• • •
Basketball was the only thing he’d ever enjoyed. Nobody else really understood it, or understood what it meant to him. His father hadn’t—had only wanted him to get taller and stronger and faster, fast enough to beat the black kids in CYO ball, when Ed Monahan played for Good Shepherd. For a while, he was—tall and strong and fast enough. But some things don’t stay like that forever, and his growth spurt ended at fifteen. He held on for a couple years, even walking onto a team in college. But a kid from the projects got the point guard job instead of him, and he quit after the first year. My kid doesn’t ride pine, Ed Monahan’s father said proudly. Now Ed only watched the Knicks at the Mariners Inn, every once in a while. He hated, with an intensity, the people who were diehard fans and wouldn’t miss a game.
This was the Mariners Inn that Ed Monahan biked slowly by, where the firemen, retired or on disability, stood outside to have a smoke. Morning, Ed, one of them said, as Ed passed. Ed nodded back, and his thin ponytail bounced up and down. Almost out of earshot, the retired fireman said, Fag, and put out his cigarette and went inside. Ed Monahan kept biking.
At the playground, Ed made an exploratory circle on his bicycle. It was the type of day where everybody was around the sprinkler in the middle, kids and adults. Some of the adults were parents—firemen or cops on their off hours, office workers on vacation. There were grandmothers and grandfathers, still trim in polo shirts tucked into their shorts. They looked like they could outrun Ed, still. Ed hadn’t kept his speed up, though he was still trim. He blamed it on the cigarettes. Because Ed hadn’t played football as a kid, even though he was an absolute wizard at basketball, the rest of the neighborhood youth disowned him. His nickname was Pussy Ed, all the way up to seventh grade. Even when he led Good Shepherd to the St. Francis de Sale’s Christmas Tournament title—but some things can’t be overcome.
When he guided his weighed-down bike into the confines of the playground, the grandparents edged a little closer to their grandkids. The parents, some of whom knew Ed, left it alone. Ed pulled in a deep breath, and while doing so he felt that the whole park was holding its breath around him. He yelled: Crackers! Candy! String cream! Under a dollar! The parents looked down at their feet. The children, their heads turning away from the water, came running.
In Ed’s business you make your money in dimes and quarters; there’s nothing wrong with that. He had blisters on his fingers from the coin roll-ups he was constantly using, to put the money together to bring to the bank. He didn’t spend much—he had the house from his daddy. In the winter he worked as an ice guard at the Aviator rink. The coins added up. While the children walked or jogged to him, he heard their coins’ metallic bounce in his mind’s ear.
How much for Gobstoppers? a chubby little shit in a red bathing suit asked.
Two dollars, said Ed. He’d bought them in quantity, each pack for twenty-five cents.
The chubby kid unrolled two sweaty dollar bills from his hot palms, leaving one unknown bill in his grasp. Here, he said. Gimme.
Is that how you ask for it? said Ed. The kid didn’t answer. Ed didn’t have anything better to say. Whatever, he said.
The children, in a screen around Ed and his bike, forced their smudged coins and bills on him, some crisp twenties from their parents, to whom he had to return a handful of ones and quarters. The playground, centered before Ed’s arrival around the old sprinkler, exploded to the four corners with the sounds of fake gun pops and the rainbow colors of string cream.
One small girl came up to Ed and asked if he was selling jump ropes. Some days he did—cheap plastic ones for which he made a five-dollar profit. Sorry, he told the girl, his ponytail wagging. How about a plastic shooter? He picked out a pink one in its shrink-wrapping from his bag.
My mother, the girl said, eye-pointing to a dumpy little woman reading a magazine on a bench, doesn’t approve of guns.
Ed looked the woman up and down, on the bench. She was wearing Crocs. He’d heard about those on TV, from commercials during Knicks games at the Mariners. He leaned down close to the little girl, who herself leaned closer to hear what he said. That’s some cunt shit, he said. What does that mean? the little girl asked. He had nothing to say.
When one of his saddlebags was noticeably lighter, Ed straddled his bike, pedaled through the playground entrance, passing the woman with the magazine and the fat kid in red shorts, and coasted toward the 0.84-mile oval that was the crown jewel of Marine Park. Coming around the bend, he passed the basketball courts he’d grown up on as a kid, when he was the unlikely underdog, white but good. Filled with black kids still, none of whom could shoot. Ed had to admit, even from a quick glance, and he knew it would continue as he pedaled past them: the kids could play. More athletic than he’d ever been. He heard one of the rims shudder as someone tried to dunk.
In the Avenue U parking lot there were three cars waiting for him. They were pulled up against the green, so that they could have been watching the cricket games. Windows closed, air-conditioning on. When Ed reached the middle of the lot he thought in his head about shouting, Peanuts! Crackerjacks! But it would be unwise—he’d always been lucky about police. Instead, he kickstood his bike up on the edge of the cement, pretended to fix a flat. A husky Irish man got out of a car to talk to him.
Holding? he asked Ed in an undertone.
What I always do, said Ed. But step inside my office.
I don’t want much, the man said, fingering the sweat stains on his shirt.
Just take it out of the pack, Ed said. I’m working on a damn tire over here.
The man unzipped the pack, and took out a small ziplock bag. In its place, he left a number of bills. Ed didn’t count them, because he didn’t have to. That’s fine, Ed said. Fine day we having today.
The man, once he had his ziplock bag, didn’t look at Ed, as if he had something communicable. He started walking away. Then he turned around.
You be here Wednesday? he said.
Ed sighed. Sure, he said, why not. The man nodded and went back to his car.
Ed Monahan watched the car pull away, skid around the parking lot entrance, shoot down Avenue U. There were some slum spots as you moved away from Marine Park. Who knew where the guy was headed. Ed only sold the soft stuff. He hummed to himself as he fiddled with the tire on his bike—he took faking it to an art form. From behind him, he heard another car door slam. Two more ziplock bags, and he sent them away like children.
• • •
There was a tap on his shoulder, and Ed turned around. Hi, honey, his girlfriend Margie said.
Ed looked her over. She was tall in the way that women are and you don’t realize it, or, rather, short but because they’re women you think they’re tall. She was wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, like she usually did. She was skinny. If Ed worried about things he would worry about this, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled her toward him and put her hand on his crotch. Been waiting for you, Ed said.
Margie extracted her hand from where he had placed it, and instead put it on his hip and into his side pocket. She fingered the slightly damp clump of bills he had mushed there. Seems like it, she said, and withdrew some of the clump, and looked at it.
Keep away from that, Ed Monahan said. I worked for that. Whatever, Margie said.
Ed locked his bike up against a telephone pole, and then he and Margie walked across the street to the salt marsh nature center. The cottontails were high this early in summer, the wind off the bay blowing them back and forth. There was a gravel path that had been cut by the Army Corps of Engineers a few years ago, which made it more respectable. Used to be just about anything was growing in and around the waters. Ed took Margie here for walks in the salt marsh often, because he didn’t like to pay for the movies.
I went into the city today, Margie was saying. Went shopping.
Yeah? Ed said.
Took an hour and a
half to get in, because the Q train was slow.
It happens, Ed said. That’s why I don’t go. What’s the point?
I was thinking maybe the two of us could go in for dinner one night, though, Margie said. Ed pretended that he was fascinated with the view of the Marine Parkway Bridge. Ed? Margie said.
Sure, he said. Maybe. For New Year’s or something. I think we could handle that. They arrived at the only tree in the salt marsh. Here, he said. And he sat down.
Margie stayed standing above him.
What? she said.
Come on, Marge, don’t make me have to beg, Ed said. He began unzipping his pants.
Let’s go to the city one day, Margie said. Before New Year’s. Like Halloween. We can go to FAO Schwarz.
Ed’s penis, by this point, was flopping in the cool air.
Sure, he said. Sure, anything you want. Come on.
Margie knelt down.
Do you promise? she said.
Yes, he said. Yes, yes!
All right, Margie said. I’ll let you wait on it. This way you’ll be sure to remember. And she walked away back toward Marine Park.
• • •
Ed Monahan picked himself up, and zipped up his jeans. He stood, breathing hard, under the tree for a minute, giving time to compose himself. Little shit, he said, under his breath, even though he knew that only crazy people talked to themselves. Little pussy shit, he thought in his head. Pinko-commie-liberal shit.
Ed fumed out of the nature center, crossed wide Avenue U, and continued into the parking lot. He went to his bike and started fumbling with the lock, until he realized that the motorcycle pack zipper had been jimmied. It was flapping open on one side. All his leftover string cream and plastic shooters were gone. Ed gargled a noise up in his throat. Who steals from a drug dealer? he wanted to know.
He looked around him. He squinted at the other people around the parking lot. There were the Caribbeans playing cricket. Dressed all in white, like cruise ship waiters. The fucks, he thought. They wouldn’t dare. He looked at the people walking by on Avenue U. He looked at the do-rags hanging out of the back of their jeans. Ed’s eyes narrowed. But what could he do? He got on his bike and rode away.
Coming around the oval, closer and closer to the flagpole, at the base of Marine Park, he approached the basketball courts, the perfect showcase ones that people were playing on, all hours. At the chain-link fence he paused and dismounted. Locked his bike up again.
Ed had always been a good basketball player; it was the only thing he had talent for. He’d been born, sometimes it seemed, dribbling. His daddy encouraged him. It’s a white man’s game, he’d say. Don’t you forget that. And with the three-point line, who could say it wasn’t? Ed was a born shooter.
At the Marine Park courts, he left his bike behind him, and walked out into the open, his jeans tight against his legs. Who’s next? he asked a black man who was wiping sweat from his forehead with a rag.
• • •
Ed found a good three, and they had next, and it was only two points left. He had a Hasid on his team, and the fat black man. It seemed like the team they were up against had been on court for days. One of them, in a Fordham jersey, dunked for the second-to-last point.
I’ll take Fordham, Ed said, when they got on the court. The black man shrugged and fell in down low. The Hasid put a hand up to check his yarmulke, and took the man on the wing. Ed, who had the ball in his hands, was ready to check it. All right, Ponytail, let’s do this, Fordham said. Just shut up, Ed said.
Fordham scored first, and he did it easily, juking left against Ed, and it was all Ed could do to stay on his feet. One, said Fordham. But then he passed it off to a teammate, who missed his shot. Ball, Ed called, from the top of the key, and the Hasid shrugged and gave it to him. He didn’t have to think about it, he just caught and shot. He didn’t have to look. He could hear the cleanness of the ball going through a rim with no net. Two, Ed said.
It’s only one, Ponytail, Fordham said. We play by ones here.
• • •
Check, Ed said. Ball in, agreed Fordham. He checked in the ball. Ed passed it to the fat black man down low, who immediately passed it back. This time Ed didn’t just shoot it—he waited until he could look Fordham in the eyes. Look at me, his eyes said. This is the beginning. And then he shot, one fluid motion. Three, Ed said. Nigger, can you count? Fordham asked.
Ed got the ball back. He scored twice more, and then Fordham started calling things.
• • •
Travel, he said. Ed had taken half a step and a dribble toward the wing. Get out, Ed said. Respect the call, said Fordham. Ball never lies. And he tapped the ball out of Ed’s hand, took the test three, sunk it. Ed gave up possession.
The next one was carry. Carry, called Fordham. Man, get out of here, Ed said. Fordham just cocked his head to one side, until Ed passed him the ball for the ball-never-lies shot. He made it. Ed let him take it.
Then charge. All his years of street ball, nobody’d ever called a charge on him. He’d barely tapped Fordham on his way to the middle. Come on now, Ed shouted, let’s be reasonable. His fat black teammate piped up, Yeah, come on now, that wasn’t much of a charge. You fucking people, Ed continued, spitting. Hey now, the fat black man turned on him. What’s all this? You people, Ed said again. You ruin everything. Can’t play with you for nothing.
The Hasid had edged off the court.
Fordham was holding the ball dangerously against his hip.
I think you better leave now, Fordham said. You better get off my court.
Yeah, I’ll head, Ed Monahan said. Just my kind of day, he said. He walked over to where he’d locked his bike up, but it was gone. Faggot, Fordham said from behind him.
• • •
It’s not a long walk home for Ed from Marine Park to where he lives, south and east and close to the water. Along the way he thought about many things—people on welfare, stealing his money. Having kids at seventeen. Popping them out on the rest of us. He thought of his no-good girlfriend, Margie, and what little use she was to him. Just four days ago she’d spent the night, woke up with her naked body beside him, her hips touching his. But he slept with his jeans on. She woke up and took them off.
Ed unlocked the door to his house, locked it behind him. He had many locks, many latches, and he latched them all up. In his sink were the plates from his TV dinner the night before. He left them. He went into his bedroom and opened his phone.
Four rings. Margie didn’t answer. He hung up before it could go to voice mail, sat down on the bed and called again. Four rings. She didn’t pick up. Her recorded message came on, and Ed listened to her voice. He lay back on the bed, and let his boner rise against his jeans. He called her again, and listened to her voice. He rolled over on his side, reached for his bedside nightstand. He took out a condom and his daddy’s gun.
Jeans off, he felt freer. His bedroom door was open, as if company might arrive. He eased the condom on, felt his back straighten in pleasure as it went all the way down. He held the gun in his left hand, his penis in his right. The gun was heavy, in his bad hand. He was, of course, right-handed. Sharp three-point shooter that he was, even the great Ed Monahan couldn’t masturbate lefty.
There came a time when he fell back full against the bed. His right hand continued doing its business. The gun, in his other hand, lay flat against the mattress. He felt heavy, in a way he hadn’t all day. He arched his back, searching for the space above him. When he came, he watched it happen, watched the condom’s inside get painted white, watched it shrink and collapse. Vindicated, he let the gun slide to the floor. There was a low, warm light through the window. He didn’t need Margie. He knew that now. It was silly of him to think otherwise. He didn’t need anyone. He was enough. He could make a new world, just out of him, right here.
WE WERE SUPPOSED
We were suppose
d to go see a movie, get coffee, return calls, kiss, be alone, share a meal together, sleep on the same side of the bed, date, turn the radiator lower, find a studio, get two keys, move out for a while, get coffee, talk, see other people, get drunk, take a cab back to your place at two in the morning, fuck, return calls, date our friends, be angry, run six miles on the sidewalk, take a vacation, try again; get sunburned, sleep on the same side of the bed, reminisce, copyedit, get fired, find new jobs, move to San Francisco, eat only in Italian restaurants, get engaged, wear rings, wear black and console your mother, move back to Brooklyn, find an apartment, have your mother move in, be unhappy—paint the windowsills, drag your fingernails across the floorboard, over the socket with a dusting rag—be parents, buy diapers, find preschools with appropriate learning philosophies, read science books, play classical music, hire babysitters, write Christmas letters, go on family vacation (hate Disneyland, ride It’s a Small World twice, because the kid loves it), go home, drive to rock concerts with your college friend Stanley, lock the bedroom door, go to Little League, scratch blood on our chests when the kid gets a concussion, play three-way catch, kick soccer balls, gain weight, go to funerals, move to Boston with the office, tell the kid he’ll like the new school, buy a basketball hoop, be pulled from your mother in assisted living, drink two glasses of red wine at dinner, watch you drink no wine at dinner, stew, be bored in Boston—me walking alongside graveyards, discovering poetry cafés, coming home alone at four in the morning—drive the kid to school, take online classes, go on family vacation, have sex, write longer Christmas letters, watch a De Niro movie that hasn’t been on in a while, buy a leather jacket and walk along the water, standing one foot leaned behind the other, watching people, watching men, tell the kid it’s not about him; make money, go on family vacation, argue on the balcony while the kid texts, come back, reminisce, edit applications, share a meal, bring your mother home, take prom pictures, shake the kid’s hand, bring the girlfriend on a weekend trip, feel the kid cry, explain love, put the kid’s head on our chests like we used to put ours, unpack the car on a college campus, walk around with college sweatshirts, watch the kid not turn around, wait for the kid to call first: buy books we don’t need any longer, pick grass stems by the river, press our names into each other’s backs with our fingers sitting on a park bench, stand at a gas station and let the gas drip, go see a movie, get coffee, return, kiss, be alone.
Marine Park: Stories Page 11