Pick-Up Game Page 8

  Game’s over. There’s a few guys taking practice shots before the next five step up to take on Waco’s team. He’s staring hard at me, wanting me. Doesn’t know how much I understand. That I’ve already been sacrificed.

  Billy is still looking at me. “Bet ya won’t,” he repeats.

  Yup. He said the magic words. Plus I’ve got my idea about what to do. I take off my shirt. If I’m on any team, it has to be Skins, right? I hand it and my bucket to Billy. Then I turn to the bandanaed kid standing next to me. The one who has been staring at me on and off. A hard hat with a swooping hawk on it and a classic Mohawk profile attracts attention like that sometimes. Nod at the kid. Played some intense ball and missed a slam on his last play four games ago, did better two games after that but his team lost and most of them drifted off. Not him, though. Unlike me, he is holding a basketball.

  I jerk my head toward the court. “Take a shot or two with your ball?” I ask. First words since I been here. “Feed you a few after that?”

  “Yeah,” he says, his face lighting up.

  As we walk onto the court Waco steps up, leans close, his breath cold on my cheek.

  “What you got, Cochise?” he whispers.

  “Not much,” I say. I pause at half court, take a deep breath — but not so deep it makes me cough — launch an easy left-handed sky hook so high the ball looks like an orange pebble at the height of its arc. Comes down hard, fast, and true.

  Swish.

  I look over and nod to the ghost by the bench and the stocky figure who’s just joined him — wearing a hard hat with an eagle painted on it.

  “That one’s for you guys,” I whisper. “Next one’s for me.”

  Eat.

  Ball.

  Drink.

  Ball.

  Sleep.

  Ball.

  Think.

  Ball.

  Work.

  Ball.

  Play.

  Ball.

  Joy.

  Ball.

  Pain.

  Ball.

  Life.

  Ball.

  Love.

  Ball.

  I.

  Ball.

  Be.

  Ball.

  You think you know me, but you don’t. You see me on the M9 bus or maybe the D train and you’re like, that bowlegged skinny white dude is stoopid — why do he got one sock up and one sock down and that’s not how you s’posed to wear a baseball hat and why is his shorts so crazy long?

  What you don’t know is that I’m a lot smarter than you think. Just ask Hazel or the Milkman or Mrs. Honeybuns. Just ask my brother, Waco, who’s a straight-up legend at West 4th.

  Mrs. Honeybuns’s real name is Helen Karlin, but I call her Mrs. Honeybuns ’cause whenever I come to walk her dog, she leaves me a honeybun sweet roll and a glass of orange juice. She’s old as hell — like seventy-something — and she lives in this fancy building on East 84th Street with like gold elevators in the lobby and shit. Her dog — this little-ass Norfolk terrier called Tiny Dancer — likes to piss on ten-speed bikes and parking meters. He’s got human hair, and when the dude who grooms him comes by, he don’t cut it with scissors; he plucks that shit like it’s some eyebrows.

  After I walk Tiny Dancer, I take the Six train down to the East Village and walk the Milkman’s Rottweiler — Mr. Douglas Fairbanks Alaska — and then I take the 9th Street bus across town to go walk the Ryans’ dog. It’s my favorite part of the job ’cause I get to see Hazel, who lives with her moms on Perry Street.

  Hazel goes to this fancy-ass school up by Mrs. Honeybuns’s crib called the Chapin School. She has to wear this plaid skirt that seriously messes with my nervous system. If Hazel is home, she’ll usually walk her dog with me. They got a puggle, which is a mix between a pug and a beagle, and they named him Derek after Derek Jeter. I always look forward to walking Derek even though something is seriously wrong with his ass, like his shit comes out green a lot — green with mad mystery chunks — ’cause he eats all this crazy stuff he’s not s’posed to. Once he ate a wallet and once he ate an unbreakable comb and once he ate some suntan lotion. After we walk Derek, sometimes Hazel will come sit with me in this little garden on the corner of 6th Avenue and Greenwich. They got crazy flowers in that garden. It smells mad aromatic, like we on a island in the middle of the ocean. We usually sit on this one bench and talk.

  I’ll be like, “How come they don’t let dudes in your school?”

  She’ll say, “Because those are the rules?”

  “But why they got a rule like that?”

  “Because boys upset your concentration.”

  I’ll say, “But in real life, boys is everywhere. It’s not realistic.”

  Hazel will say, “It’s more for the parents than us. It makes them feel safer.”

  And I’ll be like, “They got male teachers in that place?”

  “A few, yeah.”

  “Why do they let them in?”

  “Because they’re adults and they know how to handle themselves around a bunch of boy-crazy girls.”

  Then I’ll look at her out the corner of my eye and go, “Are you boy-crazy?”

  And she’ll smile a little — she’s got these dimples in her cheeks that are mad cute — and she’ll say, “Maybe a little.”

  Then I’ll say something smooth like, “They should let me go to that school.”

  And she’ll say, “The skirt would look pretty funny on you, Shane.”

  Hazel’s got red hair — like it’s so red it almost makes a noise when you look at it — and she’s mad tall like almost six feet, and I think I might kill someone if I ever caught them messing with her. Her moms is a TV actress and her picture gets put in a lot of magazines. She’s on that one show where all the doctors is doing all the nurses. Hazel’s moms is the only female doctor and they got her doing this Puerto Rican dude called Nacho who drives a ambulance. Mrs. Ryan is always at this place in Long Island City, Queens, called SilverCup Studios.

  Hazel’s pops died when she was a little kid. There’s this picture of him on their piano and he looks like a spy in a movie. A spy or like he would be really good at throwing a knife at a fugitive.

  Hazel thinks I’m sixteen like her ’cause that’s what I told her moms back in June when she interviewed me about the job. The Milkman told Mrs. Ryan about me, and this dude from West 4th called Sleepy Jack told the Milkman I would walk his dog ’cause he knew the Milkman needed help ’cause he lives in a wheelchair. When I first came to town, Sleepy Jack was always looking out for me. I met him at West 4th. He would buy me hamburgers and let me use his MetroCard.

  During the job interview, Mrs. Ryan said, “You’re sixteen, right?”

  Her hair is black, and according to that picture on the piano, so was Mr. Ryan’s. I don’t know how Hazel’s hair came out red. Genetics is a trip.

  I was like, “I just turned sixteen three days ago.”

  Mrs. Ryan musta liked me ’cause she went, “Happy birthday. You got the job. Four o’clock every day.”

  Then she gave me a set of keys and that was that.

  I stay in Bay Ridge, which is way out in Crooklyn. To get there, you gotta take the D train to 62nd Street. I live there with my brother, Waco. Waco’s real name is Larry but even I don’t call him that. Waco ain’t really my brother but I tell people he is and he don’t deny it. He’s like six three and skinny but he’s strong the way dogs is strong, and he’ll dunk on you without thinking about it. And he’ll throw it on you with the left and cross you up and break your ankle before he do it, too. Sometimes he’ll break both ankles. He could’ve played in college — all these D-II schools was looking at him — but his SAT scores was mad low so he joined the army instead.

  After he got back from Iraq he didn’t wanna do nothing but play ball, so that’s all he do now. He’s at West 4th every day — rain or shine, all day long — and even though he’s been there every day this summer, he don’t never get tan. It’s crazy. It’s like the s
un don’t know he’s there or some shit.

  The reason I live with him is ’cause once after he was done playing, I followed him into the West 4th subway station. This was back in May. I jumped the turnstile and sat across from him on the D train and just stared at him. He was eating some McDonald’s and he could see I was mad fiending for some so he gave me half his Big Mac.

  He was like, “You’re that kid Sleepy Jack’s always talking to.”

  I nodded.

  His voice was mad deep.

  He said, “You watch us play every day.”

  I nodded again. I couldn’t believe he was talking to me.

  He was like, “You don’t got nothing better to do than watch a bunch of derelicts play ball?”

  I went, “What’s a derelict?” but he didn’t answer.

  After a minute he went, “What’s your name?’

  “Shane.”

  “Shane what?”

  “Just Shane.”

  He was like, “Aren’t you in school?”

  I said, “Ain’t no school in the summer.”

  Then he studied me for a second and went, “Is that backpack all you got?”

  I nodded.

  “You homeless?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes, you are,” he said.

  I was like, “So?”

  And he was like, “So you don’t have to lie about it.”

  The Big Mac tasted so good it made my arms mad tingle.

  The train stopped for a second and he said, “How do you know Sleepy Jack?”

  I was like, “I just know him. He’s tryin’ to help me get a job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Walkin’ dogs.”

  He said, “You like dogs?”

  I went, “Dogs is better than people.”

  Then he asked me where I was from and I was like, “New Haven, Connecticut.”

  Then he asked me why I was homeless and I told him about how I came back to the crib one night and how my moms and her boyfriend — this big West Indian dude called Lennox — was gone and how everything was gone in the apartment too and how I waited around for a few days to see if they was coming back but they never did and how I snuck on the Metro-North train and how I been in New York ever since.

  He was like, “You know where they went?”

  I said, “No.”

  He asked me how old I was and I told him I was fourteen even though I was thirteen. But I turnt fourteen on June 20th — I’m Gemini like Kanye West — so it wasn’t really a lie.

  Then he gave me the rest of his French fries and said, “You don’t have any relatives you can stay with?”

  I just shook my head and ate the fries. My stomach was going bananas.

  Then he asked me if I played ball.

  “Not like you,” I told him.

  The truth is I played on my seventh-grade team back in New Haven but I was the sixth man. I only averaged four points a game. I got a mad good handle, but I can’t shoot for shit past fifteen feet.

  We didn’t say nothing for a while. The train came up from underground, and it was starting to get dark. The other people in our car looked like they’d been on the D train for like forever.

  When we was walking to his place on 65th Street, I asked him what all his tattoos was for.

  “Stupid stuff,” he said.

  I went, “Was you in a gang?”

  He said, “Yeah. It’s called the United States Army.”

  I was like, “Is that where you learned how to jump so high?”

  But he didn’t answer me. He was walking all slow and relaxed, but I had to practically run to keep up. That’s how he moves on the court too. He goes way faster than you think he going. He’s suddenly by you like he thought himself past you. Like he got superpowers and shit.

  When we got to his crib, he told me I could stay in the other room as long as I cleaned the bathroom twice a week and didn’t mess with his stuff. Then he gave me a bunch of his shorts to wear and a few T-shirts too. They’re mad huge, but I don’t care — it’s become my new style.

  Like I said, it was May then. It’s July now and I got my own money now so I can buy my own shit. Waco gave me his Houston Astros baseball hat, so I wear that too.

  In general Waco’s pretty quiet. That time on the D train was the most he’s ever talked to me.

  He does mad push-up and leg exercises to keep his hops tight. He also listens to this crazy-ass rock music, mostly to this band called Liars. The dude in that band shouts a lot. I think he’s from England or Germany or someplace foreign.

  Waco pays his rent with army money he gets from getting shot in Iraq. He caught a bullet in the kidney and got sent home and now he gets a monthly check. He don’t got the Internet. He don’t even got a cell phone.

  Once I asked him why and he went, “I get tired of people knowing where I am.”

  I was like, “But what if some girl’s mad looking for you?”

  He said, “She’d know where to find me.”

  Which is true ’cause she’d just have to go over to West 4th.

  He mostly uses his army money to buy basketball kicks. He also sends a little each month to some lady in Galveston, Texas, called Nancy Fox. I think she might be his moms, but I couldn’t tell you for sure.

  Once I looked in Waco’s room when he was in the bathroom and I saw that he’s got mad books. He keeps them stacked on the floor all neat and shit. He’s got like a hundred books; I ain’t lying. The one he was reading was called The Things They Carried by this dude Tim O’Brien. I have to admit that title makes me curious ’cause I imagine all these little kids carrying shit, like car parts and stuff from their cribs like televisions and microwave ovens and toasters and DVD players. I see like a thousand kids and they don’t know where they’re going but they’re hanging on to all that stuff like they’ll die if they drop it.

  I stay in the room closest to the street. The garbage trucks get mad loud, but I’m used to it. It’s better than sleeping in Washington Square Park under those nasty-ass chess tables.

  Waco didn’t used to make me pay rent, but now that I got my own business, I give him a hundred a month. I still clean the bathroom twice a week, too.

  Earlier me and Hazel took Derek over to West 4th to watch Waco play. It was mad hot out, like a hundred-something degrees, but they was balling anyway. The air was so thick, it was like medicine in your mouth. They usually play Shirts and Skins, but the dudes on the court was all Skins and they was mad sweating, too. All the fanatics was hanging on to the Cage like they was getting ready to die, like they wasn’t gonna make it up 6th Avenue and holding on to the fence was gonna give them more power or some shit.

  Derek was smiling and mad panting. I never saw his tongue get so long.

  Hazel was like, “Which one’s your brother?”

  I pointed at Waco, who was running back on D. He was checking this old skinny black dude they call Methadone Joe ’cause he used to go get his methadone dose and spit it into some other junkie’s mouth on the Bowery for ten bones. Then he’d use the money to go score a cheap bag on Avenue C. Methadone Joe’s clean now and he’s like forty-something years old but he can straight-up play and he’ll lock you up on D so bad you’ll wish you stayed home.

  Hazel said, “You and Waco don’t look alike.”

  I was like, “Yes, we do. Our eyes.”

  She looked at my eyes and went, “His are darker.”

  I went, “Mines is dark too.”

  “Your eyes are green, Shane. . . . I wish I had green eyes.”

  I was like, “You got fine eyes.”

  She went, “I’m a redhead with blue eyes. What a cliché.”

  Then I finally told her what I wanted to say to her for weeks. I was like, “You’re mad beautiful, Hazel.”

  She kind of blushed and pretended she was looking down at Derek and went, “You probably say that to all the ladies.”

  I was like, “No, I don’t.”

  Then Hazel bended down a
nd petted Derek for a minute. When she stood up, she went, “How old’s your brother?”

  I said, “I don’t know. Like twenty-something. He fought in the war.”

  “In Iraq?”

  I told Hazel how he got shot in the kidney and how he got a medal for valor but how he keeps it in this little box in his room and don’t never show nobody.

  She said, “Where are your parents?”

  I was like, “Our moms is down in Texas.”

  “What part?”

  “Galveston.”

  “Do you ever see her?”

  I went, “Sometimes we do. We send her money.”

  Then Hazel said, “Does your brother have a job?”

  I told her how all he do is play ball and listen to Liars. I told her how he don’t have the Internet or a cell phone.

  She went, “Is he OK?”

  I was like, “He’s straight. He’s just real quiet.”

  “Maybe he should talk to someone.”

  I said, “Like who?”

  “Like a therapist.”

  I went, “Waco ain’t gonna speak to no therapist.”

  “My mom sees one. It’s really helped her deal with my dad.”

  I was like, “He died, right?”

  Hazel nodded, and her eyes got big and sleepy. They were so blue, they made my chest ache. Even though her face was mad sweating, she looked pretty. I wanted to touch her hair, but I didn’t.

  Instead I asked her how her pops died, and she was like, “He killed himself.”

  I was like, “With a gun?”

  And she went, “With pills.”

  I didn’t say nothing after that.

  We watched the game for a minute. Waco caught a tip dunk over this tough Puerto Rican dude called Caesar. The fanatics lit up and shook the Cage and Derek barked his little-ass puggle bark and some shorty in a Yankees hat filmed the whole thing on her iPhone and was showing her moms. When Waco dunks on you, he don’t never talk smack. He just runs back on D with this dead look on his face. His eyes go black and it’s like he knew he was gonna do it, like he could tell the future and shit.