by April Lurie
“Hey, Randy? About the other night, at the Beanery, when Franz walked in, I’m sorry, I guess I lost it, and—”
“No, you don’t need to apologize, Dyl. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I didn’t buy any pot from Franz that night. Chloe’s asked me to cut back, and I told her I would. And I’m sorry for what I said to you. I guess this thing with Mom has really gotten to me, you know? I just…I never thought she’d leave for good.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me neither.” I’m really glad to hear that Randy’s planning to cut back on the weed. I just hope he can keep his promise. “Randy? If you do go on this tour, you’ll come back, right?”
“Of course.” He gives me a playful shove. “What do you think, you’re gonna get rid of me that easily?”
As we sit there grinning at each other, Vanya pokes her head into the kitchen. “Oh, wonderful!” She walks over and places a beefy hand on each of our shoulders. “You boys found the pumpernickel and leberwurst. How do you like it?”
“Um, it’s not bad,” I say.
Randy picks up the bowl and studies the contents. “Hey, uh, Vanya? What exactly is leberwurst?”
“Oh, leber is German for liver. Cow’s liver. Very nourishing for growing boys like you.”
I look at Randy. “Really, did you have to ask?”
As planned, I meet up with Angie and Jonathan at the Ninety-fifth Street station and the three of us hop the train to Greenwich Village. The subway car is crowded, but Jonathan manages to weasel into the seat next to Angie while I take the spot across from them. As the two short-film junkies chat, pausing only to cast conspiratorial glances my way, I begin to think about what Randy said to me at the Beanery—how I should stop looking to him for answers, figure out my own life. And even though it hurts, I think about what Chloe said too. That I’m insecure, and angry about a lot of things. It’s all true.
We change for the D at Thirty-sixth Street, and by the time we exit at West Fourth, I’ve come up with a plan. It’s a new scene for the film—something that will blow Angie and Jonathan away—but more importantly, it’s something for me. So while the two of them buy sodas and hot dogs from a street vendor, I cross the avenue and head for the Cage. The Cage is this totally awesome fenced-in basketball court where legends like Doctor J and Walter Berry used to play. Nowadays, the best ball handlers and shooters from all over the city—the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan—come here to jam, slam, flush, and alley-oop. I lean against the fence and watch as a game of five-on-five—shirts vs. skins—starts up. Man, I think, if Jake knew what I was planning, he’d freak. The two of us have always dreamed of playing inside the Cage, only that’s all it’s ever been: a dream. The reality would be suicide.
A few minutes later Angie and Jonathan join me, and as Angie offers me a bite of her hot dog, I look into her incredibly green eyes, and since I’ve already poisoned myself with mounds of Vanya’s leberwurst, I take it. As I’m chewing and noticing the way the little blond hairs on Angie’s cheek kind of glimmer in the afternoon sun, she says, “Dylan? What’s wrong? You seem a little…I don’t know, spacey.”
“Oh? Do I?” I reach over and wipe a dollop of ketchup from the corner of her mouth. I consider going further—leaning in and kissing her on those full pink lips, but then I decide: first things first. So instead, I turn to Jonathan, pluck the can of soda from his hand, take a long, sugary swig, hand it back, and say, “All right, dude, listen up, time to start filming. And whatever happens, don’t stop.”
Angie’s eyes grow wide. She peers into the court. “Dylan, you can’t…I mean, those guys in there are like…scary.”
“I’ve never been surer in my entire life.”
There doesn’t appear to be any gate leading into the Cage, so I slip in through a hole in the fence and take a seat with the guys on the sidelines who are waiting to play. Pretty soon the current game ends and a highly theatrical MC, complete with megaphone and lots of bling, struts over to us. “All right, cats! Listen to me!” He pokes his chest a few times. “I, Toulouse-Lautrec, fellow hoops enthusiast and aspiring artiste, will be calling this game. So get out there, mix it up, and find a mean-looking dude to cover.” Since I happen to know that the real Toulouse-Lautrec was a Postimpressionist French painter, I’m finding this very hard to believe. But the guy is in charge, so I do what he says. The problem is none of the mean-looking dudes are taking me seriously, so I’m left standing there alone.
From the corner of my eye I see Toulouse-Lautrec surveying the situation. He walks over and scopes me up and down. “Listen, cat, this is the real deal. Are you serious about playing here? I mean, do you know where you are?”
“Um…yeah. It’s the Cage.” I glance over at Angie and Jonathan. I really don’t want this guy kicking me off the court, so I say, “I want to play ball, and, well, my friend”—I point to Angie—“she’s making a film. About me.”
Toulouse-Lautrec peers over at Angie. Soon a big grin spreads across his face. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’m down with that. After all, we need to support our fellow artistes in this fine city.” He raises his megaphone to his lips. “Come on now, cats! Don’t leave this man hanging! Surely there’s someone out there who wants to cover my friend Bony Ass!” It takes me a few seconds to realize that Toulouse-Lautrec has dubbed me Bony Ass. Which is really unfair, because my ass is probably the most muscular part of my body, but I’m not about to argue with the guy.
Pretty soon this short, stocky dude saunters onto the court. He points in my direction and calls out, “I’ll take this sucker!” He pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside. Across his chest is a huge tattoo that reads MOTHER F.
“All right!” Toulouse-Lautrec shouts. “Mother Francis! Coolest cat in New York City comes to save the day! Now, let’s play ball!”
Before I know it, the game starts, and right away I find out that my only advantage against Mother F is my height. Which, in this case, really doesn’t amount to much. He’s stronger, quicker, and meaner, and he can trash-talk a blue streak. He really likes to show off, too, because when he gets the ball he dribbles circles around me and laughs. “Pretty dizzied up there, hey, Bony Ass? Think you’re something special? Now watch this.” He tries faking me out, but I call his bluff and run with him to the hole. Then, just as I’m about to block his shot, he charges into me like a freight train. I fall back, slamming my head into the fence while Mother F dunks the ball. It’s pretty humiliating, but I get up and shake it off, and since Toulouse-Lautrec is busy strutting in front of the camera instead of calling the game, I decide I need a new strategy.
That’s when I notice that one of the guys on my team—the one Toulouse-Lautrec calls the Grand Pupa—has got some bad blood going on with Mother F. So when Mother F gets the ball and begins taunting the Grand Pupa, calling him a variety of politically incorrect names such as faggot, wussy boy, and homo, I reach in, steal the ball, and dribble down the court for an easy layup. It happens so fast I can hardly believe it.
I guess the rest of the players are shocked too, because they just stop and stare. I glance over at Jonathan to make sure he’s shooting. He is. Next to him, Angie is jumping up and down and cheering for me. Wait till Jake sees this.
“Let’s hear it for my man Bony Ass!” Toulouse-Lautrec bellows through his megaphone.
Of course, Mother F is not pleased about this little turn of events. So the next time he gets the ball, he goes in for the kill and pulls one of the dirtiest moves in street ball—an ankle breaker, a vicious crossover that knocks me flat on my back. While I’m lying on the concrete wondering exactly how I got there, I see Jonathan running onto the court. He’s calling a time-out. Angie’s got the camera, and she’s shooting.
I watch in disbelief as Jonathan Reed, my longtime nemesis, marches up to Mother F in an attempt to defend me. “Um, listen, brother,” he says. “You need to lay off my friend Bony Ass.” Jonathan, I notice, looks the way Headbone did when he stole my bottle of prescription Vicodin, popped a few, and puke
d his guts out in the toilet.
I figure Toulouse-Lautrec is going to intervene at this point, maybe even call a foul, but he doesn’t. Instead he waves to Angie. “You go, girl! This is great stuff! Keep that camera rolling!”
Mother F seems to think this whole thing is extremely funny. He dribbles the ball, laughing at Jonathan, then tosses up a hook shot that goes in with a swish. “Oh, yeah?” he says. “And what if I don’t lay off your friend? What if I decide to squash him like a little green grape? What are you going to do about it? Huh, Romeo?” He bats his eyelashes mockingly.
It seems pretty unfair that Jonathan gets dubbed Romeo, but since both of our lives are in danger, I’m not about to say anything. “Well, I should warn you,” Jonathan says. He swallows and his Adam’s apple jiggles. “I know karate. In fact”—he glances at Mother F’s tattoo, takes a deep breath, and rolls up his sleeves—“I’m a mother-effin’ black belt.”
I’m pretty sure Jonathan is bluffing, but surprisingly, Mother F looks worried. At that moment Toulouse-Lautrec realizes he’s got a job to do. He struts over and slaps the two of them on the back. “Yo, cats! Come on, enough of this! Peace, brothers! Now, let’s bust it up! Shoot some hoops!”
Thankfully, Mother F agrees. So while Jonathan goes back to shooting, I get up and manage to survive the rest of the game. I don’t score any more baskets, but at least I keep both feet on the ground. In the end, my team loses 7 to 5, and after Mother F does a victory dance, complete with booty shakes and power spins, he comes over to me and holds out one fist. “Hey, you did all right, Bony Ass. Sorry for giving you such a hard time.”
I offer him my fist and we give each other a friendly bump. “Yeah, sure man, no problem.”
“So, tell me, what’s your number?” he asks.
“Number?”
“Yeah, you know, on your jersey, back home.”
“Oh. Thirty-four.”
“Good. I’ll remember that. Wear it next time you come.”
I slip out through the hole in the fence, run over, and wrap a sweaty arm around Jonathan. “Hey, thanks, dude,” I say. “What you did for me out on the court—that was tight. I bet you don’t even know karate, do you?”
Jonathan grins sheepishly and shakes his head. As the three of us leave the Cage and head toward Washington Square Park, Toulouse-Lautrec calls out, “Yo, cats! Let’s hear it again for my man Bony Ass! And hey! Good luck with that movie, girl!”
Fourteen
TO CELEBRATE my fantastic feat of staying alive inside the Cage, I take Angie and Jonathan to Orgasmic Organics and order three banana–passion fruit smoothies. I suppose my opinion of Jonathan has changed somewhat, considering the fact that he stuck out his neck for me while pulling off an impressive karate bluff against Mother F, but still, I’m no idiot, so I tell the guy behind the counter to hold the ginseng on Jonathan’s drink and add a double whammy to mine and Angie’s. I can’t control what happens in life—I guess that’s up to the gods or fate or some mystical force of the universe—but I can decide who gets the aphrodisiacs.
Drinks in hand, we head off to Washington Square Park, and while Angie films this homeless dude sitting on a bench and feeding about a million hungry pigeons, Jonathan and I take seats on the steps around the fountain. Nearby, this really cool jazz band from New Orleans called Loose Marbles is setting up to play. Angie and I saw them perform last summer and they were awesome.
“So, Jonathan,” I say, sucking down the last of my smoothie, “what’s, uh, been going on with you and Angie lately?”
He takes a sip of his impotent drink and says, “What do you mean?”
I can’t believe I have to spell it out for the guy. “Come on, dude, you know what I mean. Are you two, like, in the process of getting together again? Just for the record. I’d like to know.”
Jonathan sets down his cup and starts to chuckle. “Wow, Dylan, I’m surprised you even thought that was a possibility. I mean, yeah, sure, I wish we were together, but Angie’s made it pretty clear that she just wants to be friends.”
I feel this leap inside my chest, and I have to bite my bottom lip so I don’t start grinning like a fool. “Ahhh, friends,” I say. “Yes, I know that line quite well myself.”
Jonathan, however, doesn’t seem to be listening to me. He shakes his head and sighs. “The truth is, Dylan, I screwed up royally this past summer. Didn’t even realize what I had until it was gone. Oh, well, hopefully what James Joyce once said is true.”
I can’t believe I have to put up with more of Jonathan’s pretentious bullcrap. But the guy did sort of save my life, so I say, “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”
Dramatically, he closes his eyes and tilts his face to the sun. “‘A man’s errors are his portals of discovery.’”
Of course the “error” Jonathan is referring to is his little fling with senior sex goddess Hannah Jaworski, which is pretty funny when you think about it. I mean, leave it to Jonathan Reed to turn a simple bout of teenage male horniness into a literary quest for deeper knowledge.
I give him a shove and start to laugh. His eyes pop open and he almost topples over. “Yeah, right,” I say. “And I bet you had a great time on your portal of discovery.”
At first Jonathan seems a little offended by my blunt comment, but pretty soon he’s laughing right along with me. “Well, yeah,” he says. “It was nice while it lasted. But believe me, dating Hannah Jaworski, cool as it may seem, was a huge mistake. I learned firsthand what it means when they say ‘What goes around comes around.’”
Feeling surprisingly sorry for the guy, I say, “Hey, listen, man. If it makes you feel any better, Angie was pretty messed up when you guys split. She took it real hard.”
“Really?” Jonathan’s face brightens. “Wow, thanks for telling me that, Dylan. Honestly, I didn’t think she cared very much. At least, that’s how it seemed.”
I wave this away. “Eh, what do you expect? Typical Angie. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s got a lot of pride.”
We both gaze over at Angie. She’s stopped filming and is now sitting on the bench shooting the breeze with the homeless dude while a pigeon roosts on her head. Jonathan downs the last of his smoothie. “Anyway,” he says, “there’s really no point in me trying anymore. I don’t stand a chance with you around.”
I look at him. “Me? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on, Dylan. Even when Angie and I were dating, all she ever did was talk about you. And if the three of us were together, it was always you who’d make her laugh. I never could.” He sighs. “I’ll probably kick myself later for admitting this, but since I’m baring my soul, I used to struggle with some pretty wicked bouts of jealousy. It was ugly.”
I’m stunned by Jonathan’s confession, and even more stunned that the guy envied me. At this point I wonder if I should bare my soul—confess my sadistic plans to rid the earth of Jonathan Reed—but decide that might not be a good idea. “And now Angie’s making a movie about you,” he goes on. “Face it, Dylan. She’s obsessed.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s where you’re wrong. Angie’s obsessed with the movie. Not with me.”
“Au contraire, my friend. I hate to burst your bubble, Dylan, but why do you think I risked my life for you out on that basketball court?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Um, I don’t know, dude, why?”
“Because Angie begged me to. She was seriously freaking out. Didn’t want to see her precious Dylan get hurt. Thankfully, I was able to outwit Mother F, but I’m telling you, the girl fed me to the lions!”
Aha, I think, so now the truth comes out. Jonathan’s not the valiant hero I thought he was. But even so, I give the guy credit. He’s honest. “Still, it wasn’t really me Angie was worried about,” I say. “It was the film. Think about it. If I got hurt she wouldn’t be able to finish her movie. The reality is it’s all about Angie. Always has been.”
Jonathan purses his lips. “Well, why don’t we put it to the test?” He stands up,
tosses his cup in the trash, and calls out, “Hey, Angie! Come on over! Dylan and I have a new idea for the film!”
I’m not sure I like the sound of this. While Angie says goodbye to the homeless dude and makes her way to the fountain, Jonathan pulls me to my feet and explains his idea. “Listen, Dylan, all you need to do is to figure out a way to smooth Angie. Just be yourself, goof around, get her laughing. I’ll capture it on tape, and when I show you the footage you’ll see what I’m talking about. The girl is totally into you.”
Angie’s just a few yards away now, and suddenly a sick fear comes over me. “I don’t know about this, dude,” I say. “I mean, you can’t just tell a person to be funny. It’s about timing, spontaneity—”
“Exactly!” Jonathan interrupts. “Release your inhibitions and take the plunge. And remember what Kafka once said: ‘My fear is my substance, and probably the best part of me.’” He gives me a shove toward Angie, takes the camera from her hands, and presses the On button. Meanwhile, Loose Marbles has begun its first number. The band features ten musicians who play New Orleans gypsy jazz on clarinet, trumpet, banjo, accordion, guitar, and washboard. The singer, a blond girl with colorful tattoos, belts out a song, while two dancers in 1940s clothing begin to swing-dance. Nearby they’ve cleared a spot for couples to join, and already a guy and a girl are doing a jitterbug.
I give Angie a lopsided grin. “Remember this band from last summer?”
“Sure, they’re great.”
Jonathan motions for me to make a move, and for lack of anything better to do I say, “Well, come on, let’s go!” I take Angie’s hand and pull her toward the dance circle.
“Dylan!” she protests. “What are you doing? You know I can’t dance!”
This is true. Angie’s a spaz. Couldn’t even do the Macarena at her cousin’s wedding in sixth grade. It’s going to be a challenge. The guy on washboard is doing a solo now, so I start moving my feet to the beat. I’ve got Angie laughing, and Jonathan gives me a thumbs-up from the sidelines. Neither of us has any idea how to swing-dance, but from what I can tell, it involves twirling your partner around. A lot. So that’s what I do. “It’s easy,” I say, giving Angie a spin. “Give it a try. Besides, look, Jonathan is filming us. You could use it in your short.”