Trey and Dreadlock Man help Rob to his feet. Johnson tosses him an old gray towel. Rob presses the towel against his lip, his eye. When he sees the towel is full of blood he punches the wall.
Trey leads Rob through the doors, out of the gym.
Outside, Trey digs the keys out of Rob’s bag and unlocks the passenger side door. He pulls the door open and helps Rob in. As Trey walks around to the driver’s side, Rob pulls down the sun visor and checks the damage in the mirror. There is blood all over his face and running down the front of his sweaty shirt. He slams the heel of his hand against the dash.
Trey gets in and pushes the key in the ignition, starts the car up. He looks over his shoulder and backs up, flips it into drive and moves slowly through the parking lot.
The rest of the guys aren’t so quick to leave. They huddle around Big Mac’s Caddy under the blazing sun and replay the highlights of the fight.
You see the quick combo D laid on em? New York says. He said bam bam and put Rob’s ass right back on the ground. New York whips his fists through the air to show what it looked like from his angle.
Used to box Golden Gloves, Old-man Perkins says. I been telling people all along, that’s the wrong brother to mess with.
I heard that, Johnson says, and wipes the sweat off his forehead. But, damn, you see how quick he threw them punches?
Rob went down hard, too, New York says. He said just like this. . . . New York falls to the hot pavement cross-eyed, arms and legs spread, tongue hanging out of his mouth.
The guys all laugh.
Boo laughs hard and hits his palm against Big Mac’s hood.
Big Mac’s face goes serious and he stares Boo down. I don’t know about all that, dawg, he says.
What? Boo says.
That’s my car you just slapped, boy.
Oh, man, Boo says. My bad. And he takes a couple steps back from the Caddy.
What about Sticky, though? Old-man Perkins says. White boy gots some heart, don’t he?
I knew it was comin, Johnson says. You could see it brewin all day.
Socked em right in the neck, too, Dreadlock Man says.
New York nods his head, says: Socked em right in his neck.
Bound to happen, Big Mac says, and pulls a sixty-four-ounce Gatorade from a cooler full of ice. Rob always be tryin to mess with that white boy.
He makes Rob look silly, New York says.
Ain’t Stick’s fault he can play, Perkins says. Hell, I can’t guard em either, but it don’t mean I’m gonna foul em every time he touches the ball.
Everybody nods their head in agreement.
Big Mac unscrews the cap to the Gatorade and tilts back for a long swig. When he’s done he passes the bottle to Johnson and wipes his mouth on his shoulder. Johnson holds the bottle inches above his mouth and lets the cool green liquid spill down his dry throat. They all lean against different parked cars and talk some more about the fight. The air is warm and thick, humid. The afternoon sun is like fire against their shiny black skin.
Lincoln Rec Shuts
down at eight on most nights. That’s what the sign on the door says: HOURS OF OPERATION—10 AM TO 8 PM. But when closing time rolls around and the games are still solid, Jimmy’s pretty flexible. He’ll handle other business first: tally up the books or post new gym announcements. Help pass out bused-in meals to the homeless. Some nights he doesn’t start kicking guys out until well after ten.
But today’s a different situation.
It’s a quarter past five and Jimmy’s taping a cardboard sign on the door that says in thick black marker: GYM CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. When he gets the sign up sturdy, he turns around and scans the parking lot. He spies all the guys jiving around Big Mac’s Caddy and shakes his head, says under his breath: B-b-bunch a kn-kn-kn-knuckleheads .
Then he slips back into the gym, shuts and locks the door behind him.
Dallas steps up to the snack cart and tells the Mexican vendor he wants three waters. When the vendor says how much, he pulls a soggy five out of his sock and hands it over. He takes the waters and his change and tells Sticky and Dante he has some chairs stashed behind the gym. Then he hands them both a bottle and leads them around the corner.
There are four plastic chairs stacked between some overgrown bushes and the back wall of the gym. Dallas pulls out three and brushes off the leaves and spiderwebs. Sets them up as far away from the big trash receptacles as he can get.
Sticky sits down and tosses his bag on the ice plant, listens to the buzzing Rob’s fist has left in his ear. Runs a couple fingers over the three or four lumps on the back of his head.
Dante swallows some of his water and sets the bottle down next to his chair. He checks his right hand, shakes it out and checks again: there are a couple small nicks on his knuckles from Rob’s teeth.
Sticky sets his water down and looks at Dante’s hand too. Your hand messed up? he says.
Nah, Dante says, and he stretches out his fingers. This is what you gonna deal with when you dot a man in his mouth. He picks up his bag and pulls open the zipper. I just hope that dude don’t got AIDS.
The tall gym has the sun blocked out, but the air is still warm and thick. It brings out the sour smell of the overflowing trash bins, where buzzing flies dip in and out in clusters. Dallas wipes beaded sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Dante pulls a towel from his bag and wipes down his face and arms. Through a seam in the buildings, Sticky watches all the businesspeople filing out of their big glass building. Loosening their ties and marching toward their shiny cars. Women fan themselves with magazines and everybody chirps their alarm before reaching for a door handle.
You did good today, young Stick, Dante says. You stood up for yourself, and I’m proud of you. He throws a playful little jab that glances off Sticky’s chin. Sticky smiles and looks at the ground. He takes a sip of water and screws the cap back on.
Hit em right in his neck, Dallas says. Last place somebody wants to get hit.
That’s right, Dante says.
An old homeless white woman staggers past pushing a cart. Her eyes half-closed and empty. Mouth moving without sound. She holds a hand out as she passes. When nobody makes the move to give up any change, she continues by, parks her cart near the trash receptacles and reaches two hands into the mess. As she digs around, her soiled jeans slip down her backside.
Ah, man, Sticky says, pointing at the spectacle.
Come on, lady, Dante says, and he puts a hand up to shield his eyes. Get em up!
The woman reaches back with one hand and pulls her jeans up. But when she goes back to the trash, they immediately start the slow slide back down.
Go on, old lady, Dante says, laughing. Ain’t nobody tryin to look at that old flea-bitten ass.
She pulls two cans from the trash and sets them in her cart. Continues forward. Holds her jeans up with one hand and steers with the other. The sound of her rattling cart becomes more and more faint after she rounds the corner of the gym, out of sight.
She don’t know no better, Dallas says. That’s all. He reaches into his bag and pulls out some foil and a pack of Zigs. Opens the foil and drops a clump of brown weed into his palm. He rolls it, lines it and licks it. She just tryin to get herself some cans, he says.
Dante throws his towel back in his bag. He takes out a baseball cap and pulls it low over his forehead. You can get a couple cans without showin everybody the goods, right?
It ain’t easy livin on the street, Dallas says.
No, I ain’t arguin that, Dante says.
People get all weird, Sticky says. Look at Crazy Ray. He takes in another sip of water and swooshes it around in his mouth, spits it out. Why you always helpin that old dude out, Dallas?
Dallas shrugs his shoulders and pulls out a yellow lighter. He flicks the fire on, cups his free hand to block the wind and lights the joint. He sucks in deep and passes to Dante.
Dante pulls in a drag, holds the smoke in long and then lets it slip out over his lip
s.
Sticky stares at all the years of graffiti spray-painted up and down the back wall of the gym. Ten years of gang names, he thinks. Fifteen. All the different colors on top of each other turning the white wall brown. Anything over six months old has been crossed out or covered up by something new. And then Rob’s face flashes though his mind. The glimpse he got of Rob’s expression through the flurry of punches coming at the back of his head, his face. And to get Rob out of his mind he thinks back on all those hours he spent painting over graffiti walls just like this one when he did his community service. The burn in his shoulders, the ache in his feet. It didn’t sound so bad when the judge gave his ruling: 100 hours of community service instead of jail time. But those ten-hour Saturdays were no joke. Painting up and down, side to side, standing on ladders all day, the brush turning so heavy in his hand he could hardly keep it above his head.
He reaches down to untie his laces. When loose laces don’t feel quite right he ties up and unties again. Turns a little to the side so Dante and Dallas won’t recognize his process. Ties up and unties.
Ties up and unties.
Ties up and unties.
Ties up and unties.
Dante passes back to Dallas and pulls a clean shirt out of his bag. He peels off his sweaty shirt and says: It’s survival of the fittest out here, man. Too many people. He slips the clean shirt over his muscled-up black shoulders. Takes his shoes and socks off and slides his feet into Nike sandals.
You say you wanna make it playin ball, right? Dante says. And you good, Stick. I ain’t gonna take nothin away, your game is real tight. But it’s more than that. Every one a these guys wanted to make it playin ball. What makes you any different? What separates you?
Sticky nods his head.
Look at Dallas here, Dante says. How much you wanna bet he thought he was gonna make it too. And you seen his broke game.
Now wait a minute, D, Dallas says, waving his hand in the air and laughing. I didn’t play no overseas like you, but I gets mine out there. You know that.
I’m playin, money. You all right. Dante takes the joint, lights and sucks in. He holds the hit in his lungs and passes to Dallas. Blows out. I’m just lettin you know, Stick, you can’t back down from nobody on the court. I used to fight three or four times a week when I was comin up. And I was skinny, too. Like you. Sometimes cats would beat my ass, man. I’m not gonna lie. But them same cats found out quick, if anybody ever came at me, there was definitely gonna be some fightin.
Sticky nods his head.
That fight with Rob, Dante says. I’m gonna tell you right now, there’s gonna be more where that came from.
Especially cause you white, Dallas says. Brothers don’t like no white boy makin em look bad playin ball.
That’s right, Dante says.
Damn, Dallas says, fumbling what’s left of his joint. That’s the only stuff I got. He gets on his hands and knees and digs through the ice plant looking for it.
Look at you, man, Dante says. Like a damn crackhead. He and Sticky both laugh.
Dallas finds the joint and sits back in his chair. He flicks off a little mud hanging from the tip and pulls a roach clip from his bag. What? he says, looking up at Sticky and Dante. I don’t even care. He lights up and pulls in as much smoke as he can get.
Dante reaches into his bag and pulls out his watch. When Sticky sees the watch a wave of panic rushes over him and he straightens up quick in his chair. D, what time you got?
Almost six, Dante says. And, that’s right, Stick, you still ain’t done nothin about no birthday gift.
Whose birthday? Dallas says.
His old lady’s, Dante says.
Stick, you messin up, man. Dallas laughs and tosses the lighter back in his bag.
Sticky stands up, pulls his Walkman out of his bag and puts the phones around his neck. I gotta go, he says. I gotta jog home right now.
Don’t sweat it, Dante says. I’ll give you a ride. He leans back in his chair. But chill a minute. Sit down. Let’s discuss what options you got.
How much time’s left? Dallas says.
Until she gets off work at nine, Sticky says.
How long you been together? Dante says.
Over six months. I got it handled, though.
What you got handled, boy? Dante says.
I’m swipin this bracelet from Macy’s.
Macy’s? Dallas says. You know department stores got all kinda security, right?
Sticky nods.
I’m just sayin, Dallas says, my dawg just got busted at a department store. He was tryin to make off with a toaster oven and security tackled him just as he was steppin into the parking lot.
I hear you, Sticky says. But I got a plan.
Dallas rolls his eyes and laughs. Oh, I see, Stick, you got a plan.
While Sticky and Dallas go back and forth a little, Dante leans forward in his chair straight-faced and kicks Sticky in his leg, tells him: Yo, it’s me, I might mess around and rob somebody.
What? Sticky says.
Back in my day I’d have probably hunted down some rich cat, stuck a knife to his throat and told him to give me his wallet.
You crazy, Dallas says. Sticky don’t know nothin about muggin nobody. He ain’t got no experience.
I ain’t sayin for him to do it, Dante says. I’m just sayin what I’d do. If I had some cash I’d figure I could buy the bracelet and take my girl out to a nice little dinner somewhere. Italian. And some cats, man, they got enough extra cash that they could fund a little somethin like that.
Nah, Sticky says. I wouldn’t wanna rob somebody. That ain’t right. Stores, man, they don’t even know the difference, but robbin a person ain’t right.
What’s the difference between stealin from a store and stealin from some rich cat? Dante says. Huh, Stick? Explain your logic behind that last statement.
Sticky looks up at Dante and thinks hard about it for a minute. He says: Cause stealin from a store isn’t as bad.
But why? Dante says. I want to hear your reasoning.
I don’t know, Sticky says. It just isn’t.
Damn, boy, Dante says, shoving his shoes and socks in his bag. You ain’t listened to a word I said since I met you.
Yeah, I have, Sticky says.
You heard me talkin, but was you listenin to my words?
Sticky looks at Dante, but he keeps his mouth closed this time. He can tell Dante’s getting frustrated, and that’s the last thing he wants. He thinks about the question again: What’s the difference between stealing from a store and stealing from some rich guy? Dante must think it’s the same thing, but why? It doesn’t make any sense.
Dallas sips his water quietly, glances back and forth between Sticky and Dante.
Dante picks up a stick and lobs it against the back of the gym, says: I’m not sayin for you to do the shit. In fact, I’ll tell you this right now, Stick: Don’t do it. For real. It ain’t in your nature. But just hear me out for a minute. No matter how you look at it, this ain’t no righteous world. It just ain’t. I mean, there’s no debatin about that. The laws we operate under are set up by those who have everything, in order to protect themselves from those who have nothing. That makes sense, right? Now, let’s take me for example. When I was comin up on these same Westside streets, I was one of the ones who had nothing. Just the same as you. So it was up to me to find ways to acquire the basic things that other people already had. That was my reality, and I understood the situation. Now, when you don’t got enough to live an adequate life you can do one of two things: either you can sit there and accept your fate, or you can do somethin about it. He shakes his head and leans back in his chair. I chose to do somethin about it.
I know what you sayin, D, Sticky says.
No, Stick, you don’t know nothin about what I’m sayin. That’s the problem. You ignorant to your own circumstances.
Dante reaches down and grabs a couple stones off the ground. See that wall in front a you? he says. In America, life’s like a race
to that wall. That’s the way I see it. He sets the first stone less than a foot from the wall, points and says: If you born white and got money then you start the race way up here. Ahead of everybody. These cats got nice clothes and eat at nice restaurants. Their parents send em to private high schools and expensive colleges so they can one day be in a position to get the best jobs. And when they make it they’ll do for their kids just like their parents did for them. It’s a cycle.
Dante stares at Sticky. He waits for it to sink in for a bit and then sets the second stone a couple feet behind the first. But say you ain’t white and you ain’t rich. Say you poor and black. Or you Mexican. Puerto Rican. Well, guess what? You don’t get to go to that nice private high school, that expensive college. In fact, you may not even have enough food to eat a balanced meal every night. You suffer from a lack of nutrition and that ain’t no good for a young mind. In this case you startin the race of life way back here. He points to the second stone. Only a fool would think someone who starts here has the same opportunities as cats startin at the first stone.
Sticky feels Dante’s eyes burning through the side of his face, but he doesn’t look up. He just stays staring at the two stones and their different distances from the wall.
Now I didn’t make all this stuff up, Dante says. This life-being-a-race thing. America did. But I sure as hell gotta deal with it, don’t I?
God knows it, Dallas says, nodding his head. We all gotta deal with it.
And let me tell you something. If you some scrubby white boy who’s been moved in and out of different foster homes since you was little, then you off the charts, boy. Dante physically lifts Sticky’s face up to his so he can look in his eyes. How many foster homes you been in?
Sticky looks Dante in the eyes but doesn’t say anything.
Answer me, boy. How many houses?
Four.
That means three of em, plus your real momma, didn’t want your ass no more. They straight up gave you away like you wasn’t nothin. I gotta be real with you, brother. I gotta tell it like it is cause that’s my nature. All these people, Stick, they decided you wasn’t worth a damn thing. They decided you was a nothing. A Zero. Add to the fact you got that mental thing, where you gotta do stupid stuff over and over and over. . . . (Dante snatches up another stone and puts it even further back. Points at it. Moves Sticky’s face so he has to look at it) . . . and fuck it, boy, you startin out way back here. You three stones back.
Ball Don't Lie Page 17