“I’m not interested in getting beat up,” I said.
“No, man, it’s a friendly game,” Steve said.
“Lawyers are never friendly.”
“Come on, we need you, man. I already told them you’d play. I said you were da bomb.”
“Steve, I’m only going to play if you promise never to call me da bomb again.”
That next Wednesday I found St. Joseph’s Elementary School, the small gym the lawyers rented once a week. Seven of the regulars showed, and I made eight, good enough for full-court four-on-four. As we shot for teams, I sized up the competition. I knew Steve was average, and five of the others couldn’t hit a jump shot standing by themselves, but one big white guy looked loose and quick.
“What kind of lawyers are these guys?” I asked Steve.
“Mostly public defenders,” he said.
“And who’s the big guy?”
“That’s Big Bill. He’s a prosecutor. He can play.”
And Big Bill could play. On the first possession, he posted me up on the low box, caught an entry pass, spun to his right, hooked me with his right arm, and dropped in a left-handed scoop shot.
“Nice move,” I said as we ran down the court.
“The first of many,” Big Bill said. I couldn’t believe it. Thirty seconds into the first game, and he was trash-talking. Lawyers! Seeking vengeance, I made meaningful eye contact with Steve, cut back door on Big Bill, took the bounce pass from Steve, and grease-dunked it, meaning I barely slid the ball over the oily rim. My dunk was more than kin and less than kind.
The lawyers went crazy. Gerald Ford was in office the last time any of them had dunked it.
“Hey, Big Bill,” I said. “How’d you like that?”
“It doesn’t count,” he said.
“What doesn’t count?”
“There’s no dunking.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s no dunking. House rule.”
“Can you even touch the rim?”
“Doesn’t matter. No basket.”
“Come on, man,” I said. “Dunking is part of my game.”
What a lie! In games with players of equal ability, I dunked probably once every three months.
“Hey, come on, Bill,” Steve said. “He’s new. He didn’t know.”
“He knows now. No basket.”
Big Bill was a smug bastard, but I wanted to play ball more than I wanted to argue.
“It’s all right, Steve,” I said. “We’ll get it back.”
Big Bill tossed the ball to his short point guard and jogged down the court. He posted up me again on the low box, took another entry pass, and spun on me. But I was ready this time and blocked his shot. Steve picked up the loose ball and raced toward our basket. I ran right behind him, calling out my position, and Steve dropped a nifty bounce pass back to me. Angry and righteous, I leaped high for the dunk, higher than I’d been in many years, and rose a good foot above the rim, but dropped the ball down through the net instead of dunking it.
“No basket!” Big Bill screamed.
“What?” I asked.
“There’s no dunking!” he screamed at me, face-to-face.
“That wasn’t a dunk!” I screamed back and pushed him away. He pushed back. I couldn’t believe it. I was ready to fight, though I hadn’t been in a fistfight in twenty-six years. Scratch a pacifist and he’ll scratch back.
The other lawyers separated us, but Big Bill kept screaming. “There’s no dunking! No dunking! No dunking!”
He was irrational, I thought, and I wondered if he’d gone crazy or if maybe a vein in his head had exploded. But then I realized he was afraid of me. In this Wednesday-night wolf pack, he’d probably been the alpha-male hoopster for a decade. I threatened to demote him to the beta position.
“You dunk again, and I’m going to throw you out myself,” he said.
On a neutral court, I might have argued more. But this was his court and his friends, Steve included. Looking back, I suppose I should have packed up my stuff and left. But he’d challenged me. I couldn’t back down.
“I don’t need to dunk,” I said. “Your ball.”
Angry and stupid, Big Bill decided to dribble the ball downcourt. I let him get to half-court before I stole the ball from him and raced toward the hoop.
“Foul!” he shouted out.
“I didn’t touch you,” I said.
“It’s my call,” he said. “Respect the call.”
I tossed him back the ball, let him dribble a few times, and I stole the ball once more.
“Foul!” he repeated.
Again I tossed him back the ball, and again I let him dribble a few times, and I stole the ball a third time. He didn’t invent a foul that time, knowing he would only embarrass himself, but he chased after me as I drove toward the hoop. Two of his teammates, quicker than I’d thought, converged on me and slowed me down. Big Bill ran a foot behind. It was a one-on-three fast break, but I wanted to score, so I spun left, spun right, went between my legs, and made a left-handed reverse layup that surprised me. That shot was so beautiful, Big Bill’s teammates hugged me.
“No basket!” shouted Big Bill. “No basket!”
“What’s wrong now?” I asked.
“Let it go, Big Bill,” Steve said. The other lawyers also tried to mollify Bill, but he pushed them away.
“That spinning-traveling garbage,” he said. “We don’t play that kind of ball here.”
“What kind of ball are you talking about?” I asked him.
“You know what kind of ball I’m talking about,” he said.
“No, you tell me what kind of ball you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about your kind of ball.”
Big Bill had pulled out his thesaurus to call me a synonym for “nigger,” a metaphor for “nigger.” Political Correctness has forced racists to become poets.
“Hey, Big Bill,” I said, “why don’t you call me what you really want to call me?”
He blinked. Maybe he lied well for his clients, but he didn’t lie well for himself.
“You know what I’m thinking, Bill,” I said. “I’m thinking you have to work for my kind of ballplayer all day. You have to look at those kinds of ballplayers every day of your life. After a long day in court, sitting next to one ballplayer after another, the last thing you want to see is another one of those ballplayers when you come to shoot hoops with your buddies. Am I right, Big Bill? Am I telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
He laughed and walked away.
“I think you better go,” Steve said to me.
“What? Am I no longer da bomb?” I asked.
“I’m sorry about all this,” he said. “It’s awful. How about we have lunch tomorrow and talk it through?”
“I want to talk about it now,” I said.
“Come on, man, you’re all hopped up. Bill is hopped up. I’m hopped up. Nothing constructive can happen tonight. Just go home and I’ll call you later. We’ll get a beer. Hell, Bill will probably come with us.”
“Are you trying to counsel me?” I asked.
Steve shook his head and walked away. The other lawyers stared at me. They regarded me. I hated their eyes.
“Hey, Steve, nice bunch of friends you have here,” I said. “I’m so happy you racist white boys are looking after justice in our state.”
Immediately ashamed of myself and angry at my shame, I walked off the court, grabbed my gym bag, and headed for the door.
“Yeah, that’s right, kid,” Big Bill said. “Go home.”
I turned and walked back toward him. Steve stepped between us, but I pushed him aside.
“What did you say?” I asked Big Bill. He was three inches taller, but I was three inches angrier.
“I said go home, son.”
“I’m not your boy,” I said and punched Bill in the face. He fell on his ass. His nose was most certainly broken. My thumb and index finger were broken. He w
iped his bloody face and stared at his bloody hand. Incredulous, he stared at me. His friends stared at me. Obviously feeling like my accomplice, Steve sat in a corner and covered his face with his hands. I wondered how long it had been since Bill had been punched, and how long it had been since any of them had seen one man punch another man in the face. Bill’s eyes watered. I don’t know whether he cried from pain or embarrassment or both. And then I realized I had punched a lawyer in front of six other lawyers. What kind of fool was I? I laughed and laughed and laughed and finally left the gym. Driving home, I wondered about lawsuits and assault charges. Bill did sue me, but I settled the civil charges out of court and plea-bargained to a simple criminal misdemeanor. Maybe I should have gone to court on both counts, but I didn’t think I was completely innocent, and I didn’t trust a judge or jury’s ability to separate the connotative and denotative meanings of a basketball game. If you want more details, you can go to the courthouse and look it up. It’s all part of my permanent record.
At night, I lie in bed with my ambition, close my eyes, and imagine the inevitable press conference. Barely ahead in the polls, or maybe trailing by a single percentage point, I face the media and answer the terrible questions: Yes, I hit him, it was a terrible misunderstanding. No, I wasn’t trying to hide my history, I just didn’t think it was relevant. After I hit him, I entered anger-management classes and became a more patient and tolerant person. I was a foolish young man and learned that violence is never the answer. On the night I struck him, I drove to my church, and I knelt and I wept and I prayed for guidance. I had never hurt another person before that night, and I haven’t hurt any person since, and I hope people will understand it was a tragic aberration. Of course I have hurt people emotionally. I have, as they say, broken a few hearts, but I suspect that might be a positive quality in a political candidate. Yes, I punched Bill in the face, and I must admit that it felt good and true. Of course I broke his nose. What else was I supposed to do? He was a racist. If you elect me as your next senator from Washington State, I’ll punch every racist in the nose. Yes, it’s true I’m single. I haven’t found the right woman. I’m searching for my Miss Right. What do I want in a woman? Well, intelligence, wit, beauty, faith in God, and goodness. Would I marry another politician? Only if she were a liberal Democrat! I punched Big Bill because he reminded me of my father. No, I punched him because he reminded me of your father. This country would be a better place if every U.S. president had punched racists in the face. That would mean U.S. presidents would have spent a lot of time punching themselves in the face. Okay, okay, yes, it’s true I broke Bill’s nose, but he was ugly to begin with. Hey, I broke my hand and was never able to use it properly again. My hand aches when it rains, and this is Seattle, so it aches all the time. Yes, I wonder if I’m going to be alone and lonely for the rest of my life. After all, I think we marry our mirrors, if you understand what I’m saying, but I work in rooms where the walls are covered with paintings of great white men. Listen, I hurt myself when I punched Big Bill. His face is fine, but I can barely make a fist, and I can’t straighten my fingers anymore. Okay, yes, her name is Teresa, but I never slept with her. I didn’t think we had a future. I barely knew her. She was only a strong possibility. Look at my hand. See how much it pains me? Can you see how much it hurts to use it? Do you understand I have a limited range of motion?
Can I Get a Witness?
AFTER EATING LUNCH ALONE in Good Food, a postcolonial wonder house that served Japanese teriyaki, Polish sausage sandwiches, Italian American pizza, and Mexican and Creole rice and beans, she sipped the last of her coffee and looked for her waiter. He’d taken her credit card over fifteen minutes earlier and had not yet returned. Maybe he’s banging a waitress in the pantry, she thought. Let’s not be homophobic, he might be banging the handsome Guatemalan busboy. Maybe he’s buying Internet porn or remaindered celebrity biographies with my card; maybe he’s a bitter and lazy employee; or maybe he’s kind and decent and terrible at his job. Or maybe my bank has finally frozen my overextended accounts and the IRS is on the way to arrest me. She wondered if the United States would ever reestablish debtors’ prisons. If so, she would probably be sentenced to life without possibility of parole. But prison might not be so bad, she thought, and solitary confinement would be quiet. She was the wife of a big man and the mother of two teenage sons, and she hated their male cacophony. She’d enjoyed more solitude and meditative silence when she was a seven-year-old living in the endless pine forests of the Spokane Indian Reservation than she did now as a fifty-year-old woman trapped in this water-trapped city. She was a prepubescent monk! She was closer to God when her vocabulary was 75 percent smaller. But she’d give away all of her five-, four-, and three-syllable words if God would return to her. She missed God! And she missed her waiter. But maybe her waiter had never existed. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe I’m delusional, she thought, and I don’t even realize it. Do crazy people know they’re crazy? Look at me, she thought, the paranoid schizophrenic at lunch. She laughed and wondered how she had become a lonely person who ate alone and laughed loudly in public. I’m a homeless crazy woman who happens to pay rent, she thought. Pretty soon I’ll wear shopping bags for dresses, and what would Donna Karan think of that? And where the hell is the waiter? She looked around the restaurant for any proof of his physical existence: a dirty apron, a ballpoint pen, the smell of pheromone-soaked cologne. But the waiter was gone, missing, absent, destroyed.
Good Food was busier than usual because the sun was finally shining in Seattle after 113 consecutive days of gray and rain. In the absence of UV rays, the white folks had turned penal-colony pale, and the black and brown people had faded to concentration-camp beige, but everybody was happy and hungry today. She’d eaten a chicken burrito and a teriyaki-chicken sandwich. She’d ordered only the burrito, but the sandwich had mistakenly arrived with it. Chicken this, chicken that, she’d chanted to herself as she ate both meals and enjoyed them, though the meat in each tasted like it had been sliced from the same bird. She’d never been one to complain about poor service. She searched the restaurant for her imaginary waiter, checked her watch, and wondered if she was going to get fired for being late yet again. She worked as a paralegal at Ruffatto, Runnette & Kurth, a medium-sized firm that focused on civil rights cases. She knew it was good and great work, and it should have inspired the best in her, but she was a distracted and incompetent employee, a paraparalegal. She always ran late and had been officially reprimanded four times in the past year for tardiness. Civil rights lawyers might have been reluctant to fire poor employees, but they certainly knew how to humiliate them. Her employee file was four inches thick. Ah, the height, width, and length of her inferiority! She was a parawife and a paramother and a parafriend. She checked her watch once more. She was going to be at least twenty-five minutes late. A new office record! She looked around for her waiter, wondering if she should bother to return to work or if she should buy a newspaper and start scanning the want ads. God, she thought, I am so shockingly average. What had happened to her? Didn’t she used to be special? Wasn’t she supposed to be somebody important? She couldn’t remember a time when she still had potential. She was middle-aged (if she lived a century!) and college-educated and made ten dollars an hour. What kind of life had she created for herself? She was a laboratory mouse lost in the capitalistic maze. She was an underpaid cow paying one tenth of the mortgage on a three-bedroom, two-bath abattoir. And where the hell was her waiter? She stood and stretched her neck and scanned the room like the world’s tallest prairie dog, hoping to get somebody’s attention, and looked at the front door as a small and dark man stepped inside, shouted in a foreign language, and detonated the bomb he had taped to his chest.
Outside the restaurant, three people were killed by the initial explosion, and two others died during ambulance rides to the hospital; another thirty-seven were injured. Inside the restaurant, twenty-three people were killed instantly, and fourteen more would die within the next twenty-fou
r hours. Forty-one people survived the blast, but thirteen of them suffered serious injures that required long hospital stays and intensive rehabilitation. It was a highly effective and economical suicide bombing. The bomber had spent only $436 to make his bomb, so it had cost him a little over ten dollars a head.
He would eventually be identified as a Syrian American born in Seattle and raised in upper-class comfort by his Muslim father and Catholic mother. He’d graduated from Lakeside Upper School and Seattle University, and had been working toward his Ph.D. in economics at the University of Washington. He was engaged to another Ph.D. candidate, a French American woman who sang lead for a local folk band. The FBI and local police would investigate the suicide bomber for a year but would find no evidence that he’d engaged in or espoused terrorist activity or philosophy. They’d find no one who had ever heard the man express an anti-American sentiment. He was a registered and consistent voter who preferred moderate Democrats but whose best friend was a local Republican fund-raiser. Over the last five years, the bomber had made equal monetary contributions to Israeli and Palestinian charities. Exactly equal, right down to the penny. The investigators would conclude the bomber was either the most careful, eccentric, and invisible terrorist of all time, or an unsolvable mystery. The FBI had no ability to deal with the existential, and the American public was notoriously hungry for resolution, so the bomber was finally diagnosed as one more lone nut in the long American history of lonesome killers.
But the bomber hadn’t thought of himself as crazy or lonesome as he walked toward Good Food. He’d been listening to the voices in his head and following their orders. Content and proud of his commitment, he’d been smiling when he stepped into the restaurant. Right before he exploded the bomb, she’d seen his smile and thought for a moment that she knew him. Her waiter had disappeared, and her husband and sons were strangers to her, and she’d wondered if this dark-skinned man had come to rescue her. A ridiculous notion, to be sure, but she’d been smiling back at him when he detonated the bomb he had taped to his chest.
Ten Little Indians Page 7