by Jim Gavin
“At Trinity we ran motion,” I said. “It’s just down screens.”
“I’m not good with systems,” said Coach Boyd. “That’s why I left the Jesuits.”
I was planning on taking the bus home, but Coach Boyd offered me a ride. For ten minutes I sat in the passenger seat while he wrestled with the ignition.
“Come on, baby. Come on, baby . . .” He said it like a prayer, with his eyes closed. Finally the key turned over and the engine coughed to life. “Beautiful!” He put a tape in the stereo. “Have you heard the Minutemen?”
“No,” I said, as something crunchy and propulsive rattled the speakers. The singer wasn’t singing, just talking.
“What kind of music do you like?” Coach Boyd asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I used to see these guys live,” he said. “I sort of knew the drummer.”
For the rest of the ride he talked about the Minutemen. Apparently their lead singer had been killed in a car accident. “I cried when I heard the news,” admitted Coach Boyd, who seemed to care way more about music than basketball.
• • •
Later that week, on my sixteenth birthday, my mom dropped me off for a job interview at K-Mart.
“Tell them you can start today,” she said.
The guy who did the hiring went to our parish. My mom said I was lucky to have these kinds of connections. After I nailed the interview, they gave me a red smock and sent me to the checkout aisles. The woman I shadowed on the register kept looking at me funny. I thought it was because I was having trouble counting back change, but then she said, “Are you Dustin Tully’s little brother?”
“No.”
“You look like a kid who works here.”
Pretty soon Tully strolled past the registers, pushing an empty hand truck. He didn’t even blink when he saw me.
“You got something in your teeth, Higginbottom.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Don’t let them fuck you on your breaks,” he said, leaning in close. I could smell beer on his breath. “Take your second break consecutively with your lunch, so you get forty-five minutes. They’ll tell you not to, but you can do it.”
A couple hours later, on my way to the employee lounge, I saw him standing in Electronics, leaning on his hand truck and watching TV. “How do you like it so far?” he said, following me. “Do you want to kill yourself yet?”
We passed the Layaway counter. The girl working it, Jessica Ortiz, had gone to my parish school. She was speaking Spanish to a guy who wanted to buy a kid’s bike. She handed him the slip and took the bike, which would remain behind the counter, in Layaway limbo, until he finished paying his installments. It was an insane way to do business. In junior high, Jessica always sprayed her bangs into an adamantine bubble, but now she had her hair pulled back in a slick ponytail. She had beautiful brown eyes and I used to spend a lot of time not masturbating to her.
“Jessica!” said Tully.
“Fuck off,” she said, and then looked at me. “Hey, Pat.”
“Do you know this guy?” said Tully.
“Is this your first day?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’m on the registers.”
“Have you two dated or something?” asked Tully, as I stood there, blushing like Galahad.
“No,” she said.
“Did he break cherry on your cherry?”
“I broke it on your mother’s dick, you fucking homo.”
“Jessica, I think we need to have an adult conversation about the integrity of your hymen.”
“Do you have any weed?” she said.
“Meet me on the loading dock in ten minutes.”
I went to the lounge, where a television was the only source of light. Two middle-aged women sat at a table, sharing an ashtray and watching the evening news. The lock on the employee bathroom didn’t work, so you had to hang a sign on the doorknob that read, “Occupied/Ocupado.” Later, at the register, as I waited for a price check, a strobe light flashed and bells started ringing. At first I thought it was some epic Blue Light Special, but it turned out to be the fire alarm. The whole store evacuated. As the fire trucks arrived, I looked across the parking lot and saw Tully wheeling Jessica around on his hand truck.
• • •
Coach Boyd usually ended practice with an inspirational quote. He liked Buddha, Lao Tzu, Saint Francis, all the barefoot mysticism of yore. The day before our first game, he switched things up a little and handed us each an old paperback copy of The Call of the Wild. He wanted us to read it by the end of the summer and write an essay about what it meant to us.
“I read that in fourth grade,” said Overton. “It’s about overcoming adversity.”
“Okay. Maybe you guys are ready for something a little more . . .” Coach Boyd folded his arms and took a deep breath. “I don’t think the administration will be too happy about this, but have any of you heard of a book called On the Road?”
“I’ve read that,” said Tully.
“No, you haven’t,” said Coach Boyd.
“I’m serious. I love that book. I love its beauty.”
“You’ve actually read Jack Kerouac?”
“Who?”
Coach Boyd turned to the rest of us. “I’ll give you guys a choice. You can read The Call of the Wild or On the Road, which you can probably get at the library. Actually, you can read any book that seems interesting to you. And don’t worry about the essay. Just read something, okay? That’s your assignment.”
• • •
St. Polycarp had a van that could safely seat nine people, and the next day Coach Boyd used it to drive all thirteen of us to Bishop Osorio High School in Watts. We tightroped up the 110, avoiding the hood for as long as possible, but eventually we had to get off and make our way to Central Avenue. There was no shade anywhere. A phosphorescent haze hung over the streets, making the sky feel like a wall. We passed an abandoned shopping center. All the windows were boarded up and in the middle of the parking lot there was a burned-out Fotomat. We stopped at a light and a few black kids our age were standing on the corner in front of a liquor store. They didn’t notice us until Overton opened a window and screamed:
“Nigger!”
This must’ve been planned in advance, because Overton and the other black guys on our team immediately ducked down, leaving the black guys on the corner staring at a van full of white supremacists. We all ducked, except Tully.
“I remember that kid,” he said. “He played at Osorio last year.”
“Don’t point at them!” said Coach Boyd, hunching over the steering wheel. Overton was laughing his ass off.
“Hey, man!” said Tully, waving. “Remember me?”
I heard obscenities coming from the corner. A soda can hit the window.
“Come on, baby, Come on, baby . . .” Coach Boyd was trying to will the light to change. I kept my head down until we started moving.
Everyone on Bishop Osorio was black, except for one Samoan. I felt buoyed walking into their gym with our black guys, who, in turn, seemed embarrassed to be on a team that was predominantly white. In the layup lines, Overton and Weaver only talked to each other. The Big Wallys rebounded in deferential silence. It was about ninety degrees in the gym. Our mesh jerseys were soaked and we spent most of our time wiping dust from the bottom of our shoes. Before the tip, Coach Boyd gathered us together and we put our hands in a stack.
“Play the man!”
Early in the first half, I crossed over Bishop Osorio’s point guard and all his teammates laughed at him. It didn’t happen again, and for the rest of the game it was hell just bringing the ball up the court. The whole summer would go like that: flashes of glory overshadowed by long stretches of competence. In this game, Tully actually played hard, or harder than usual; every time he got a rebound, he’d swing his elbows and yell, “Get the fuck off me!” Whenever possible I got the ball to Weaver, who had his little baseline floater going all game. We lost by ten, but played bet
ter than I expected. I never came out of the game.
“I’m really proud of you guys,” said Coach Boyd.
When we got back to Long Beach, he pulled into a Jack in the Box and announced that he was treating us to milkshakes. In the drive-through, he realized he didn’t have enough money. “Keep making them,” he told the guy at the window. “I’ll be right back.” He drove across the street to a bank. For a while we all watched as he hunched over the ATM, pushing buttons. Then he tried to go inside, but the bank was closed. He pressed his face against the glass door, trying to see if there was anyone still inside. After a while he came back out and got in the van, but instead of going to Jack in the Box, we drove back to St. Polycarp in silence.
• • •
K-Mart paid in cash. On Fridays, I went to the cashier window, showed my ID, and they handed me an envelope with three twenties, a ten, a five, two quarters, a dime, and three pennies. My mom took her royal fifth for groceries and tuition, and I set aside the rest for getting my braces off. I was ruled by vanity. Our neighbors across the street had a pool, and before work I would sneak into their backyard, get down on my stomach, and dip my face in the water. The chlorine, I had discovered, dried out my acne, making it seem less rosy and bulbous. On my breaks I walked by Layaway, hoping to find Jessica, alone, but Tully always seemed to be there, leaning on his hand truck. One afternoon they walked by the employee lounge and saw me reading The Call of the Wild.
“Don’t take your breaks in here,” said Tully. “It’s a graveyard.”
“One of the greeters slit his wrists in the bathroom,” said Jessica. “Security had to smash the lock to get him out of there.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
I followed them out to the loading dock. There were some plastic chairs set up behind a stack of pallets. “You can read your little doggy book out here,” said Tully, patting me on the head, and they walked away.
• • •
After we lost by thirty to St. Callistus of Gardena, my dad found Coach Boyd in the parking lot and got in his face.
“You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re doing,” he said.
My mom grabbed him, apologized to Coach Boyd, and guided my dad back to the minivan. She drove home. My dad sat in the back, bouncing my youngest brother on his knee. “They’re pressing full court,” he said, “and Pat’s stranded out there.”
“If you were worried about Pat,” she said, “you wouldn’t embarrass him in front of everybody.”
“Who hired that fucking clown?”
“Language,” my mom hissed.
The next day at practice Coach Boyd asked if my dad was “okay.”
“He just thinks we should put in a press break,” I said. “That’s all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trinity presses,” I said. “We need outlets, and we have to keep someone behind the ball. I know how to set it up . . .”
“If you ever need to talk, about anything,” said Coach Boyd, with a hand on my shoulder, “I’m always here.”
• • •
I suppose my best friend on the team was Weaver, but all we did was hang around the gym together, killing time between our afternoon practices and evening games. We’d shoot around for two hours straight and not say a word to each other. Most guys ate lunch at Overton’s house, which was close to school. Weaver and I only went there once. Overton’s grandma made us grilled cheese sandwiches and we watched Return of the Jedi. The tape was warped from so many viewings.
“Imagine Princess Leia taking Jabba’s dick,” said Tully. “I mean, just imagine it. Seriously. Use your imaginations.”
“Is she the only human girl in the whole movie?” said Pham.
“No, there’s an English lady,” said Overton, his sleepy eyes fixed on the screen. “She tells the rebels what to do.”
“What was Trinity like, Higginbottom? You probably got all kinds of crazy South County ass.”
I shrugged rakishly. As soon as Overton’s grandma went down for her nap, Tully produced a joint, and so Weaver and I, the squares, retreated to the gym. During a game of 21, I ripped a fingernail on his jersey and it started bleeding.
“You got some nasty nails,” Weaver said. “You should get them done.”
“What?”
He showed me his pristine cuticles. “I heard Michael Jordan gets manicures. So I started going with my mom.”
“Is it expensive?”
A couple days later his mom drove us to a salon on PCH. On the way over she kept asking where my family went to church, and if we liked it.
“I guess.”
“Well,” she said, looking at me in the rearview mirror, “maybe we could have a conversation . . .”
“Don’t,” said Weaver.
“Don’t don’t me,” said his mom, as we pulled into the strip mall. She turned around and smiled. “We can have a conversation, right . . . what’s your name again?”
“Pat,” I said.
She dropped us off and went to run errands. Weaver told me to go first. He sat down in the waiting area and flipped through a glossy fashion magazine. My manicurist was a short blond woman named Michelle. She wore tight jeans and her heels clicked on the linoleum floor. The second she touched my hand, I got an erection. She asked if I was a Michael Jordan fan, like Weaver.
“No,” I said.
“What do you mean, no?” said Weaver from across the room.
“I like John Williams,” I told Michelle, but she had already drifted out of the conversation.
“John Williams?” said Weaver.
“He played at Crenshaw,” I said. “He took LSU to the Final Four.”
“Wait, John Williams,” said Weaver, putting down his magazine. “You mean the fat dude on the Clippers?”
“Yeah,” I said, and Weaver started cracking up. Williams, as a pro, had been a total bust. After putting on a ton of weight, he became known around the league as John “Hot Plate” Williams. I thought of my other two favorite players—Len Bias, who had died of a cocaine overdose, and Pearl Washington, who had washed out of the NBA after two seasons. Why did I care more about these guys than Michael Jordan? My erection was gone.
While Weaver got his manicure, I looked through the glossies. All the fashion models looked rich and angry. I had brought ten dollars—two and a half hours at K-Mart—but when Weaver’s mom got back, she said it was her treat and invited me to dinner. I worried that she might want to have a “conversation” about the intricacies of their faith, but I was also sick of lasagna. They lived in a duplex on the bottom edge of Signal Hill. Weaver’s mom cooked hot links on a grill, tongs in one hand, cigarette in the other. At some point Weaver’s little cousin came by, wanting to play Madden. Lance was about ten or eleven. “Show Pat your chest,” said Weaver, poking his cousin.
Without hesitation, Lance peeled off his T-shirt and showed me his weird concave chest. He didn’t believe I had the same thing, so I had to show him. Lance looked confused and upset. “My mama said it would go away.”
“It will,” I said, and until this moment, I actually believed it would go away; but as soon as I said it out loud, I realized it wouldn’t. Lance was quiet all through dinner. Mrs. Weaver had to work a late shift at Kaiser, but before she left she called Weaver into the kitchen. I heard them arguing in hushed voices, and then Weaver came out, with tears in his eyes, and locked himself in his bedroom. I played Madden with Lance, who kept running up the score. I think he knew some kind of secret code, because all his players were suddenly twice as fast as mine. Later, I called my mom and she picked me up. Before I went out the front door, Weaver came out of his room and handed me a pamphlet about his church.
“You can come to services with us if you want,” he said, without zeal. “But you don’t have to.”
When I got in the minivan, my mom saw the pamphlet and freaked out.
“Those people act nice,” she said, “but they just want to get their hooks in you. They’re worse than the godd
amn Mormons.”
• • •
The week before the Ventura tournament, we managed to win a couple games. Even though I played well, I kept having nightmares about Trinity. Their guys would run past me as my feet sank into the quicksand floor, and then I would wake up.
On Friday night, after closing out my register, thirty dollars short, I escorted Jessica to the bus stop. Because of the payday cash situation, K-Mart employees were always getting mugged in the parking lot, usually by disgruntled ex-employees. Our supervisors encouraged a “buddy system” when leaving the premises. As we walked down to Bellflower Boulevard, she asked me how things were going at St. Polycarp. I began telling her about all the colleges who were recruiting me, but then we passed the Cal Worthington Ford dealership.
“I want a Mustang,” she said suddenly, more to herself than me. “Black with a big-ass woofer in the trunk. Once I save enough for a down payment, I’m gonna go see Cal.”
Just as we got to the bus stop, Tully rolled up in his Chevette.
“There you are,” he said to Jessica. He was wearing a blue blazer with a light blue turtleneck. Overton, in the passenger seat, was wearing an Air Force flight suit.
“Get in,” Tully said. “We’re going on TV.”
“What the fuck?” she said, laughing.
“Wally George!” said Overton, slapping the side of the car. “Come on, Pat. You too.”
My mom was on her way to pick me up, but now all I could see was Jessica’s ass, bobbing in front of me as she climbed inside. I followed and Overton handed me a forty. Jessica seemed to know I wasn’t going to drink it. She grabbed the bottle from me and started chugging.
“Damn,” said Overton, nudging Tully. “You were right about her.”
Wally George was the host of Hot Seat, a conservative talk show on the local UHF station. A tall, cadaverous Reaganite with a platinum-blond comb-over, he interviewed pornographers, pacifists, socialists, homosexuals, dopers, punks, rappers, minorities, and all manner of human scum. His audience consisted mainly of drunken high school kids from Orange County, who were less concerned with ideological purity than with getting on TV and doing the pantomime for cunnilingus. The exception, tonight, would be Chris Pham, who, as Overton explained, was going with the sincere intention of throwing shit at Wally’s guest, a Vietnamese merchant in Garden Grove who had recently hung a Communist flag in the window of his donut shop. It made the local papers and Pham’s family had helped organize a boycott of his business.