Drive

by Rob Roberge

  “Players with the body for one spot and the game for another. The pieces don’t fit. Plus, there’s no bench.”

  A young woman, maybe twenty-five, steps into the room with a milk-crate of cleaning supplies. She wears a white T-shirt with “Sarasota’s Number One Cleaners” across the chest, white Nancy Sinatra hot pants with matching go-go boots and a pair of those yellow industrial gloves. The T-shirt, she takes off and, naked from the waist up, starts to clean the bar where Earl made the drinks the first day I came here.

  “Hi, Mr. Parcell.”

  He nods. “Joanna.”

  I look at him.

  “Topless cleaners. Sit in awe, Ben Thompson.”

  “You can get topless cleaners?” I say.

  “You can get anything in this world,” he says. “Sometimes you can’t afford it, is all.” He takes a drag of his cigar. “My team. Can you find me a center?”

  I shake my head. “None to be had. The NBA doesn’t have enough big talent to go around, then you’ve got the CBA and Europe ahead of us. Morris is a total zero, but he takes up space. I can use Latimore at center if I need to—he’s got the size and he’s quick. Could cause some match-up problems. A point, we might be able to find. Easier than a center. The bench is a bigger problem.”

  “Start the girl,” he says and the cleaning woman turns around like she’s listening.

  “What does starting Hedda have to do with the bench?”

  “It doesn’t,” he says. “But it puts fannies in the seats.”

  “So does winning,” I say.

  “And you can win with what you’ve got?”

  Joanna moves over to the windows. She’s beautiful and I feel sleazy for looking, but I dont stop. She stands up and gives me a look that says I-hope-you’re-enjoying-yourself, you pathetic bastard.

  “Can you win?” Parcell says.

  I look back to him. “I think so.”

  “Better,” he says. “Almost a positive attitude.”

  “If Money hasn’t headed out of town by now.”

  “You haven’t patched it up with him?”

  “Not yet.”

  Joanna brushes behind Parcell and works on the big picture window. She reaches up, she’s muscular and cut, her back shows no tan lines.

  “Do it,” he says.

  I sit for a moment and try to think of what to say. Money may have taken off but, most likely, he’s out at The Palms or on the court. This is his last chance and, like me or hate me, I hold his ticket up.

  “Do it,” Parcell says again. “Move. Good-bye. Go do your job, Ben Thompson.”

  I get up, head to the door. I turn and Parcell is showing off his new ashtray to the half-naked woman at his desk. He looks up, dismisses me with a wave of his hand.

  “Make me proud,” he says.

  10

  I get back to The Palms and Bone has drained the pool. He’s down at the bottom of the ten-foot end, and standing in ankle-deep water that looks like sewage. A siphon hose snakes around his feet and leads up under the diving board.

  “Making paradise that much better,” he says. “How’d it go with Uncle Chicken?”

  “Did you know there were topless cleaners?” I say.

  Bone looks up, shades his eyes. “I did.”

  “It was news to me,” I say.

  “A woman at school does it for extra cash.”

  “School?”

  “Ringling School of art and design,” he says.

  “Ringling?” I say. “The circus.”

  “They’re not affiliated,” he says, sounding exasperated. “Mrs. Ringling was into art. Left a lot of money. Got nothing to do with the circus. It’s an art school.”

  I nod, remembering the paint, the wall and the mess. “Right,” I say. “You’re a painter.”

  “Paint to relax,” he says and shakes his head. “I’m primarily a sculptor. Found art. Check your garbage with me before you toss it. It’d be a favor.”

  I look down into the pool and take a seat on the diving board. Bone rolls out a white sealant on the bottom with an extender pole. Smells like Epoxy. “You need some help?”

  “You’re not allowed to help.”

  “Not allowed?”

  “Uncle Chicken’s orders. Through Earl. He thought you might want to paint, and he doesn’t want you to.”

  Not allowed to paint. I’m not sure whether I should be mad at Parcell, or wonder where he’s been all my life. Bone takes a couple steps back, the brown water holds his feet like mud. A suck and a release.

  “Funky,” I say.

  He looks back up. “Would you believe shit was living in this?”

  “Really?”

  “Bugs, little things that look like frog babies. Prehistoric shit,”

  I get up, walk over toward the stairwell, “Guess something lives in everything,” I say.

  Bone stops rolling, looks up and smiles. “What the fuck does that mean?

  I stop. “Nothing. Gibberish. Have you seen Kenny Cash?”

  “Which one’s Kenny?”

  “The mad one—last night at least.”

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  I head up to my room and get my answer. On the bulletin board is a note: We need to talk. At The Bunker. It’s signed with the dollar sign, $, underlined twice.

  11

  Down in The Bunker, Money’s shooting pool. It’s dark and he wears sunglasses. If he sees me come in, he doesn’t make a show of it.

  “Your boy’s pissed,” Terry says as I get to the bar.

  “Bad?”

  “Bad enough. Thinks you’re out to get him.”

  I take my club soda over to the pool table. Springsteen’s “Open All Night” hums from the jukebox.

  “We need to talk?” I say.

  Money’s playing nine-ball. He shoots, plants the seven and sets himself for the eight, and doesn’t bother to look up. He shoots the eight, pulls back soft English and has the nine lined up.

  “I’m here,” I say.

  He stands and looks at me. At least I think he’s looking at me through the shades.

  “I want to look at my EV’s,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Why?”

  “You’re burying me,” he says.

  “I’ m not.”

  “Let me see my EV’s”

  “EV’s are for me and for scouts. You haven’t even been scouted yet. Not here, anyway.”

  “And I won’t get scouted if you give me a lousy evaluation no matter what numbers I put up.” Money knocks the nine down and looks back up at me. “Let me see them.”

  “I won’t, but I’ll tell you what they say.”

  Money drops three quarters into the slots and the balls release and cascade down to my end of the table. I start to rack nine balls.

  “So?” he says.

  I look up at him, bent over from racking the balls. “They say everything I’ve said to you in practice. That you’ve got a killer shot—one of the best I’ve ever seen—going to your right. That you’ve got an explosive first step—going right. Good eyes—a good, but not great, passer. You’re in great shape. Good rise, good stamina. That you’ve got the ability to be a decent pro defender, but you lack the wheels and desire to be a stopper.”

  “You know shit about my desire,” he says.

  “I’m basing it on what I’ve seen. Change my mind,” I say. “We’d both be happy. You want me to finish?”

  He sets the cue ball and stands there, not shooting. “Finish,” he says.

  “My analysis says that you’re a one-armed player—one with game, but still a one-armed player—with an amazing spot-up J who happens to be a coach’s nightmare.”

  “You put that in?”

  “I haven’t, but you’re tempting me.”

  “But you haven’t?”

  “I haven’t,” I say. “But I will if you don’t start listening to me.”

  Money gives me this I-don’t-want-to-swallow-your-shit-but-I-will look. The kid hates authority. It got hi
m into trouble in Italy; it’s getting him into trouble here. But I can’t blame him. Most coaches are no brighter or more informed than your average voter—it’s best not to trust them or their opinions.

  “Here’s the deal,” I say. “You start working your left and playing some defense and I guarantee you twenty to twenty-five shots a game. Count eight or nine of those attempts as threes, and you should be at about thirty points a night.” I can see he’s listening, that I might have him hooked. “Thirty a night—in any league—talks a lot louder to scouts than my EV’s.”

  “Twenty-five shots?” he says.

  “Twenty to twenty-five. Don’t get greedy.”

  Money looks calm; he’s thinking it over. “Lenny Wilkens had no right,” he says. “Couldn’t stir a drink with his right hand, let alone dribble or shoot and he’s in the Hall-Of-Fame,”

  “True. And Elgin Baylor couldn’t punch out a baby with his left. That’s them and this is you. That’s the 60s and this is now. You want to get to someone’s camp this fall? You want to get looked at?”

  “You know it coach.”

  “Then do what I say. You’ll put up numbers and the scouts will come. If they don’t, me or Terry’ll put in some calls.”

  “That old bartender?” Money says, pointing at Terry.

  Terry doesn’t seem to have heard. He’s watching the silent TV over the bar. “Terry? How would you cover Money?”

  Terry looks at the kid. “Force him left, sucker him into going right when I wanted. By half-time, he’d be asking me permission to shoot.”

  Money shakes his head like he’s listening to two crazy people and walks past the bar toward the stairs.

  “We got a deal?” I say as he heads up.

  “Twenty-five shots a night, you bet your ass we got a deal.” He’s up the stairs and out. The light from the world outside comes into the stairwell and I see dust in the air. Then, it’s dark again.

  “You feel old talking like that?” Terry says.

  “I do.”

  “Me too. Bomber.”

  12

  Outside, the smell is incredible. The air reeks of shit and slaughter. On The Palm’s side of the road are the two chicken farms that Parcell owns. Across the street is a small farm—actually it’s just a big yard with too many animals, which makes it something of a small farm—with a wooden hand-painted FRESH EGGS / MILK / FIREWOOD sign leaning up against the mailbox.

  The chickens—the ones from the neighbor’s farm, not Parcell s—run free over their lawn and I often find myself paralyzed waiting—literally—for chickens to cross the road.

  The neighbor, who I’ve yet to meet, also has four or five cows. It’s hard to tell how many for sure. I’ve seen four of them together and think there are five but—except for the blind one that bumps into our cars and the first floor apartments—they all look pretty much alike.

  I walk the few blocks back from the Bunker. The smell, you don’t get used to.

  My car’s dead. Nothing but a click when I turn the key. I’ve got two hours until practice and I’d rather not ride the team bus. It’s best for the coach to stay away from the players when he can—living next to them challenges the balance too much as it is. You get too friendly, you lose authority. This is what I was told, what I was taught as a player, but I’m not sure I buy it a hundred percent.

  Bone comes to the small parking lot. Hedda’s with him.

  “Problem?” Bone says.

  I tell him. Turn the key a couple more times to prove my point. The second time, it doesn’t even click.

  “Where’s your lug wrench?” Hedda says.

  “Trunk maybe?” I say, not sure what a lug wrench is, but that’s where all the tools are. I get out and walk to the trunk. The ground is spattered with chicken shit. Someone broke into my trunk a while back and the keyhole’s gone. You can pop the latch with your finger.

  She finds what she’s looking for. “Get in,” she says. “Turn it over when I say.”

  Hedda seems to know what she’s doing so I get in. She gets under the hood and knocks the absolute shit out of something in the engine a couple of times.

  Hit it? I’m thinking. Hell, I could’ve hit it.

  “Give it a try,” she says.

  I turn the key, thinking this is stupid. That there’s no way this could work. The car, it fires up and turns over.

  Hedda comes to the driver-side window. “Your starter’s going. Keep the wrench in the car. You’ll need it to knock the starter until you get a new one.”

  I get out and she shows me where the starter is. “If it won’t start, give it a couple of good whacks,” she says.

  “That’ll work?” I say.

  “For a while,” she says. “Maybe six months, maybe six days. Eventually, you’ll need a new one.”

  “We could go to Pick-a-Part,” Bone says.

  “No,” I say. “I’ll stick with it for a while.” The tape deck only works if you stick a pack of matches in under the cassette. There are holes in both rear quarter panels. The windshield wipers cut out when it rains too hard. You hit a bump, the glovebox flops open. The muffler fell off when I banged it on some railroad tracks a couple of years back. It sounds like a big chainsaw. The muffler’s in the trunk—I went back for it after it fell off.

  The whole thing is a salute to entropy. This car’s been with me a long time and I like its quirks. What’s one more?

  “Your call,” Bone says.

  “If it goes, Pick-a-Part will still be there,” I say. I turn to Hedda and thank her. I get into the car.

  “You going to practice?” she says.

  I nod.

  “Can I catch a ride? I wanted to talk with you,” she says.

  Hedda’s wearing a pair of torn jeans and a T-shirt. Sandals. “I need to get going soon,” I lie.

  “Five minutes,” she says. She starts toward the apartments. “I’ll be right back.”

  I get out of the car again. The air-conditioning’s been shot for years and it’s torture unless you’re in motion. I leave it running just in case the starter freezes up.

  Bone watches Hedda climb the stairs and doesn’t rake his eyes off of her until she disappears into her room.

  “Think I‘m in love,” he says. “Hedda’s letting me do her tattoo.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Is that OK?” he says. “I mean, there’s not a team rule about tattoos or anything?”

  “I don’t think I have any team rules,” I say. Hedda comes out of her door. Bone watches her come down. “Tattooed Back-up Point Guard Descending a Staircase,” I say.

  “It’ll be a beautiful piece of work,” he says to me, like I have a lot invested in it.

  Bone waves as we pull out of the lot. me checking the rear-view and Hedda turned around, both of us looking for chickens.

  13

  We’re headed north up 441, the old Tamiami Trail—until the 70’s the only road that connected Tampa to Miami. The Gulf’s on the left of us, gleaming in the sun. A few jet-skis hop and fly on the water. Some old men fish off the pier. I wonder if they eat the fish—if they’re safe or bloated with tumors like the ones you see on TV near the nuclear power plants.

  “A tattoo?” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” Hedda says. “After the season.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say. “Get it whenever you want.”

  “I’m thinking a big one. Some nice work. It’ll take a while, and I’ll have a lot of gauze. I’d look like Claude Rains.”

  “Gottcha,” I say.

  We practice at Sarasota High School. The games, we play on a worse court than the practice facility. School’s out and Parcell got it somehow. I pull into the lot. A billboard—a big one, you can see it from 441 as you pull toward downtown—reads Sarasota Bengals-#1 in Florida. This is for the high school football team. It’s a football state; they could give a rat’s ass about basketball here.

  Money’s Kawasaki is already in the lot.

  “You need to talk?”
I say.

  “Inside’s cool,” Hedda says as she gets out of the car.

  “More private here,” I say and point to Money’s bike. There’s a second helmet on it and I figure he brought someone. A good sign—maybe he’s shooting over someone instead of working the empty gym.

  Hedda grabs her bag from the backseat and shuts the door. She stands straight up.

  “I want to play forward,” she says.

  “You’re too small.” She was a hell of a forward in college, but this is what I was worried about—she’s used to being the star and if she plays here, it’s got to be in a complementary role. I don’t want to put her down, but I don’t think she could handle playing the front court. “You don’t have a forward’s body.”

  “I’m 6’3”,” she says.

  “That doesn’t prove me wrong,” I say.

  “Give me a shot.”

  “You’re 6’3” and 185. You’re a guard.”

  “I’m a forward,” she says. “I’m getting killed in the back court.”

  Right now, I’d convert to any religion that could guarantee me happy players. I start to walk toward the gym.

  “You’re in a men’s league,” I say. “You knew it’d be tough.”

  “I thought I’d have a chance to fail at my own position,” she says, following me. “Why did you draft me?”

  “I didn’t draft you. The Chicken Man did. You’re here to sell tickets.” When it comes out of my mouth, I regret it. Her face drops. She looks hurt, then angry. This is a truth she didn’t need to know and it’s my fault and it shouldn’t have happened.

  “Fuck you,” she says and walks by me into the gym. She slams the door.

  I look at my watch. Still an hour and a half before practice.

  14

  When I get out to the court, Money and Latimore are on one end going one-on-one. Hedda’s running post-up drills, back to the basket moves. No noise, except gym sounds—grunts, the ping and mild echo of the ball bouncing off the floor and hitting the rim, the odd swish of the nets and the squeaks from the sneakers. I grab a ball from the rack and walk down toward Hedda.

  “You should work against someone,” I say,

  “We’re not talking,” she says without snipping her drills. Drop-step up right, she grabs the ball, sets up on the other side of the paint, drop-step up left. She’s sound fundamentally. Uses her body well, but it’s hard to tell without someone on her.