Rules for Becoming a Legend

by Timothy S. Lane

  And then there was the simple fact of her pride: that she didn’t want to be seen as a slut, but now there it was, the whole town thought it. And still, it was a joke to McMahan. His wife was clueless, they were going on vacation to Mexico in a month, and here she was simmering in the looks being poured on her wherever she went. What they were doing, the wrongness of it, was on both of them, so how come she was the only one to carry water for it? She didn’t think of herself as stupid, and yet, how come she hadn’t seen this coming? “Get off,” she said.

  “What the—?”

  She hit him on the chest, tried for his face but he barred her arm. Those beautiful eyes of his awash in a terror like he’d just got in too deep. She loved his fear of her hinted-at craziness. She played it up, huffing little whelps, scratching his forearm. He couldn’t skate over this so easy, she needed to implicate him.

  “Genny, Genny, what is this?” he asked.

  She stormed from the car, all disheveled and nowhere near decent. Shirt half undone, hair all sticking out, reaching forth, itching, daring, to tell whoever saw her of what she’d been doing in the back of the car.

  He rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and pleaded with her. “Come on, where’re you going? Come back.”

  And maybe she would, eventually. She’d stick his bleeding finger in her mouth, taste the metallic shades of him, and they’d ramp up for round two. For now though she was stamping across the deserted parking lot, kicking through puddles, not caring about her shoes.

  • • •

  At the same time, back in the Kirkus house, Dex doodled on his homework. He drew pictures of what it would be like when he got to high school. He’d be seven feet tall by then, he was sure, and he’d clog up the middle so tight his bro could create a different kind of atmosphere out there past the three-point line. Dropping in antigravity shots, hoop as big as the ocean.

  Splish, splash.

  Jimmy’d be happy then. Dex was sure of it.

  Dex squeezed his pencil too hard and it broke. It drove a piece of splintered pencil wood into his thumb. He squeezed his thumb so that it bled more freely. It dripped onto the drawing. It covered up the head of the seven-foot version of himself. He started to weep.

  Then he heard his pops come into the room. “What’s the matter, for God’s sake?”

  • • •

  The Flying Finn glided his bike around and around the high school track. His friend Ralphi was yelling at him. He went faster and faster until his lungs felt like they were going to burst. On the back stretch of the track he could see the river, coursing as always, about fifty feet away from eating Columbia City High whole.

  He decided to do one more loop and pumped his legs harder. Best shape of his life and he was pushing sixty. He was a neon spandex blur. Faster and faster. On the back turn, just before he was going to see the river again, something in the steering column caught. He couldn’t turn. He ran off the track and crashed his bike into the woods. The same woods that Jimmy would later wander. The Flying Finn was buried in bushes, yelling every cuss he knew. “God-darned ghosts and bitches!”

  “You idiot Finn!” Ralphi shouted.

  “You bastard Swede!” the Flying Finn called back.

  • • •

  Coach Kelly leaned back in the fake leather bus seats and sighed. He was full to bursting with pizza and cola. Jimmy had skipped out on the pizza party, and that relaxed him. First time since that game against Seaside he felt totally at ease with his team. That kid just didn’t want basketball bad enough when it counted. In practice, running lines or working on his form, he was all effort. Anything resembling a game though, and the kid froze up. In baseball they called it the yips. In basketball they may as well call it the jimmies. He’d always known there was something off in the kid. A little too quiet for his liking. Good riddance.

  Coach Kelly joined in on a verse of the team song. “Send the seniors out for beer and don’t let the sober FRESHMAN near!”

  • • •

  Todd “Freight Train” Kirkus sat on a stump in his backyard. He’d just walked in on his youngest son crying like a girl and bleeding on his homework. What the hell? The whole universe was inside his belly, wanting to be filled. Or drowned. He was drinking beer. Drinking the beer killed the hangover. They used to call it hair of the dog back in the day when he was still tipping it up.

  He threw the empty can out across the lawn, some small amount of unaccounted for beer spewing out of it. His life was all these loose ends and what could be done to tie them all together, where could he start? The relationship with the woman he partially blamed for his flameout was a disaster. Even if Genny Mori hadn’t admitted to cheating on him with the Doc, he knew something was up. He knew he hadn’t acted right, but when he had worked toward an apology, she’d turned it on him. My dad used to like to yell at me too? Damn. Gum on the shoe. Low-down and getting lower.

  She had been nicer to him these last couple months. Nicer, but chaste. A pat on the shoulder, his laundry folded, a dinner packed for his night shift. Nice in a way meant to convey distance. Duty done, obligation fulfilled, suspicion squashed. And him along with it.

  • • •

  Jimmy showed up at Pedro’s house with blood leaking down from the cut above his eye, heaving and out of breath.

  “The fuck happen to you?” Pedro asked.

  “Nothing . . .” Jimmy huffed.

  “Someone get you?”

  “Just nothing, OK?”

  “You got that pizza party?”

  He studied Pedro’s greasy face. He didn’t want to tell him about the run-in with the Goths. Pedro had started bumming cigarettes from them at lunch. Was making in-roads. Jimmy couldn’t be sure how he’d respond. “Fuck basketball.”

  Pedro smiled. Snapped his fingers. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Wanna do something?”

  Pedro bit his lip. Then his face lit up. “Sure, follow me, sensei.”

  Jimmy and Pedro crawled into the space below Pedro’s sagging house among the spiders and the mice. “Just wait, listen,” Pedro said, snapping the lighter flame to the end of a twisted little joint. “Gonna be worth it.”

  They were right below Pedro’s older brother’s room. He had his girlfriend over for a visit. They were going to get high and listen to them have sex. It would be Jimmy’s first time smoking and he hoped there was as much altitude in it as everyone said. If he was quitting basketball, then what the hell did he need his lungs for?

  But the joint wouldn’t light. And in the darkness under the house, Pedro mouthing all over that crooked little bit of lumpy paper, Jimmy felt like there were cold stones stacking in his stomach. The wait was getting to him. Here he was, about to smoke, and all he could think about was if anyone saw him now, his day would get even worse. He shifted side to side. Couldn’t get comfortable. A spider bit his neck, he felt like they were all over him. Pedro cursed, mice squeaked, and Pedro’s brother was taking his sweet time sealing the deal. They heard them up there, laughing and talking. The air was getting heavy with the reek of lighter fluid. Then the image of them came to Jimmy in a flash. They were there just to hear someone fuck. Pathetic. He remembered Naomi on the bus. Her warm mouth. He climbed out of the crawl space. Pedro came out after him, soggy joint stuck behind ear. They both blinked in the sun, knees dirty.

  “They’re about to do it,” Pedro said. “Swear to God. You can hear the floorboards creaking and everything. Rose, she’s screaming the whole time.” Then he lit his lighter, held up the flame. “Plus, once I get this going . . .”

  “And I bet it’s going to be the coolest thing ever.”

  Pedro blinked. “You don’t have to be an asshole.”

  “I’m not going to sit around getting bit by spiders just to hear something. You ever even touched a girl, Pedro?”

  Pedro’s face sluggishly regis
tered hurt, and then anger. “Hey, you only got with Naomi like once ’cause you used to be somebody. And now. Now you a loser who can’t even get off the bench.”

  Here it was, the chance to push back, and Jimmy sprung. “Yeah, well, fuck you, JV, you didn’t even make the team.”

  “’Cause I didn’t want to, Jimmy Soft!” Pedro stepped up.

  “Shut up, pendejos!” Pedro’s brother yelled from his room.

  Jimmy took a swing, missed, and Pedro awkwardly palmed his face. Took off the thin scab above his eye. Dirty, brownish blood all over his palm. Jimmy was grabbing his shirt, trying to rip him to shreds. Everything, all of it, made him want to kill his best friend. Little red-eyed hyena. What had he ever done for Jimmy? Hadn’t been there for him when he was stinking it up, had stopped coming to games entirely.

  “Jimmy Kirkus,” Mr. Berg said from the sidewalk. There the janitor stood, panting, still in his coveralls. Pedro and Jimmy let go of each other. Pedro dropped to the ground, looking for the lost joint, and Jimmy walked away. He brushed past Berg on the sidewalk, cut bleeding again. It leaked into his eye and he blinked furiously.

  “Hey, you OK?” Berg called out after him, still out of breath. Old man must have been following him.

  Jimmy didn’t answer. What the hell did Berg care? He should be punishing his son instead of hounding him. Everyone should be doing something else besides hounding him. Blood stung his eye. The fuck’s an eyebrow for if it doesn’t keep the blood out? Everything was letting him down just as he was letting everyone around him down. He couldn’t play ball, OK, but Pedro couldn’t say the right thing, his pops couldn’t stay sober, his mom couldn’t be home, his grandpa couldn’t be normal, and Berg couldn’t mind his own business. Jimmy was the verse and the universe of the chorus in the same low-down blues song. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t break the beat. He made it home and went straight into his room.

  Rule 19. Let Their Imaginations Run

  Tuesday, January 22, 2008

  JIMMY KIRKUS, SIXTEEN YEARS OLD—THIRTY-SIX DAYS AFTER THE WALL.

  All around town there’s only one thing to talk about—the amazing Jimmy “Kamikaze” Kirkus.

  You seen Kamikaze Kirkus lately? They say he’s changed.

  Well, blunt force to the head, that’ll do it for ya. I mean have you seen the video? Not the one at Peter Pan, the other one. Of the, you know, the night it happened? I didn’t mean to. It was in an e-mail. Just popped up. And brutal. If he’s a little slow, then God bless him. After what that kid’s been through, to be a little slow in the head . . .

  I’ve seen him. He’s different on the court, sure. All the time sliding on the floor after every loose ball. Like he’s trying to fuck it but doesn’t know how, tell you what. Tough as nails, this kid.

  But he’s different besides that.

  He’s quiet. He doesn’t talk to no one but that Mexican stoner kid, and not even him much—which is good. I’m not saying anything against Mexicans, but would it kill him to talk with some other kids once in a while? This is a tight community. We got to stick together. Jimmy doesn’t get that. Acting like he’s the only one in the world. Ignoring the good people who got him here.

  It can’t last. One thing about the Kirkus family: they can’t handle pressure. It’s that Kirkus Curse. Old man running around with a shopping cart and green helmet every time it gets tough. And then his son, Freight Train, being a boozehound and all—trying to run away from his poor, pregnant wife. The Kirkuses can’t handle pressure, you ask me. Only a matter of time before Kamikaze snaps again . . .

  My Matty says Kamikaze won’t even sit with anyone on the team bus. He sits up front by himself. He’s always reading up there. He ignores Coach Kelly even. It’s rude to ignore your coach like that. He won’t say a word to the poor man. And the coach? He just takes it. Like it’s all OK. I just, it’s too much. I thought a kid from Columbia City would be raised better. What happened to manners? Either one of my boys behaved like that and I’m telling you . . .

  And I know there’s a lot been said about Coach Kelly leaving him alone in the gym that night, but how was he supposed to know Jimmy was a nutcase? I used to drive him to games. I was out buying him shoes during the Shoeless Game. I never noticed he was crazy. Who runs himself into a brick wall? How could Coach have known . . .

  They say he bled a lot. I guess Mr. Berg was up all night when it happened and he still couldn’t get it all off. Scrubbed with every kind of chemical. Don’t see how it’s possible. I say you put a little lemon and baking soda and, poof—but who listens to me?

  I guess you can still see the stain, Jimmy’s stain, on the bricks. Every home game, I look, and sometimes I think I can see it too, but what with my eyes these days. Who can tell if what I’m seeing is what I’m seeing . . .

  . . . a little lemon juice and baking soda, I’m telling you . . .

  Some dudes, swear to God, they touch those bricks before games when no one’s around. I saw Brian Johnston do it. His brother too. Don’t tell nobody I told you. Brian says it gives them luck to touch the bricks. Like some magic. Those blood-red bricks of Kamikaze Kirkus . . .

  Did you hear? The kids are touching the bricks. Yes, those bricks. Before the games? I can’t believe it. I mean, really. It has to stop. It’s sick. It’s like a cult or something. And after that security tape spreading. It’s Masonistic, or whatever the word is. It has to stop, they don’t know what they’re doing. I don’t get it. If you ask me . . .

  Well I for one could give a rat’s ass what the kids are doing, they’re piling on the wins so fast. Bricks or devil’s hand—it don’t matter. Oh boy the Fishermen are on a roll this year! Just try and stop us, just try.

  • • •

  The Kirkus’s phone is ringing all the time. Strange men are seen around town, little BlackBerry earbuds glowing red, talking nonstop, eating Slim Jims from the 7-Eleven, chewing gum like it did something bad to a family member. These are the scouts, or the agents, or the college coaches all here to see this phenomenon, last name Kirkus. All trying to plant their flag in Kamikaze’s mind. He could be the kind of talent to transform a team, capture the wild imagination of a city, whip it into a froth.

  There had been murmurs of this kid long before of course. And then murmurs of his downfall. They don’t care. Or at least they’ll tell Jimmy they don’t. Scouting sports is a high-risk, high-reward proposition. You only have to get it right once in a while for the slot machine to light up, ring out, make the night, the season, the next four years.

  • • •

  For a whole season, basketball produces a certain brand of satisfaction for Jimmy Kirkus. Not the wild joy from when he made the Ninth Shot, or the Catch, or played in the Shoeless Game. Not the powerful abandon kind he felt while beating ten straight players at Peter Pan Courts in the Nine Games. It is more careful and calculated than that. Jimmy enjoys his basketball now because he knows he’s doing it well, and he knows the freedom that doing it well will grant him. He leans into hard fouls, messy collisions, rough rebounds. And he wins. Convincingly. Nothing left to doubt. Even in 6A. Even against the best of the best. Jimmy Soft? No, you must be thinking of someone else. He comes home at night, mind free of the looping obsession he once had with the beautiful game: nit-picking his memory for times he could have done better, more, different. Instead, he watches TV, surfs the net, plays the Xbox his pops sprung for.

  And of course, he calls Carla.

  “I’m writing you a poem,” he says. Laughs.

  “Oh, shut up.” Carla doesn’t know if he’s joking or serious.

  “Let me take you out.”

  “I’ve heard bad things about you, Jimmy K.” Since the Nine Games, Carla has moved up in rank among the group of girls she sought out for friends. She is a regular in their trips to DQ. Gossip over Blizzards, Diet Cokes. She likes talking with him on the phone, sure, but treats him in person, whenever they run into each other, like all of
the others, cautiously and with a minimum of words, like if she spoke to him in person, the weight of her voice would be the straw that broke him. On the phone, though, they’re good.

  “Oh that? No, see, everyone’s heard about that. That’s nothing.”

  “I’m not talking about that.” She giggles. He imagines her as she must be, cord tangled around a finger, toes pointed as she lies back on her bed. Pink. Stuffed animals. “I heard Naomi Smith used to give you”—here she drops into a whisper—“blow jobs on the bus.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Jimmy laughs. “That . . .”

  • • •

  Ultimately, Jimmy Kirkus hopes that finally becoming the best prep basketball player in the nation will free him from the terrible label of Potentially Great Player and deliver him into a new realm where he can be whoever the hell he wants. Next year the Fishermen will play below, in 4A. People will asterisk any success by saying they aren’t going up against the best. Not this year though. Jimmy’s going up against a bumper crop of transcendent Oregon talent—and coming out on top.

  • • •

  Jimmy’s pops and grandpops go to every home game his junior year. They never go inside the Brick House, though. Jimmy never lets them. They don’t like it but they obey his wishes. He’s in the driver’s seat these days. The two men sit outside in the parking lot, engine running when it’s too cold, while the rest of the town works itself into a tizzy inside the Brick House. They listen to the games on the radio. Keep tallies of Jimmy’s stats on notebook paper. Watch couples come out of the gym to steal kisses, old men to steal smokes. Sometimes they don’t stop talking, other times they never start.