Everywhere You Don't Belong

by Gabriel Bump

  “Not the solo David Ruffin; that doesn’t count,” she said. “You can’t expect me to—I mean, it’s David Ruffin—come on.”

  Wednesday: she took a weed whacker to all of Mom’s remaining dresses and pantsuits.

  Thursday: she took me to the roller rink to meet girls, didn’t care about my backward rhythm and flat feet.

  Friday: she took me to the park, to make friends, for fresh air, human interaction; she took me back home when I saw an injured squirrel and cried.

  Nothing worked.

  Saturday: the Bulls.

  I cried whenever I passed our Michael Jordan portrait in the foyer. I cried whenever I sipped from my Phil Jackson mug. I cried whenever I passed our portrait of Craig Hodges wearing a dashiki, also in the foyer, above Jordan.

  The championships were over: those times were never coming back.

  Grandma’s lighter was gold-plated, fueled to the brim, and dangling from her fingertips over a pile of Bulls memorabilia.

  She had an epiphany: gasoline.

  “Go get something potent,” Grandma said to Paul, who was standing next to me, there, in the backyard, underneath a crabapple tree, near a pile of tiny rotting fruit.

  I was crying then, there, in the backyard. Grandma was sick of it. She had stopped consoling me. She had stopped acknowledging my runny nose and puffy eyes. When I cried before bed, she didn’t come running down the hall with her robe open.

  Paul sprinted out of the house with a clear jug half-filled with clear, sloshing liquid.

  “What’s that?” Grandma asked, taking her eyes off me.

  “Burn through diamonds,” Paul said, took a swig from the jug before handing it to Grandma.

  “Wait,” I said.

  Grandma and Paul looked me over, paused, stopped pouring the clear liquid on a cardboard Dennis Rodman.

  “Baby,” Grandma said.

  “Fire purifies,” Paul said.

  “We can’t blame the Bulls,” I said. “They didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I pulled my Horace Grant T-shirt from the pile and went upstairs.

  “Thank God,” I heard Grandma say behind me.

  “Goddamn,” I heard Paul say. “Alright. He’s alright.”

  In the basement, that night, I came across Grandma dancing with cardboard Dennis Rodman, leading him across the unfinished floor, twirling, dipping, listening to David Ruffin sing about Georgia and rain. She didn’t see me then, there, halfway down the stairs. She was wearing a commemorative sweatshirt from the first three-peat. I saw her smiling, eyes closed, far away. That smile I hadn’t seen before. It was pure and light. For me, she was willing to burn her happiness. For her, I stopped crying.

  On Sunday, when Grandma noticed my dry eyes and lifted chin at breakfast, she stood, walked around the table, kissed my forehead, didn’t say anything, walked back to her Belgian waffle.

  “Alright,” Paul said. “Goddamn. Alright.”

  Jonah and the Dunk

  The July before I started eighth grade, Paul had this scare. A blemish on an X-ray. After tests and hours of chain-smoking—nothing serious, just an aberration. Paul chain-smoked whenever he felt helpless. Paul chain-smoked in celebration, steak on his plate, whiskey at his goblet’s brim.

  “If I’m going to die,” Paul said, “I’m swinging. Happy.”

  The doctors wanted him to change. Paul thought change meant melding into society, following, not leading. Grandma called him ridiculous. It was just steak, cigarettes, and hard liquor, not the right to vote.

  “If I’m going to die,” Paul said, cutting a bite-size triangle out of a New York strip, “I’m going to do it proud.”

  Jonah moved in up the street a month later.

  Jonah’s dad was a cop. His mom decorated houses up in Lincoln Park, up on the North Side. Jonah dressed like he was a pro. He was over six feet. I hadn’t hit puberty yet. He dribbled up and down the block, between his legs, behind his back. I wanted his Nike sweatpants and Jordan tank tops. Paul only bought me Adidas. He thought kids got killed over Nikes and Jordans. Jonah moved like liquid.

  “So, Jonah,” Paul asked when Grandma invited the new neighbors over, “you ball like the devil?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jonah said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jonah’s dad asked.

  “Bad,” Paul said. “You know, bad as hell.”

  “Oh,” Jonah’s mom said.

  “What about you?” Jonah’s dad asked me.

  “What?” I asked back.

  “You ball?” Jonah’s dad asked me.

  “Claude’s too angelic,” Paul said.

  “That’s wonderful,” Jonah’s mom said to me.

  “Where did you play?” Jonah’s dad asked Paul.

  “Paul can’t shoot dead fish,” Grandma said from the kitchen.

  “I learned in a cage,” Paul said.

  “What?” I asked everybody.

  “The cage up the street?” Jonah’s dad asked Paul.

  “Up from the Rucker,” Paul said, leaned back, rubbed his belly.

  “Wait,” Jonah’s dad said, held up his arms.

  “Hold up,” Jonah’s mom said.

  “What’s a cage?” I asked everybody, again.

  “You’re not from Chicago?” Jonah’s mom asked Paul.

  “New York is basketball,” Paul said.

  “New York,” Jonah’s dad said to his hands.

  “Mecca,” Paul said.

  “You’re from New York?” Jonah’s dad asked.

  “You’re asking my son about basketball,” Jonah’s mom said.

  “Who do you think you are?” Jonah’s dad asked.

  “Where do you get off?” Jonah’s mom asked.

  “I played against Tim Hardaway,” Jonah’s dad said.

  “Me too,” Jonah’s mom said. “He’s my little cousin.”

  “Doc Rivers,” Jonah’s dad said. “Cazzie Russell gave me his shoes.”

  “Juwan Howard drove me to school every morning,” Jonah’s mom said.

  “Michael Jordan was born in Brooklyn,” Paul said.

  “Nate Archibald!” Grandma yelled from the kitchen.

  “Ben Wilson is a saint!” Jonah’s dad yelled.

  “Isiah Thomas!” Jonah’s mom yelled.

  “Lew Alcindor!” Grandma yelled.

  They yelled names at each other until Grandma served the pasta. They yelled with forks in their mouths, spit marinara across the table. Jonah and I sat there, exchanged apologetic looks. When Grandma put down her apple pie, Jonah’s mom gave up.

  “Jonah,” Jonah’s mom said. “We’re leaving.”

  “Jonah,” Jonah’s dad said. “Scottie Pippen is better than Patrick Ewing.”

  “Madison Square Garden!” Grandma yelled as they drove away.

  Under his breath, while we cleaned the dishes, Paul muttered.

  “Willis Reed, Willis Reed, Willis Reed, Willis Reed.”

  After midnight, someone threw rocks at my window. It was Jonah.

  “Let’s hoop tomorrow,” Jonah said.

  “I’m not good,” I said.

  “It’s just hooping,” Jonah said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Cool.”

  I learned, in the morning, about cages and courts. Paul and Grandma sat me down before school.

  There weren’t many cages in Chicago. Courts were open air and surrounded by trees. The high schoolers played on Lake Shore Drive, closer to the beach, where the girls hung out, on a sand-dusted court. A standard cage had chain link fencing all around the court, painted green or black. Fencing in the players—that was a New York thing. Grandma thought cages made us look like animals. Paul thought cages treated basketball like a precious act, something to protect from the dangerous world.

  Jackson Park had a cage next to the golf course. We had the cage to ourselves. Jonah brought his five-year-old brother. Paul sat on the concrete with a beer. He patted the ground for Jonah’s little brother to take a seat.

  The rims were soft
and forgiving. Any shot worth anything went in. Jonah’s imperfect shots would spin, roll, and fall. His perfect shots would crack the net like a whip. I tried fancy layups that didn’t come close. Paul told me to stop acting like some Rucker Park disciple. Just feed the devil the ball, he told me. Jonah’s little brother nodded in agreement. So I did. I passed the ball to Jonah. He cared for it. He never looked at it. His eyes only showed concern the rare times he mishandled it, let it roll away, let it bounce above his waist. He was noble and righteous. He was spectacular.

  As the sun went down, Jonah told his little brother to stand in front of the basket. He told me to throw the ball in the air.

  “When?” I asked.

  “You’ll know,” he said, and walked to half court. He turned around and started running. When he got to the three-point line, he looked at me.

  “Now!” Paul yelled.

  “Now!” Jonah’s little brother yelled.

  “Now, Claude, now!” Paul yelled again.

  “Now!” I yelled, and tossed.

  Jonah took off from the free-throw line. He spread his legs and caught the ball with one hand. He cleared his little brother by a foot. It looked like he would fly out of the cage and land somewhere in Ohio. He was a low-flying jet in the dusk. He returned to earth like a breaching whale. My legs quivered. Paul ran over and hugged him. His little brother held on to his waist.

  “See that, Claude?” Paul asked. “That’s how sex feels.

  “My God, son,” Paul said to Jonah. “You are a religion.”

  The sun went down. We walked back in reverie. I noticed beauty in everything: the warped chain-link fence, the tags on the bus-stop advertisements, the glimmer from broken glass in the gutter, the breeze carrying sewer smells. We left the brothers on Jonah’s doorstep.

  In our living room, Paul went face first into the couch.

  “If that boy ever stops balling,” Paul said into a cushion, “the world will end.”

  Grandma looked up from her book and asked what happened. I told her Paul had been converted.

  In the kitchen, over breakfast, Paul vowed to quit smoking. Cigarettes were too expensive.

  “And they’re poison,” Grandma said.

  “And they turn us into zombies,” Paul agreed.

  “And they cost too damn much,” Grandma said.

  “And I can’t breathe,” Paul said.

  “A glass of wine,” Grandma said.

  “That’s all I need,” Paul agreed.

  “Quitting something is an important exercise in self discovery,” Grandma said.

  “I will find myself,” Paul said.

  “And Claude,” Grandma said.

  “And Claude,” Paul said.

  They wanted a response from me.

  “Jonah knows who he is,” I said. “I want to know who I am.”

  Jonah showed up while I was scraping eggs into the garbage can.

  For the first time, he looked human. His eyes were glazed and baggy. His face was dull and unglowing.

  “I killed him,” Jonah said.

  He wasn’t covered in blood. He wasn’t holding a weapon. His clothes were crusted around his collar and armpits.

  “Jonah,” Grandma said. “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s dead.” Jonah sat on the table. His feet touched the floor.

  His little brother had collapsed at breakfast. His parents took him to the emergency room. They told Jonah to wait at our house for the phone call. We were the only option. They didn’t have any other friends.

  “How could you be responsible?” Grandma asked.

  “He told me I was his favorite big brother,” Jonah said. “Then he collapsed.”

  “It’s okay, son,” Paul said. “These things happen.”

  At that moment, I wished I knew Jonah better. I wanted to know if he could kill his admirers.

  “Your brother is not dead,” Grandma said.

  Jonah’s parents showed up around lunch. His brother wasn’t dead. Just in a coma. Paul burned cheese sandwiches on the stove. Grandma stroked Jonah’s head.

  I didn’t see Jonah for three weeks. I waited for him at the cage with Paul. I walked past his house. No one was there during the day. At night, the lights were out.

  Then school started. Jonah walked in five minutes late, sat next to me, didn’t fit in his seat right, asked if I wanted to eat lunch with him. I was too surprised to say yes. I nodded. He nodded.

  George Bones and the rest of the basketball team clapped their trays onto our table.

  “I hear your dunks vaporize people,” George Bones said.

  I stood up. Jonah pulled me down by my bicep.

  George Bones could dribble two basketballs at a time, blindfolded.

  “I can’t dunk,” Jonah said. He stared at George Bones; George Bones blinked first.

  “You should play with us after school,” George Bones said. “Coach lets us use the gym.”

  He wouldn’t look at Jonah. Jonah looked right through him.

  “Claude can’t come,” George Bones continued. “He has to go fuck his grandma.”

  I caressed my fork. They laughed and walked away.

  When the team left, Coach Harper sat down.

  “Don’t listen to them, Claude,” he said, looking over Jonah. “You might make the team this year. We need someone to clean up after practice.”

  Coach Harper chewed five pieces of gum at a time. Grandma thought he was an asshole. Dad’s Coach, the coach I knew well, thought Coach Harper didn’t belong in the basketball universe.

  “So.” He smacked at Jonah. “You can dunk?”

  “No,” Jonah said.

  “Not what I hear,” Coach Harper said.

  Jonah stood up. I did too.

  “Wait, wait,” Coach Harper said. “You know who I am, right?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Shut up, Claude,” Coach Harper said.

  “Yes,” Jonah said.

  “I can destroy you,” Coach Harper said.

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. Jonah didn’t care. I cared. I was terrified.

  “How will you destroy us?” I asked.

  “No one cares about you, Claude,” Coach Harper said to Jonah. His gum blob fell on the table. He picked it up, put it back in, and chewed like crazy.

  “If Claude plays,” Jonah said, “I’ll play.”

  “He can carry your shoes,” Coach Harper said to Jonah.

  “I can do that,” I said.

  “We have good chemistry,” Jonah said.

  “We do?” I asked Jonah.

  “Just come to the gym after school,” Coach Harper said

  “Do we have a deal?” Jonah asked.

  “If you beat George Bones,” Coach Harper said, “Claude can start at point guard.”

  “Really?” I asked Coach Harper.

  “With you,” Coach Harper said to Jonah, “we only need four players anyway.”

  “After school,” Jonah said.

  “After school,” I said.

  “After school,” Coach Harper said.

  Coach Harper left.

  “You shouldn’t be so weak all the time,” Jonah said to me.

  George Bones and the other guys were shooting around when Jonah and I walked in. They had on Jordans, Kobes, and LeBrons. Jonah wore jeans and boots. Coach Harper blew his whistle. He told everyone to sit in the bleachers, except Jonah and George Bones. He rolled Jonah a ball.

  “You need anything, Jonah?” Coach Harper asked. “A Go-Gurt? Some Gatorade? A pair of Nikes?”

  “Maybe a doctor,” George Bones said.

  “Alrighty then.” Coach Harper tried to blow his whistle, but gum blocked it. The sound came out wet. “George, you start. First to twenty-one. Twos and threes. Keeps. Let’s ball.”

  George Bones had possession of the ball for two full dribbles. Then Jonah stole it and hit seven threes in a row, and we left.

  “Claude plays,” Jonah said from the doorway.

 
; Paul saw Jonah’s hand in anything miraculous. Paul claimed Jonah was behind the winning lottery ticket for Ms. Dunewell, the young widow from Seventy-Second Street. He led me into his room. He presented his corkboard. It was like something from a movie about insanity. Thin slips of newspaper were thumbtacked in a chaotic array.

  Firemen Arrive Just in Time to Save Kittens.

  Mother of Three Barely Escapes Sinking Car.

  Deputy Mayor Indicted.

  Redbelters Stash House Raided.

  Crime Rates at Record Low.

  “You see what this boy is doing?” Paul beamed.

  It was almost Halloween. The season was a month away. A story about five teenagers, former drug dealers, finding God and becoming altruistic was displayed in the middle of Paul’s madness.

  “But I thought Jonah was the devil?” I asked.

  “The devil works in mysterious ways.” Paul lay on his bed, facing the heavens.

  “Leave Claude alone,” Grandma called as she walked past. “Just because you’re crazy doesn’t mean he has to be.”

  Paul was still lying there when I left for the cage.

  Of course I already knew Jonah was a savior. I didn’t need Paul to tell me that. The world was kinder with Jonah in it, sweeter, benevolent, unfamiliar. Jonah awoke faith in me. His spirit guided mine.

  George Bones was standing under the hoop when I showed up at the cage. No one else was there. George Bones usually balled on Lake Shore Drive, putting on a show for the girls.

  “I’ve been practicing,” George Bones said. “Let’s play.”

  “I’m just gonna wait for Jonah.” He could tell I wanted to run.

  “Come on.” He took a step closer. I took a step back. He took a step closer. I bumped into the chain-link.

  “Let’s practice.”

  He threw the ball at my chest. I dropped it. It rolled back to him. He threw it like a football. It hit my head. I slid to the ground.

  “Jonah’s gonna kick your ass,” I said.

  I didn’t see him move. Somehow, he knocked me down. He stood over me.

  “What did you say?”

  I said, “Jonah’s gonna vaporize you.”

  He took my head between his palms and drove his knee into my face.

  I thought I saw a flash of light. I thought a beam took George Bones and lifted him off the ground. There was heat all around me. Heat and light pulsing down my spine. I knew Jonah would come. I thought I saw him lift George Bones over his head. I thought I saw him throw George Bones like a paper bag filled with quarters. I thought I heard George Bones explode against the concrete.