I'll tell you the truth. I'd always figured Soul to be a pretty good guy. Used to send his mother a couple thousand out've every paycheck. Used to tell her all sorts of nice thoughtful lies about how "good" he was being, so she wouldn't worry. We had some cool times. I guess you can tell from the letter he and I really were sort've friends back then:
Hey dude!
What it is, breed! Bet you didn think I could
write, rite? So hows life in merry ol England? I
gots to admit I envy you, bro. Bin pokin those fine
lily white English mamas left and rite, if I knows my
bro. Meantime, i'm sweatin my black ass off runnin
full courts, two-a-days, with the team and all. Mini-camp
is starting to rilly heat up about now. Fuckin boring.
But I know you dont wanna hear about all that.
It feels funny you not bein around (gettin reddy for the season is what I mean). Seems like last week we be
bullshittin our way throu rookee camp tagether! What I
rilly miss is goin to those cool honkee bars on the West Side
that you likes to hang out in. I tried to go there myself
last week, that place on Santa Monica, you remember, but it
waznt the same. They was this one blond whitey chick I
had my eye on. And she was fine , man! Big tittees and
all, too. She wood of been some serius trim fore the man
here, but I coudn get the rap down without you there
to coach me, dude! I done bougt her a couple drinks first
to get her goin, and I let her see my roll when I paid fore
it like you told me. You know that smily way some of those
fine ladies get when they see a dude flashin some serius
green? That was her. Then I told her I played ball, and that got her goin even more, and
I thougt I was doin pretty
good. Then I did that thing you told me to do that one time,
remember? That thing about hintin to a chick how us brothers
got bigger dicks than the honkees? Well anyhow, I tried it. But without you to set it up,
man, I sorda got the words a
little wrong. I think she woun up thinkin I was just some
jive nigger rapist malester or somethin.
Anyhow she wownd up tellin me I "waznt her type" and left
the scene with some skinny white guy. I bet I bougt that
bitch about five fuckin drinks, dam!
You ever hear from Conway? Thats who I got your address
from. I was wonderin if he ever got you a gig-----or at
least a tryout-----with one of them Eyetalyan teams. I
tried to call his dam office a couple times, to find out
you know?, but he never return my calls. That guys an ass-
hole, man. You shud dump his fat ass, get yoself an agent that will at least make it look good.
I been feelin pretty bad about you lately, bro. I know it wasnt my actul fault or
anything, but it's been a year
now and I can still hear that funky knee of yourn pop. Pop !
Fuck. Sometimes, even, I be sleepin and I can see it all
happinin and the ol battel under the boards and me fallin
on you like that tryin to get the ball and pop and I wake up.
All sweaty like. Freaks my ass out, holms! Sometimes I think
if I bin a little quicker I coulda jumped over you or some-
thin. I dont know. Probly not, I guess. Happind so dam
fast and all. Anyhow it migt not of been my fault technilly,
but I still wanted to say i'm sorry. Sorry, bro.
O, I just thougt of somethin funny! Happind last week, we
had one of those practises open to the publik, rite? Couple
the guys worked out this sweet deal with Andrews where he went up for a rebound and
they yanked his shorts down just as
he was goin up. It was rigtchus! His flabby white ass
hangin out fore all them people to see! I fuckin laffed my ass off, man. You had to be
there. Andrews wasnt too happy
about it tho. Bein the only white guy on the team, he
got it in his head we was gangin up on him or somethin which
I guess we was. Man you had to be there! He called us ever
dam name in the book.
Well thats all from the Left Coast, dude. You know i'm not
much on writin, less its my mother and all. I been workin on this fuckin thing fore five
god dam days! Take it slo, bro,
and get back here quick ok? I think I be missin all them cool stories you usta tell.
I love ya bro,
LeSoul
P.S. Aint that a bitch about Sam? Goin back to that old
fart teach of hers, after all them years. man. What was his name, Greg somethin? Anyway, I hear he dumped his rinkled old wife even, and let her keep the god dam house, just to get his sad old jones into ol Sammys trim! You beleeve that shit? You was right about women, dude. What the fuck good are they.
I felt so damn funny sitting there right after I read it. Guess it sort've reminded me of life as a ballplayer. I didn't want Jane to see me that way. I stuffed the letter and the envelope into the inside pocket of my leather jacket and rubbed my face a little bit to smooth everything out. The only thing that I didn't get was that part about how my "accident" happened. Accident, my ass. I got the whole thing in my mind a certain exact way, you understand; who snuck up behind me, who pushed me, what happened when I was on the ground, all that stuff. But it's been a whole goddam year, who can remember. Remember exactly, I mean. I admit I've been sort've going back and forth on it, in my mind.
I sure got to hand it to Soul, though. Pretty stand-up thing for him to do, to go and take the whole rap for everybody, just because they know he's my friend and all. I guess I'll have to check it out a little bit when I get back.
And I suppose I've got to go and teach the dude about the existence of the goddam apostrophe, if I ever run into him again.
"Everything alright back home?"
I hate it when women sneak up on you like that.
"Don't sneak up on me like that, Jane."
"Sorry?"
"Don't say yer sorry. Just don't do it is all."
"But I wasn't sneakin', love!"
"Okay, then."
"Ev'thing alright? back home?"
"You already asked that."
"Sorry....I just wondered if---"
"Everything's fine, really bitchin', couldn't be better, okay?"
I couldn't even stand to be around her. I felt terrible. And right then, this slow song came on the juke box. All I remember is that it was a great slow song. I don't remember what it was called, and I wouldn't tell you if I did. Rather than try to say anything to me and have her head snapped off, she just sort've took my hand and pulled me out into the middle of the floor. She put her arms around me. We started dancing. She burrowed her sweet little face at an angle in the crook of my neck, so there was no way we could look at each other. She smelled so good. For about two minutes all we did was just rock back and forth to the music. She was really holding me, not tightly, but what you might call securely. And she kept petting the back of my head, the way they do when they want you to know something. I felt like a louse. You might not think it, but those were two or three of the lousiest minutes of my life. It was the sickest, weirdest I can ever remember my stomach feeling. On the one hand the whole thing felt great, everything a man wants to feel with a woman; on the other, I wished I was a million miles away from her. Somebody explain that to me, for godsake. God, was I screwed up. I already told you that I think Jane was far and away the best girl, that is to say best person, I've ever gone out with. It's not fair. I knew I couldn't bear actually saying good-bye to her.
"What's up, babe?" I said. I think I was talking normal, but I was losing it so I knew
I had to get out of there fast.
"Even like this, with me-arms around you, I can feel....feel you slippin'---slippin' away....And I know I can't bloody stop it!" she whispered.
"I think we both just tired," I said. "I'm so tired I could die."
"I'm....I'm just glad you came back first," she said.
The song was over and so I reminded her I was tired, and too tired to do anything, you know, and I told her I felt like just turning in and catching up on my sleep. Naturally I didn't tell her I'd been back for two weeks, sleeping like a wildman, and I was sure that Delby hadn't told her anything either, knowing how protective he was of her feelings. She agreed that that was a good idea. We decided that one of us would call the other in a day or two.
"Mebbe I'll ring up your car telephone!"
"No, I'll call your apartment," I said. She nodded, kissed me gently, and I walked out.
That was the last time I ever saw her.
Let's see////The next morning---the day after I split with Jane---I skipped breakfast, slept late, packed my bags, loaded up the car, rang the doorbell, and prepared to say a quick good-bye to Frieda. Not that she wasn't worth a long good-bye. That's the whole point. I knew I was going to miss the old gal, and I wasn't looking forward to anything that might get me overly emotional.
She bounced down the stairs and met me at the open front door.
"Ringin' the bell now are we!"
"I just wanted to get your attention, fraulein."
"Oh! Well, why din' you just knock me up on me-bloody bedroom door?" she said in that sultry chorus-girl rap of hers. ("Knock up", as you might have guessed, hardly means the same thing over there as it does over here.) "Ready for lunch?"
"Frieda, I'm leaving."
"Badger's no' open till twelve, luv."
"No, I mean I'm leaving. I'm leaving Sussex. I just wanted to say, you know, good-bye."
Frankly it sort've made me feel cool, seeing how upset the whole thing made her. You know what I mean.
"But---but thi' 'sis so sudden!...i'fits 'bout the otha' day, I'm sorry, rilly luv, I know I'm too 'motional, I---"
"Come on, Frieda, stop it. It's not that. Hell I'm the one who should apologize to you, for always asking so many dumb questions!" I said. "No, I'm just leaving because it's time to leave. I have places to go and people to see, as we say in America. Sorry. About the short notice I mean."
"An' so y'just goin' now? roight bloody now?"
"Right bloody now."
"Mebbe you'll come back! You'll come back for 'visit mebbe? Like when you went off f'Scotland, you come back! An' I knowed you would, too---I knowed it....You knows y'always welcome 'ere, precious. You know y'are. Please...."
Now this is exactly the reason I hate saying good-bye. She was actually making me feel guilty about going about my business. Not to mention kind've sad. What did she think, that I was going to stay there forever? Damn it. Why did she have to make such a big fuss. I tell you this, if I didn't owe her the two weeks of rent, I bet you I would've just taken off without saying a word....
"Here's your money," I said, holding out an envelope with 175 pounds in it. "The way you whomp up a breakfast, I tell ya it's a friggin' barg---"
"No....no. Jus' pu' it there."
"Huh?"
"Jus' leave it there. Jus' leave it," she said, pointing to a little telephone stand just inside the door. She wouldn't look at me, and I think she was trying to keep from crying. I have to admit, it was a pretty emotional scene. I probably would've cried too, if I was the kind've guy who went in for that sort've thing.
"Okay. Sure," I said. I would've gladly given her an extra 50 quid or so, a tip if you will, but I knew he didn't need it and we were friends and she would've treated it like an insult. So I didn't. I just put the money on the telephone stand like she told me to. "I just wanted to say I really enjoyed staying here. Really."
"We....tha' is I, rilly enjoyed 'aving you. You were a....perfect gentl'man."
"Thanks. I guess!"
"Y'welcome, luv. Y'always welcome."
"Well, I guess I better---"
"Rifles...."
"Yeah?"
Now here's the craziest thing you ever heard of.
"Will you....could you, tha' is....could you gimme 'kiss g'bye?"
I smiled and shrugged my shoulders and started to bend down to give her a little kiss and everything, but it was like she could read my mind and so she kind've reached out her stubby little hands to stop me:
"A real one, ducks? f'real?"
"Uh, sure," I spat out. "Of course real." (What was I supposed to say?)
And the next thing you know here we are locked in this mindblowing clinch, arms wrapped around each other, her hands fiddling with my hair and even my ears for godsake, and kissing to beat the band. And not some motherly or big-sisterly kiss, either. It was the real deal; mouths wide open, tongues wiggling around each other, all the standard female kissy sounds, the whole thing. Just like we were actual lovers or something. And was she good! Could've knocked me over with a feather. I've been fortunate to have had a lot of women in my brief time, and on the kissing issue I can assure you she stacks up with the best of them. It was the weirdest thing. The kiss seemed to go on forever, I was conscious of my arms barely making it around her torso, my fingers sinking into the soft excess flesh of her back, and at the same time the shockingly-delicious feeling of the kiss itself, and so I opened my eyes for a second---the way guys seem to do a lot more often than chicks do in the movies, during deep wet French kissing---and as it turns out my left eye was right next to this big drippy tear on her left cheek. I don't know if you've looked at a tear up close before, with the skin all distorted and slippery-looking beneath it. It's kind've frightening. Anyway, I closed my eyes right away, and I admit I was the one who broke the kiss off.
"Tha' was nice....beaut'ful. Tha's the way it should be, always be. Always...." she said quietly, snuffing up for an exclamation point. "Damn straight," I said. "You're quite a gal, Frieda."
"Gaw on, then, get goin' if y'goin'---off with you!" she said with friendly enthusiasm. But I could tell, by the cheekless way she smiled, that her heart wasn't in it.
I was about halfway to my car when my curiosity grabbed me and spun me around:
"Frieda," I said. "I think we're good enough friends that you can tell me your real name. Don't you? Besides, I need it for my notes! Come on."
She snuffed up again, but this time her smile came with the puffed-up chipmunk cheeks that I'd come to love, that I'll probably never see the like of again, and that I hope I never forget how good they made me feel.
"Rose...." she said. And before I could say anything she calmly and smilingly added, "Rose Wheeler Gordon Basingstoke Todd."
Four last names. I wrote them down the same day to make sure I would get it right. Rose. It fit. I hopped in the driver's seat, rolled down the window and turned the key.
"See ya around, Fraulein Rose," I said, smiled, waved, and down the hill I went.
I think I'll always remember that drive away from Frieda's as being just about the slowest I've ever driven a car in my life. Usually I could make it down to the main road in less than five minutes, but it felt more like fifteen the way I was poking along. Thinking does that. It's amazing how the reflexes can drive a goddam car, even on the wrong side of the street, while the conscious mind mulls over whatever it feels it has to mull over. That Frieda....I started missing her right away. But mostly I thought about that kiss. Man, it was something. I could taste it all the way to the next town. It was sort've a tingly aftertaste, like when you've just kissed somebody special and you don't want to stop thinking about it right away. Just like with a regular girl, y'know? Funny. When your eyes are closed, you can't tell a bloody thing.
* * *
Starting right fu/////friggin' here and now, I am formally declaring a temporary halt to this first-person nonsense. I'm sick of me, of talking about me, of telling about me, and I need a break. Therefore, this next
section, dealing with my last two nights in Sussex, wherever it might fall in the final draft, will be dealt with in the third person, like any decent story should be dealt with. Besides, I needed the practice writing about "other" people, for if and when I actually embark upon a more serious writing project, God help me. Anyhow, I did my best. I tried to keep the tone flamboyant yet straightforward. Spare, yet filled with flair. It's not too bad.
Be advised that the basketball player in this section is, of course, myself. I will return to the first-person later, at an unspecified time, when I'm better prepared to deal with it. And let me just say this to my dear sweet brilliant editor: If you elect not to include this next section in the final draft you have my blessing; even though that decision would make you an idiot.
The Basketball Expatriate Page 18