Hangman's Game

by Bill Syken

  There is a neon sign on the wall that reads, in scripted red letters, YES.

  “You want to see the coup de grâce?” Jai says.

  He pulls back the curtains on a door to a terrace that runs nearly the length of the bedroom. The balcony has a kingly white balustrade that is open at the far right end. The opening accommodates a white slide that curls around in a wide loop and drops into the backyard swimming pool. There is no ladder back up.

  “You probably know this from the show,” Jai says.

  “The show?” I ask.

  “Give It Up for JC,” he says. Of course. This is the name of Jai’s reality dating show, which I managed to avoid watching. The show was modeled after The Bachelor, except that all of the female contestants competing for Jai’s favor were allegedly virgins. After the basic cable series ended, JC and the lucky winner then filmed an NC-17-rated “deflowering” episode that was available only on pay-per-view. I place the word “deflowering” in quotes because those who saw the special—for example, Freddie—questioned whether the woman was a virgin to the porn industry, much less to sex itself.

  “I’m afraid I missed it,” I say.

  Jai has been the jolly tour guide up to this point, but with this remark his smile flatlines. “Time to get our workout on,” he says. “The guys are already out by the hill.”

  I look to the far back of the property, where eight shirtless men are stretched out and talking to one another among a collection of sandbags and weight vests piled on the lawn. In this tony suburban development, they seemed to be doing their best to create the atmosphere of a prison yard. The guys are all linebackers, lean and powerful, some new to the team. The math dictates that two and probably three of the guys here today will not make the final roster.

  “Is Too Big showing up?” I ask.

  “Nah,” Jai says. “If that fat fuck tried to keep up with what we’re doing today, he’d have a heart attack.”

  We gather in the grassy space between Jai’s pool and the tree line at the back of his property, and I quickly introduce myself to the guys, a couple of whom are fresh out of college. At six four, I am taller than all of them. At 225 pounds. I am within their range of weight. I could pass for one of them, physically.

  Jai begins the workout by marching us back and forth across the lawn in a sequence of increasingly complex lunges. The sun’s glare is such that I am sweating two minutes in. After about ten minutes of that we do squats while holding twenty-pound sandbags chest-high. The sandbags are loosely packed, and we have to squeeze in at the elbows to hold them steady. “No sag, punter, no sag!” Jai shouts at me when I let mine dip. Then we place the bags to the side and drop down while Jai leads us through an increasingly difficult series of planks—the last one is a killer, with our arms spread wide and our bodies just a couple inches off the ground. We hold that for a full minute. A couple of the other guys indulge in what I call exercise tourettes, grunting out “son of a bitch” or “motherfucker!”

  After the planks we pick up the sandbags again and line up on the ground, facing each other, soles together, for pairs sit-ups—at the top of our raises we pass the sandbag to the player opposite us. My crunch partner is Qadra Ndukwe, a rookie wearing only black nylon shorts and white Jordan basketball shoes. Qadra’s eyes are fierce at the top of each lift as he snaps the sandbag to me with a vocal exhale. As we approach fifty reps his breaths become grunts, as do mine. On the last lift I actually moan “Christ!” into the suburban afternoon.

  “Liquid time,” Jai says. Lying on the lawn is a case of orange Gatorade, the bottles still on a cardboard tray with the plastic ripped open. “Drink up, y’all. We’re about to start the real workout.”

  The real workout is the hill, a fifteen-foot climb at the back of Jai’s property, toward the tree line. It is steep and has a dirt path worn up the middle. We are to run up to the top of the hill, curl around to the left, and run down a path that is a little less steep, and then come back and do it again.

  As I suck down my Gatorade, I assess the hill with confidence. My home workouts include running seventeen flights of steps up to my Jefferson apartment, usually at least twice per session. I feel confident I can handle this dirt path.

  We form a line and begin our ascents. We are to do twenty climbs, in formation. The incline is steep enough to test my balance, but the biggest challenge is coping with Jai’s chatter, which is nonstop. He is last in line and ostensibly talking to Qadra about the fraternity brand etched onto his right bicep. But it is closer to the truth to say that Jai is talking and Qadra happens to be nearby.

  “You know, I heard some guy the other day talking about developing your own brand, and I am thinking, I might really want to develop my own brand, you know what I mean? One of them irons with a big JC on it. How great would that be? After I am done with a woman, I’d take my brand and burn a big ol’ JC into her ass. Tttsssssssss!”

  No one responds to this idiocy, as our breath is already being tested by the run, but that doesn’t deter Jai, who continues on.

  “Shit, this is a great idea for my show. Maybe that’s one of the elimination rounds, who is willing to get branded. That would tell you if you’re really in control of a woman. I used to think it was whether they let you fuck their ass. But if a woman lets you put your mark on her, you know there ain’t nothin’ she’s saying no to.”

  After we complete twenty laps, Jai raises the level of difficulty. “Now put on your weight vests,” he says. These vests resemble life jackets, except they have iron plates sewn into them and weigh forty-five pounds each.

  As soon as we begin running the hill again, with vests weighing us down, Jai resumes his chatter. He is breathing hard, too, but not hard enough to shut him up.

  “I got to save that brand idea for the next season. You know there’s got to be another season, right? I got, like, a million ideas for episodes. Here’s another one. JC got a blindfold on, right, the girls come one-by-one, they put a body part in my mouth, and I have to guess what it is. You know ain’t nobody winning that round without putting something good in JC’s mouth. And when I say good, I mean real good, you know what I mean…”

  As I listen to him run on like this—and in these circumstances, with Samuel dead and many people wondering if he is guilty—I think about what Tanner said. If Jai is so self-absorbed and so unaware of anything but his own immediate impulses, he is capable of anything.

  “What if a cameraman puts his balls in your mouth?” I say to Jai, in between gasps. “That would be good for the blooper reel, at least.”

  Qadra chuckles, but the other guys just continue grunting up the hill.

  “Okay, bitches, you feeling fresh enough to joke around?” Jai say. “Time to turn it up. Next set, pick up a twenty-pound sandbag, and hold it at chest level the whole time you’re going up the hill. Anyone lets that shit drop I’m going to bulldog their ass.”

  With the sandbag added to the weight vest, the hill becomes genuinely difficult. Before, I had been taking the incline in one burst of energy. Now each step up is a battle and requires its own push, and I am feeling every dig in my thighs. My shoulders are howling as well.

  “Keep those bags up, bitches!” Jai exhorts. “We’re just starting the fourth quarter. You ain’t gonna quit in the fourth quarter, are you? C’mon punter, I see you dragging! Can’t you hang? You need me to get you a tampon?”

  I am working harder to maintain my pace, but I don’t feel like I am dragging. I keep the sandbag high until I have done my required laps, and then I dump it on the ground and greedily retreat to the cardboard tray with the Gatorade.

  I am not going to say anything, but I hope we are finished. I am sucking air, my shoulders are fried, and even my legs are feeling worn. The others don’t seem to be faring any better. A couple of guys are taking their Gatorade on one knee, while another is leaning back against a tree, eyes wide in disbelief, as if he just escaped some kind of crash.

  Jai says, “Okay, y’all, that is some sorry s
hit I am seeing. Do it again, same reps, except this time you’re taking two bags, one on top of the other. If any one of you lets that shit drop, everybody is doing twenty extra laps. Everybody.”

  It sounds like all too much. Somewhere in my head I hear a whisper that I don’t have to do everything Jai tells me to do. But I stack two bags and press them up to chest level and get in line at the base of the hill. No way am I going to be the first to complain.

  After the first lap holding two sandbags I feel like I might die. It is not just the legs and shoulders. My chest is absolutely pounding.

  Qadra, who is in front of me, drops to his knees after the third lap and retches orange-pink vomit on the grass. “C’mon, Qadra, keep your ass moving,” Jai shouts, jogging in place as he stands over him. “This ain’t no college bullshit no more. You working for a living now!”

  Qadra stays on his knees, heaving.

  “I quit,” Qadra wheezes.

  “Quit?” Jai drops his sandbags and grabs Qadra by both shoulders and wrenches him back, flinging him to the grass. Jai then gets on top of Qadra and pins the rookie’s arms with his knees and grabs his head with both hands. “Quit?” Jai screams, eyes bulging. “Don’t use that goddam word. Don’t ever use that word.” The rest of us have slowed, our heads turned as Jai continues to squeeze, his neck muscles bulging, and Qadra cries in anguish. I fear that Jai will crush Qadra’s skull in his hands. “You ain’t never allowed to quit!” Jai snarls. “Never!”

  “Hey…” I say.

  Jai whirls around toward me, seething. “Who told you all you could stop!” He lets go of Qadra and yells, “See what happens? One person stops, all these other damn clowns think it’s break time.”

  Jai lifts his bags and we all pick up our paces. Qadra rises, too, and resumes running. The wisp of rest has robbed me of my momentum, and I am battling with every step. My legs are quivering, my arms are shaking, sweat is in my eyes, and my heart is racing so fast it feels like it barely has time to beat. But after Jai’s display, I am going to keep running and keep these bags high, no matter what. It’s like my dad always used to say to me: It’s just pain.

  After we complete twenty runs, guys are dropping on the grass at the base of the hill. The burn in my shoulders is astounding. My arms are dangling limply at my side. But I remain standing with my chin up, signaling that I am ready for more, if there is more.

  “That’s it, punter,” Jai says, slapping my rear. He looks perfectly calm, as if his outburst against Qadra never happened. “Good run, bro.”

  Thank God. I go down on one knee, and then to both knees, and I double over with my forearms on my thighs. My pores pump sweat with each heartbeat. I try to breathe deep to slow my heart rate, but it is a struggle to do that, with the way my lungs are heaving. Other guys around me are in a similar state.

  Jai is alone in standing upright. He strolls to the crate of Gatorade, picks it up and tosses fresh bottles to each of us. My bottle hits me in the back of the weight vest and bounces off. I reach for it and crack the plastic seal—this feels like a major test now—and drink sitting up on my knees.

  “Damn,” Jai says in between gasps, sweat pouring from his shaved dome. “That was some good work, y’all. If the Sentinels stink it up this year, it ain’t going to be the linebackers’ fault.”

  “Or the punter’s,” I cough out.

  The heads swivel toward me, as if my last thought contains an impudence.

  “I almost forgot,” Jai says after a moment, walking toward me. “We got a first-timer here in the yard. You all know how we welcome first-timers.”

  Before I know it, the guys are on their feet. I feel powerful grips on my arms and legs as I am lifted and carried facedown, with my weary body sinking limply in the middle.

  My first thought is that they are taking me toward the house. That is until they stop and I smell the chlorine and hear the whirr of the pool filter.

  “Okay, guys,” Jai says. “One … two … three!”

  I am flung through the air and hit the cool water face-first, gasping an inhale before I go under. I sink down with alarming rapidity, the weight vest carrying me to the bottom of the pool, which I hit hands first.

  I get my legs underneath me and push up toward the surface, but with the weight vest on I barely rise from the floor. I raise my hands up but I don’t feel like I come close to cracking the surface. I must be in ten feet of water, at least. I can hear what sounds like laughter through the funhouse filter of the water.

  This is scarier than being attacked—being hazed by people who are too oblivious to realize the danger they have put me in.

  But I need to settle myself. Panicking will not help.

  I am a performer. I can stay calm in the middle of a roaring stadium, with the rush coming at me and 1.3 seconds to get my kick off. I have a good minute here to remove this weight vest.

  I right myself and feel the vest’s front. It is cinched on with two sets of plastic interlocking clasps. I try the bottom clasp first. It doesn’t unlock easily—it requires a firm press on a precise point—but I find that point and it comes apart. I then undo the top clasp. I slide my arms out of the vest. And then I push up to the surface.

  I break through the water and inhale deeply and desperately. Kicking toward the pool’s edge, I throw my arms over the side, gasping.

  Jai is sitting on the pool’s diving board, applauding. The others join in. “Goddamn, punter,” he hoots. “Goddamn. You a goddamn man.” He walks over and grabs my forearms and pulls me out of the pool. I stand on my feet now, feeling both angry and exhilarated. Jai and I stand face-to-face, just a few inches apart, and he regards me with delight—or, dare I say it, pride?

  “How’d you become such a motherfucker?” he asks, grinning.

  “Born that way,” I gasp.

  “I bet,” he says. He punches me in the gut—not a real punch, a playful one—and then he screams, “Booyah!” and leaps into the pool, arms and legs spread wide, the vision of a free man.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE OTHER GUYS join Jai in the pool, and I go to my phone and text Vicki for the latest news on Cecil. She says he is doing better. He’s been switched from morphine to Toradol—a painkiller I know because it’s popular around the locker room. I’ve never used it, but I’ve seen plenty of injured teammates rely on it to get through a game day.

  I am reassured, somehow, by this speck of familiarity and join the guys for a half-hour float. I leave Jai’s house surprised that he did not once ask me anything about Samuel’s shooting. If he had any agenda in inviting me over—and he surely did, since the invitation was unprecedented—my best guess is that it is simply to remind me that I am part of a team.

  And it worked. Taking on the hill with the guys made me feel like I am part of a unit. On the team I’m technically grouped as a specialist with the long snapper and kicker, but no other Sentinel does what I do. In reality I’m a position group of one. Today I hung with the linebackers and passed all their tests, and I feel great about it.

  Back at the Jefferson, I am hailed down by one of the uniformed young men at the front desk. He has a delivery for me. The police have returned my suit jacket in a plastic cleaner’s bag.

  At my apartment door, with my suit jacket over my shoulder, I swipe my key card and, after the little light goes green, I turn the handle. As soon as I crack the door I catch a ripe smell and wonder if I left the refrigerator open. I turn on the light and see chaos. A vandal has broken in. Clothes are heaped on the floor and tossed around the living room. Food has been strewn across the walls. Toilet paper is streamed here and there. CDs are broken into shards.

  I set down my jacket and go into a state of alert, scanning to see if the intruder is still here. I look to the bedroom door, which is open. I grab a 22-pound weight bar I keep in the entryway closet and, holding this improvised weapon with two hands as if it were a samurai sword, I inch into the bedroom, where the sheets and comforter have been pulled to the floor and the closet doors are
flung open. But I find no one in there. I check the bathrooms, and they are empty as well.

  I open the top drawer of the desk in my bedroom and see my passport and checkbook are still in place, as is an envelope with a few thousand dollars in ready cash. The envelope is tucked in the back of the drawer, but it would not be all that hard to find if someone were searching for valuables. If it was robbers who broke in, they were not very skilled ones.

  Which makes me wonder if the intruders had another purpose. Jai is the one person who knew that I was going to be out of my apartment this afternoon. And when I was at his place, his second-floor posse has been out “doin’ some shit,” as he termed it. What if the shit they were doing was right in the middle of my living room? But for what reason—to scare me? I am on their side, and I have not said a word that would harm Jai. I cannot think of an explanation that makes sense.

  Unless I was the intended target of the shooting in the first place, and this vandalism is part of the continued assault. But that doesn’t jibe either, because the severity of the deeds is decreasing. First you shoot at a man, and then you toss his apartment? What next, a crank phone call?

  I return to the living room and begin to pick at the mess. Pomegranate preserves and hummus and tofu have been smeared around among my performance polos and hoodies and compression pants. Kale chips and pumpkin seeds are embedded in the carpet. My superfoods have all been laid low.

  Trying to console myself, I remember that I backed up all my CDs on my computer. And most of my athletic wear came to me free, provided by team sponsors. In terms of a financial hit, this is not major. But still, that was my music, my food. These are my clothes.

  And this is my place, whatever its shortcomings. However generic and anesthetic the environment of the Jefferson might appear to a visitor, I have spent my entire post-college life here. It is my home. I feel a sense of calm when I return and hear the door click shut behind me.

  It is then that I look to the window overlooking Rittenhouse Square and see a message written on the wide pane of glass. I walk closer and see that the writing has been done in what I believe is yacón syrup, judging from the empty bottle on the sill. Yacón syrup is a sweet brown goo that I purchased because it is supposed to have a much higher level of antioxidants than anything else you might put on your buckwheat pancakes. The message written on the window: