“We went to the party because Tasha works the door, so she let us in. When we got there, everything was chill. Just music, food, drinks, and a bunch of people.”
“What kind of people, son?” My mother closed her eyes when she asked that. It’s what she did when she was getting upset.
“All kinds. Lots of girls—well, women, and lots of dudes who seemed to have money. I only say that because of the clothes they were wearing. But I could be wrong, they all might live at home like me, and just borrowed clothes from their homeboys or their fa—”
“Ali!” John said, pissed. I realized I almost slipped.
My mother spun around toward him. “Wait a minute. You knew, didn’t you! You knew he was going to that party. That’s why you were checking on him!”
“Don’t be mad at him, Ma,” I begged. “None of this is his fault!”
She stared up at the ceiling for a second, then turned back toward me. “Ali, I ain’t got enough mad for both of y’all, so since you my responsibility, I’m gonna save all the mad for you. And now you’re going to tell me exactly what happened.”
“Okay. So we’re there, and after a while the three of us split up. Noodles was close to the door talking to Tasha. Needles was in the corner with his yarn, knitting and staying clear from any trouble. And I was just dancing around, doing my thing or whatever.”
“Get to the point, Ali!” Doris barked.
“Okay, okay! So, long story short, Noodles had gotten into a stupid confrontation that really wasn’t his fault. Some guys were trying to chump him. So then Needles comes over to see what’s going on and ends up stabbing one of the dudes with one of his knitting needles.”
“He what?” my mom gasped.
“On purpose?” John asked.
“No, fool. Needles wouldn’t do that,” Doris insisted.
“He has ticks sometimes,” I reminded my dad. “Y’all seen it, when his arms jerk out. Noodles said that’s what he thinks happened. Either way, Needles was trying to protect his brother, and that’s all that really matters.
“Of course, after that they start jumping Needles, and Noodles punked out and ran, so I had no choice but to jump in it. And that’s really it. I mean, I don’t know what else to say.”
I felt kind of embarrassed all of a sudden.
By now my mother had one hand over her mouth and the other fanning back the tears in her eyes. My father was gently rubbing her back.
“I had to. They would’ve killed him, Ma. I swear.”
The tears started coming down my mother’s cheeks, and she started trembling like a child on the first day of the flu. She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t speak. Doris is a tough woman, but she did not do well with violence and fighting. She wasn’t even too cool with the fact that I had been boxing all these years, but let it slide because I got to be around Malloy. Plus she knew I was too scared to have a real match anyway. Violence just wasn’t her thing, especially when it came to either of her kids, or good, genuine people like Needles. And I don’t mean special in the sense of mentally ill, I mean special in the sense of good, genuine people, and that’s definitely Needles.
My father stood up. He seemed taller, more like a parent.
“Man to man,” he started, “did you handle yourself?”
I knew what he meant. He knew fighting had never really come easy for me, and wanted to know if I made those guys pay. It’s a question that I’m sure my mother wanted to know too, but she’d have never asked.
Without going into detail, I answered, “Yeah.”
He nodded his head and put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it enough to tell me that I had done the right thing and that he was proud. My mother sank back down on the couch. John walked over to the kitchen and began to fill a few glasses of water.
I sat down next to my mom. I felt terrible. Really terrible. She was totally upset, and it was my fault. Now I didn’t know whether to hug her or just ask her to dismiss me.
She pressed her thumb against her eyes and took the water that John brought her. He stood to the side and gulped down his own glass, each swallow oddly loud.
“Is . . . ,” she started, stopped, then started again. “Is Needles all right?”
“Yeah. He’s beat pretty bad, but he’s okay. I got him home and took care of him.”
She nodded and flashed me a half smile. That smile let me know that she was mad at me for going but happy I took care of my friend. That I did what they taught me to do, take care of the folks I love. I could tell Doris knew I did what I had to do. So, feeling like she wasn’t too too mad, I laid my head on her shoulder.
She drank the rest of the water, and after a few seconds she bounced her shoulder just enough for my head to pop up.
“You know you in trouble, right? I mean, grounded. Big-time. We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” she said, her voice suddenly calm. Sleep was all over the room. We were all exhausted. John was leaning against the wall like a zombie.
“And maybe have Malloy look at that hand tomorrow too, if your mother lets you out,” John suggested.
I didn’t say anything. Just nodded and made my way back to bed.
12
The next morning I woke up later than usual, probably because I hadn’t gone to sleep until four in the morning. My face felt heavy, sore, and I knew that there would probably be a bruise. I was in no hurry to rush to the bathroom to see it; I knew it was there. I could feel the blue color. I held my hand in front of my face. It looked like one of those big foam hands you get when you go see the Yankees or the Knicks, except it was stiff and throbbing. I’ve never seen either of them live—the Yankees or the Knicks—but I’ve seen those hands on TV enough. John always said he’d take me and Jazz to get one, but never did. I don’t think it’s because he didn’t want to. I just don’t think he could ever afford it.
I eased out of bed like an old man, my body cramped and stubborn. The TV in the living room was buzzing with its usual “You are not the father.” Jazz was having her daily coffee in the form of trash talk shows. I could smell that she had cooked. Bacon. Eggs. French toast maybe. But my smelling breakfast was interrupted by my suddenly wondering whether or not I was going to tell Jazz what happened last night. I knew she’d wonder why I was staying in the house all day, which I surely would be, for who knows how long. Maybe I would tell her I just wanted to spend some time with her. But she ain’t dumb. Plus she’d notice my swollen hand and bruised-up face and have a heart attack, and go right into mother role, trying to ice it, heat it, wrap it. I’d look like a mummy when she got through with me.
I would have to tell her then. But I knew she wouldn’t do well with news that I got into a fight, and that Needles got beaten pretty bad. So maybe I’d leave that part out, the part about Needles. No matter how old she acted, some things were still too much for her. Doris could barely take the news, so I knew Jazz would be crushed. So I decided to just not say anything at all about it, then shoot from the hip when she started asking questions.
The light from the hallway blinded me for a second. I thought about how this must be what it’s like to go to heaven—walking toward the blinding light, with the smell of bacon and eggs all around. Jazz was jumping from the talk shows to the news and back to the talk shows. It was all so predictable.
The floor creaked.
“Ali?” Jazz called, sort of excited.
Just the sound of her saying my name made my eyes water. I don’t know why, but it did.
“Yeah,” I said, turning the corner so she could see me.
She, hopped off the couch and ran toward me, almost tripping over her oversize socks, my socks, dragging behind her like two tails on her feet. She threw herself at me, wrapping her arms tight around my waist and squeezing as hard as she could, which wasn’t very hard, but hard enough for me to be reminded again that I had been fighting the night before.
“You okay?” she asked me, her head pressed against my chest.
“Of course. Why?” Why was she
asking me this?
She pulled away so that I could see her face. This morning she looked innocent. No grown woman stuff. No old soul–ness. She looked eleven.
“Y’all were making so much noise last night, I couldn’t sleep,” she said. I felt my heart drop to my knees. “I wasn’t listening, Ali, but I could hear, y’know?”
Now her little face was all tensed up. This is why I didn’t want her to know about this. Another layer of guilt came over me.
“Let’s sit down,” I said, taking her hand, walking her back over to the couch. “I’m fine. Everyone is fine, Jazz.”
“Even Needles?”
“Even Needles.” At least I hoped so.
Jazz wiped a tear from her cheek, but more kept rolling down. She grabbed a napkin from the table, where two plates were set, both empty, except for crumbs of bacon and bread dust.
“Dang, Jazz, did I sleep too late? You ate mine and yours?” I asked, laughing, trying to lighten the mood.
“No, man,” she said, looking at me more like her usual young-old self. “When I came out here this morning, Dad was knocked out on the couch. So I made him a plate.”
“Dad?”
My dad hasn’t slept here since . . . I don’t even remember the last time! For Doris to actually let him stay was big. I mean, it was late and all, but still. My mother is the type of woman who, once she puts her foot down, it’s down, no matter how late it is. It wouldn’t have surprised me at all if she sent him packing in the middle of the night. But she didn’t.
“Yep. He was laid out just like a little baby. I couldn’t believe it.”
“And where was Mom?” I tried to hold in a smile.
“Where she always is. Work.”
To wake up to John asleep in our house must’ve been like Christmas for Jazz. She didn’t tell me this, but I know she ran and jumped on him, and kissed his face, and played tickle monster, and hugged him like she hugged me earlier, but ten times tighter. I wish I had seen it.
“That bruise is nasty, Ali.” Jazz reached up but kept herself from touching it at the last second. “And let me see that hand y’all were talking about last night.”
I lifted it. Then I lifted the other one so that she could compare.
Her mouth dropped.
“Yeah, pretty gross, right?”
Jazz got a foul look on her face and turned away. I’m sure she regretted asking to see it.
“I did fix you a plate, by the way. Don’t want you to get jealous,” she joked, clearly trying to take her mind away from my giant hand. “It’s in the microwave.”
On the counter, right by the microwave, lay a sheet of torn-out notebook paper. In black marker was written:
PUNISHMENT! You are NOT allowed to leave the house, except to go get your hand looked at by Malloy. I know you’re supposed to work for him today, but I HAVE ALREADY SPOKEN TO HIM. YOU CAN ONLY STAY THERE FOR 30 MINUTES, FOR HIM TO FINISH YOUR HAND, THEN COME STRAIGHT BACK HOME! I AM NOT PLAYING WITH YOU, ALI. In the house I need you to give the bathroom some love, as well as the kitchen, living room, and your bedroom. DUST, SWEEP, MOP, AND CLEAN EVERYTHING! AGAIN, I AM NOT PLAYING WITH YOU. DO NOT TEST ME, ALI.
And then, after all that, it said, “I love you, son,” and was signed, “Your mother.”
I couldn’t even be upset about it because I knew it was coming. And it actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I took the food out of the microwave and scarfed it down using my left hand, which was weird, but my right hand couldn’t even hold a fork. Then I downed two aspirin with orange juice, gave Jazz a kiss on the cheek, and headed out to Malloy’s.
13
It’s funny to think about how fast things change. A day ago I was regular Ali, throwing jabs in the shower and shadowboxing my own reflection in my mother’s mirror. Most people around here didn’t even know about me training at Malloy’s for years, punching the bag, and learning how to snap my jab and move my feet. And even though over time I got pretty good, I still wasn’t brave enough to ever really fight anyone. Just didn’t think it was in me. But after MoMo’s party I was sure half the hood thought I was some gladiator. Shoot, I kinda thought so too! And now I had to march down to Malloy’s house with my giant hand and tell him what happened.
When I got there, I knocked on the door, but it was open, so the first knock opened it more.
“Malloy? You in there?”
“Yeah, I’m in here,” his voice, sluggish and scratchy, came from inside. I could smell the cigarettes and musky liquor breath from outside.
“Well, well, well, my man Muhammad Ali is in the house! Heard you taking jokers down for the count!” he said, but not smiling or laughing, or showing any signs of it being a joke.
I leaned against the wall, deflated. Part of me wanted him to know how bad I, Allen Brooks, whooped those dudes, but another part of me was embarrassed about the whole thing.
“Even if your mother hadn’t told me, I would’ve found out,” he explained. “This is Decatur Street, son. Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. The streets talk anyway, but they talk even louder to me,” he said like a big shot. The Newport dangled from his lip, the ash ready to fall onto his leg. Luckily, those old-school jeans are too thick to burn, I thought.
I stood there, mute.
“So you gonna tell me about it? Or you just came to talk about girls?” Malloy said, still with no smile.
I smirked.
“I mean, ain’t much to tell,” I started. “I was at a party that I had to go to, but shouldn’t have been at, and these guys start jumping Needles. So, I did what I had to do.”
Malloy dabbed the cigarette out on the bare table. Then he tapped the Newport box for another.
“I see,” he said, striking a match. “And where was his big, bad brother?”
I frowned. Just the thought of Noodles and what he did, or rather what he didn’t do, made the skin on my face heavy. A frown was all I could show.
“He just stood there, scared, watching it all go down.”
Malloy took a long long long drag on the cigarette, turning half of it instantly to ash. He held it in for a moment, then blew the smoke toward the ceiling.
“Is that right?” he said. I hate when old people say that. Because they usually only say it because it’s better than saying, duhhh, or I told you so. For Malloy, it was more like, duh. He never really talked too much about Noodles. He knew who he was, everyone did, and he knew he was my closest friend, which is why I think he kept whatever he felt about Noodles to himself. I appreciated that. But the one thing he had said was that I could never bring Noodles to his house to learn to box. He’d said, Noodles wasn’t the kind of kid he wanted to teach something like boxing. Too much anger.
“Yeah. He just stood there.” I felt kinda sick saying that—weird, like I was ratting Noodles out.
Malloy shook his head. “Well, let me tell you something.” He crushed the cigarette under his fingers and started wheeling across the room. There was a little box on the other side. It looked like a plastic toolbox, but it was full of boxing stuff—tape, gauze, Vaseline, scissors. He took the gauze and the tape out, then wheeled over to me.
“Hand out,” he said. I stretched my arm so he could see my hand. He took his thumb and pressed it gently along the knuckles. Fireworks went off up my arm.
“Hairline. Nothing too crazy. I’ll wrap it. It’ll heal itself.” Malloy started unraveling the gauze. He put one end of it on the top of my hand, and pressed his finger down to hold the end in place until he wrapped the gauze around enough times to trap it down. I could tell he had done this tons of times.
“Let me tell you, son, punching bags don’t punch back. But sometimes, when you take them for granted, and you get cocky, you can really hurt yourself when you punch one.” Malloy wrapped the gauze in between my fingers and around my hand tightly. “Now, with them brothers, Needles and Noodles, who you think the punching bag is?”
I knew there was a point to this story, so I figured I’d better play along
to get to it.
I thought for a second. Malloy started wrapping tape around the white cloth.
“Uh, I guess Needles?”
“Exactly. But who ends up hurt for taking Needles, the punching bag, for granted?”
“Noodles,” I said confidently. Though I knew the answer, it wasn’t exactly a lightbulb moment where I understood automatically what Malloy was talking about. I never did. At least not right away.
I let it sink in while Malloy ripped the white tape with his teeth.
“That’ll do it,” he said. “Next time, close your fist tight. You know that. Try to squeeze water out a rock. Got me?”
I nodded my head and resisted rolling my eyes.
“Now, do us both a favor, and go on home. Your mother told me thirty minutes, and we just hit thirty-two. So you gotta roll, ’cause Doris worse than a bomb in Vietnam, or a stiff jab from Ali. And by Ali, I mean you, my man.” Malloy smiled just enough to let me know he was proud of me for facing my fear and fighting, even though it was a jacked-up situation. He wheeled backward to his table and grabbed his bottle and cup. He coughed mean and violent, and spit something thick into an old handkerchief he had tucked in his shirt pocket. Then he pulled twenty dollars, which would’ve been my pay for the day had I worked, from the same pocket. He held it up like he was going to give it to me anyway. As soon as I took a step toward him to grab it, he slipped it back in his shirt pocket, shook his head, and cracked a joke.
“You ain’t work today, so if you want this, you gotta come fight for it, and this time in the ring, tough guy.” He smiled and reached for his cigarettes. He just never let up.
I shook my head and let myself out.
14
The punching bag don’t punch back. But you can hurt yourself when you punch one, if you take it for granted. Needles is the punching bag. Noodles is the puncher. But you can hurt yourself when you punch one. If you take it for granted. Needles is the punching bag. Noodles is the puncher. Needles, punching bag. Noodles, puncher.
When I Was the Greatest Page 14