at. “I play anything.”
“Okay then, ese. We’re gonna play one-wall. Prison style, homes.”
“Fine by me.”
“You can’t use the other walls, ese”
“I’m ready, man. Explain the rules to someone else.”
He says, “Rally for serve,” and lobs me a floater. I send it back off the wall right into his gut. His homeboys laugh out loud. I pick the ball up and say, “Bola.”
He raises his eyebrows at the Spanish but before he can process anything la bola‘s rocketing back at him and he swivels and punches at the air. The ball droops toward the wall so clearly I’ve got a wealth of placement options opening up before me and it comes back soft and without spin and I fire it at the right corner where he’s gotta get on his high horse and run. He can’t get it, he’s about to fall down. It dies right there with his horse. A donkey. An ass. I say, “One-oh, bola,” and start it up again.
He’s slow on his feet, he’s got no game. He’s probably a closet X-box junkie. He’s got a little kill shot that might work on another immobile ese, but not on a mutherfucker with feet like darts. I got excellent feet and a good arm, unimpaired vision, a healthy libido, and enough of a twisted experience and outlook not to give one up to this sucker. He’s going down, bad. I send shots to the wide side to test his left arm. He ain’t got one. I send shots off to make him jump in the air, and he ain’t got any hops. I play high off the wall to see his overhand and it’s average, go low for kill shots and the wind of the ball is tickling the ground, coming straight off to his feet. At 3–0 he’s shaking out his arms, acting like he’s just warming up, but I’m gonna smoke his ass and he knows it.
When the game’s 5–0, my mind drifts to McLaughlin and his general safety, and when I look over at the poor guy he’s nodding at me with faith, as if he were on an Acapulco cliff convincing himself to jump. I almost laugh but keep a straight face. Don’t look down at the water, McLaughlin! Gotta keep you from seeing your shaking knees. I nod back, wink, play cool.
The other two eses now know enough about me and my skills to leave McLaughlin alone. I feel better and whip out a shot that whizzes by their homeboy’s ankle, moves the game up to 6–0.
I call, “Chonga!” Means game point in prison-speak. W
e’re already there, six minutes down, a shot away from a clean skunk. The silence behind me feels so damned good. I wanna bathe in their silence, I wanna breathe it all into the bottom of my lungs. I’m having some fun for once, I feel the bearable lightness of my being. I throw the ball out and he determinedly puts it into the air, a pretty good shot but not good enough. I’m already setting up behind him, waiting on it. He tries to block my way but I nudge him aside with my hips and wind down as if I were going to fire something high at his head. He starts upcourt towards the spectators at just the same time that I send it back, soft, with touch, so that it dies in a dribble, like a bubble in the air, 7–0.
“Damn, homes!”
“What the fuck happened, eh?”
McLaughlin is looking around, ready to defend himself, defend me, us. As if the poor guy could. I shake my head really quickly and he exhales, though still on high alert.
I say, “Good game, homie.”
He shakes my hand, asks, “Where’d you do your time at, homes?”
“Avenal,” I say. “Two-yard.”
“Right on, dog,” he says.
The Norte with the tags on his face asks me, “You a homeboy?”
“I’m an Other,” I say. “I ride with hamos up in there.”
Hamos. Samoans. Much respect from the hoods of the hood when you play the Poly card. All three cats look over at McLaughlin, holding his ie lavalava nervously across a forearm like a maître d’ his first day on the job, still nodding.
What We Are Page 26