Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

  Trick.

  Ranked and intense observers watched Jesus. No shifting, no craning among the still faces, the still eyes. Country Plus laughed in close, Jesus hearing himself, the laugh erupt from his own belly.

  Be true to the game, Freeze said.

  Jesus lowered his eyes. The ball went weightless in his hands, so he hugged it to prevent it from floating away. The leather skin peeled away to allow him to look directly into the ball's hollow inside, where shapes formed then started to move. Thick sweatbands pinch head and wrists. Sleeveless T-shirts loop skinny shoulders. Jogging shorts sag like oversized diapers. Layers of brightly colored socks curve like barber-pole stripes around thin calves. Converse All Stars, Pro-Keds, and leather Pumas scuff the court with rubber music. John, Lucifer, Spokesman, Dallas, and Ernie—the Funky Five Corners—geared up for battle. Chuckers doing chumps. John with his quick little hands, hands so fast they don't move when he passes the ball. And Lucifer, mouth open, his tongue hangin in the air, some magical carpet lifting him above the ground, the court, the basket.

  And you shoulda seen that nigga shout out when he jammed the ball. Served up a facial. He'd be like, Take that, you punk ass motherfucker!

  Quiet Lucifer?

  Yeah. Quiet Lucifer. I dawked that in yo face!

  One-word Lucifer?

  One-word Lucifer. How you like that motherfucker! Feel good? Taste good? That tongue just flappin. And those big hands shakin in yo face like he jus rolled seven. Yeah, he had some big hands, but they was slow. Lucifer wasn't no good at handling the ball. Dribblin. Catching a pass. Spokesman told John, Throw it at his face. He'll catch it then. It worked. Same way with everything: Spokesman had an answer. Standing there, watching from the sidelines, rubbing his belly like a crystal ball. Tryin to science the game. Geometrize plays for the Funky Five Corners. This is a human behavioral laboratory. You know, white smocks and white rats. Test tubes and Bunsen burners. Ideas lead to buildings and bridges. I like to think about yall, us, the team, the Funky Five Corners, and visualize yall, us, the team, being better players through my schemes. He measure the court with a slide rule and a triangle, then write some figures down on his notepad, sketch some pictures.

  Damn, nigga. What you doin?

  Always trying to science something.

  You may be Einstein but you ain't no Jew. Still black. Science or no science.

  One time he took these big-ass pliers and measured every nigga's head on the court. They let him, too, wanting to be part of the experiment, get written up. Spokesman. This other time he took this big magnet and poked it all around in the air and kept poking it. We jus shook our heads.

  When he made his report he expected you to abide by it. He shook his head when you fumbled a pass. A person your age and height normally covers three and a half feet with each step, so we must conclude that you shouldn't have taken more than ten paces. An unnecessary waste of energy. Drew his lips tight with anger when you missed a layup. Lucifer, be slow about obeying the laws of gravity. And he was always placin bets. Oh, we can't lose. I got this all scienced out. John, if my right eye jump, we win money for sure. We won some money too. Serious money a coupla times. Lost some. Did we profit? Who can say? I guess it evened out.

  Yall gon play or what?

  A cool breeze wafted onto the stifling court, stirring up the stench of wine and weed. Jesus breathed through his hard-winded nostrils, unsure whether it was time to breathe in or breathe out. Everything was off, out of whack. Just need some more time. Gotta learn how to fly again. He was drowning in dark waters, in spinning lights. Blood on his tongue. He surveyed the players, searching for that one face which would sanction his plight. Freeze cracked his anxious knuckles. Keylo checked his shoe soles. No Face hard-breathed. Then the sun awakened, clean and clear.

  I said yall gon play or what?

  Jesus saw in precise detail thick, ropelike veins stretched lengthwise in skinny arms and hands. Saw a red sleeveless T-shirt and a red baseball cap, brim backward, the price tag dangling from it. Jesus saw him. Jesus knew him. Engaged sight the pulse of his color. Red, he would get back in the game. He would—yes he, he alone, not his team—make a run.

  He fired the ball to No Face, who fired it to Freeze, who fired it to Keylo, who fired it back to Jesus. Jesus held the ball above him, squeezed in one hand. He brought it upcourt, dribbled three times, blip, blip, blip, then took it up the alley, body curved, elbows high. He faked the layup, drew back for the jumper, kicking his feet ballerina-like in midair. The ball arched from his fingertips. Sunk.

  Country Plus grinned. I gave you that one, he said. Felt sorry for you. He took the ball in. Lifted off his toes for the jumper. Jesus caught the ball in the palm of his hand, midflight, fly to fly strip. Swatted the ball to Freeze, who lifted for the easy basket.

  You got lucky on that one, Country Plus said. He looked Jesus flush in the face.

  Guess so, Jesus said.

  Mad Dog fired the ball to Country Plus. Country Plus crouched low in the dribble, challenging Jesus.

  Pass the ball, Country.

  Nigga, stop showin out.

  Jesus punched the ball from between his legs, scooped it up, and arched it into the net.

  Country looked at Jesus, anger and frustration concealed like fishhooks in his eyes.

  Thunderbird inbounded the ball to Mad Dog, who bounced it in MD 2020's direction. Jesus hopped on the ball mid-air, squeexed it tight between his thighs, and rode it for a second or two like a bucking bull. Country Plus faced him, crouched, arms out, yellow sweat covering his forehead. Jesus bobbed and weaved, then broke for the basket, elbows working, tearing off a layer of Country's flesh. Jesus soared in solar heat—he could stay up in the air long as he wanted—gave niggas plenty time to count each tread mark on his rubber soles. He looked down on the basket miles below him, and released the ball like a bomb.

  Okay, okay. Don't get happy. Game ain't over.

  Country Plus planted his feet, tent in a field. Wind, Jesus blew him flat. Jumped for the shot. The ball hit the rim. Bounced. Once. Twice. Freeze snatched the rebound. The enemy unit trapped him within a wall of raised arms. Freeze fired the ball to No Face. Perfect pass. Except No Face was three seconds behind the ball.

  Bitch, Freeze said.

  Damn, you slow, Jesus said.

  Bitch, Keylo said, you better stop fuckin up. Or I'll wrap my dick around yo head like a turban.

  No playin bitch, Jesus said. Sweat dribbled down his nose, his mouth, his chin, every inch of his skin, every cell flooded with the energy of the game, the rhythm of his breathing. He studied his heart's double beat. Defense. That was the key. Offense through defense. Offense through defense. Fundamental. Time and distance. Count the pauses between bounces. Feel the game, deep down, somewhere behind the belly, near the lungs. Play as you breathe.

  Country Plus rose like a wave for the basket, and Jesus chopped him down with one stroke.

  Damn!

  Jesus dunked and almost threw himself through the hoop. He landed on the court with easy footing, tiptoes, a ballerina.

  That's game.

  We won.

  Country Plus lay flat and still on the concrete, like something you could stick a fork into. Mad Dog extended an aiding hand. MD 2020 and Thunderbird followed his lead, but Country Plus slapped their hands away, then raised himself warily, like someone trying to stand up on a rocking boat.

  Next time, Country.

  Next time.

  Good game.

  Yeah, Country said. Good game. He studied Jesus with nonforgetting, nonforgiving eyes. Good game. Catch yall later. He turned and led his unit from the court, parading his anger and his wound.

  Jesus gave Freeze a high five, palms slapping. Slapped some skin with Keylo and No Face. Memory warm like sweat on his skin, of the Funky Five Corners—John, Lucifer, Spokesman, Ernie, Dallas—celebrating a victory.

  You play a strong game, Freeze said. He greeted Jesus with a quick hug.

  Yeah, Keylo sai
d. He removed his pilot's cap, exposing a thick wave of greased hair, raised and stiff, a parrot's comb. He turned the cap upside down and dumped out a gallon of sweat. Liked the way you conned them mark niggas, actin like you couldn play at first. He fit the pilot's cap back snugly on his head.

  You got it going on like a big fat hard-on.

  Jesus said nothing. He wanted more game.

  Straight up. Hard.

  Ain't no man, woman, or beast can beat me, Jesus said, words warm with his heart's heat.

  You got that right.

  Word.

  You the man.

  Aw, Freeze, No Face said. You don't know him from Adam. This nigga can tell some stories.

  Stories? What kinda stories?

  Like—

  Like the time he fucked yo mamma.

  No Face looked at Freeze.

  Keylo twisted off the metal cap on a cloudy, missile-shaped forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor. Threw his head back and gulped down the liquid, Adam's apple working. A big booty switched by. Some bitch got a big booty around here.

  Keylo, Freeze said, you got no class.

  Freeze, you know I'm a dog.

  Yeah. Sniffin a bitch's ass.

  No Face burped some laughs.

  Tell one of them stories.

  Later for that, Jesus said.

  Nawl, tell one.

  You really want to hear one?

  Straight up.

  Word.

  All ears.

  Awight. Why not? Once upon a time, this nigga went to this bitch's house. Her daddy come to the do. The nigga be like, I come to see your daughter Sally. The father let him in. Sally roll into the room.

  Roll? Keylo hunkered down to listen.

  Yeah, in a wheelchair. See, she ain't have no legs. Got nubs up to here. Jesus put the edges of his hands at the knees.

  Damn. Head bent in listening.

  Check it.

  And she ain't have no arms. Nubs. Right here. Jesus put the edge of his hand at his elbow.

  Shit.

  What kind of bitch . . .

  And she had this special wheelchair and all she had to do was throw her hips like this. Jesus demonstrated.

  Oh, I see. One of them. Big-booty bitch.

  Mad back.

  Word.

  Lumpin.

  So the father say, Yall gon out in the backyard and talk. So the nigga and the crippled bitch go out. So he start kickin it to her. And she get hot, but she ain't never been fucked before. How you gon fuck a bitch with nubs? So the nigga see this clothesline stretched across the backyard. He gets an idea. He grabs two clothespins, then he takes the bitch out of the chair and pins one nub arm to the line, then pins the other nub arm to the line. He props an old wood barrel under her butt. Then he bump her from the back.

  Damn!

  Word!

  Bumped that crippled bitch!

  After he nut, he zip up his pants. Then he be like, See ya. Her father come out and find her three hours later. Pinned to the clothesline.

  Laughter bounces around the court. Jesus is deep into it too, rejoicing from the gut.

  And he left her like that?

  Word.

  Cold-blooded.

  Hanging on the clothesline.

  Word.

  Heart.

  But, nigga—Keylo shoved No Face's head back—that wasn't no joke.

  You don't know me from Adam. I ain't said nothing bout no joke. I said a lie.

  Bitch, stop lyin. Keylo stuck a big eyedropper into the forty and suctioned up liquid into the tube. When the dropper was full, he craned back his head, poked the dropper in his mouth, and squeezed liquid from the flooded ball at the dropper's end.

  Funny story, Freeze said. He took Jesus's shoulders into the circle of his arm. Jesus saw that his own feet were no longer touching the ground. He bobbed in the air, bobbed in the circle of Freeze's sweat-warm arm. He could stay here, forever, and hang. Hang. Freeze released his shoulders. Anchorless now, Jesus concentrated, concentrated so as not to float away. Freeze walked a few steps, then turned to Jesus's trailing eyes. Keylo, he said, go to the sto fo me.

  Damn, Freeze. I wanna check out another one of them jokes. Lies. Stories.

  Me, too, No Face said.

  Gon on, Jesus. Bust another one.

  Yeah. Bust another one.

  Stop repeatin' after me, bitch.

  Keylo, go to the sto fo me. Buy me a . . . he nodded at Keylo's forty.

  What about them stories?

  Later for that.

  Come on, Freeze.

  Keylo.

  Damn. Keylo tail-wagged off to the store—no, walking like an antelope, lifting hoof from knee.

  And buy Jesus one, too.

  No, thanks, Jesus said. I'm straight. He fluttered his feathers.

  No Face, go with him. Make sure he don't get lost.

  Aw, Freeze. But I wanna hear—

  No Face.

  Damn. Hey, Keylo, wait up. No Face trotted off. Jesus watched him grow smaller and disappear.

  A pigeon skimmed the earth in flight, then headed toward the sky, and the sky breathed it in.

  Freeze worked his arms through his T-shirt, and covered his bare chest and back. Pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pants pocket. Shook the pack until one cigarette eased its length, extended, like a radio antenna. Want a square?

  No, Jesus said. I quit smokin'.

  Wish I could quit. Freeze pulled the antenna from the pack, tapped it against the back of his hand, then stuck it in his mouth. Using his thumbnail, he flamed a match. Where yo daddy?

  What? Jesus said.

  I said, where yo daddy?

  My daddy? Jesus stood in a mass of tobacco smoke.

  Yeah.

  Jesus breathed in the silence. You don't know me.

  Freeze watched the lit cigarette end. Where yo daddy?

  Hey, you don't know me. Why you askin bout my daddy?

  We got something to settle.

  You must mean somebody else. He don't even know you.

  He stole a bird from me.

  Sound strikes what skin is meant to shield. Jesus wobbles. What?

  He stole a bird from me.

  A trapdoor shuts inside Jesus's chest. A bird?

  Yes.

  My daddy? Jesus fingers his chest, points to his heart.

  Yeah. His name John, ain't it?

  Nawl.

  His name ain't John?

  Yeah.

  John ain't yo father?

  Nawl.

  Who yo father?

  Jesus looked into the sky. Thinking: I get it. No Face told you. Y'all running a game. He laughed.

  You think that's funny?

  Jesus drank Freeze's milk-white eyes. No.

  Ain't John yo father? John Jones?

  Yeah, he my father. So, what up?

  Like I said. Freeze took a drag on the cigarette. Exhaled through his nose, dragonlike. He stole a bird from me. Light lay in four colors on his face.

  You serious?

  Freeze said nothing.

  Jesus shook his head. Fingered the words in his mind, measured them, searched for color and sense. When did he steal it?

  Freeze smoked the square down to the butt. Does it matter? He crushed the butt under his heel.

  John know you?

  Know me good enough to steal from me. Know me good enough to steal from me then run off and hide like a lil bitch.

  Jesus let truth move inside him, let himself move around inside it.

  So now you know.

  Yes.

  And you believe?

  Yes.

  Good. So then you know. Know what I need you to do. So then you know that I need you to—

  I know, Jesus said. I know.

  You know?

  I know. And I will.

  You will?

  Yes. Yes I will. Yes, I'll do it.

  You can always choose—

  Wait, Jesus said. He halted Freeze's words with his palms. Pushed th
em back. Wait. Feet carried him away. He didn't want to hear any more. No reason to. No reason, will, or desire. He walked, putting time and distance between himself and Freeze's request, command, mission. Maybe Freeze did know John. Maybe. And maybe John had stolen from him. No surprise there. John was a thief. Water-slick. Easy in, easy out. And John was forever desperate, light, seeking to add some weight to his pockets. But would he accept any color or shape of pay? God marked every sparrow, Gracie said. Every sparrow. Gravity, Jesus carried the thought inside. Raised it. High. Descended down the spit-mottled steps of the subway.

  FROM Dakota Grand

  BY KENJI JASPER

  The water was a little too hot. But I liked it, especially the way it made her lips feel as they moved up and down on me. I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her close. We kissed time and time again with the water cascading down our faces. Then she stopped and stepped entirely out of the bathtup, dripping wet, and walked out of the bathroom. I followed. I knew what came next.

  There was something about our cold wetness that was thrilling. Our nipples rose hard and thick as we playfully slipped and slid against each other. She moaned loudly as my tongue entered her, the sound bouncing off of the echo-creating bedroom walls.

  We knew how to work each other. The water and sweat soaked into the matress as we scrambled across its surface. She climbed on top, tightening her walls, knowing what it did to me. Our orgasms collided, just before the alarm went off. We crashed to the mattress like lifeless dummies.

  “We gotta start getting up earlier,” she said, breathing heavily. She wiped herself off with the comforter and stood up at the foot of the bed. “I think I need two of these before I go to work. One just doesn't get me through the day anymore.”

  “If you worked from home like me you'd have all the time you need,” I said, smiling and out of breath.

  “But I can't fit a hundred computers into my room,” she said as she passed the blanket back to me, damp. I grabbed the top sheet and pulled it off of the bed for my own wipedown.

  “I've asked a million times already, but how come you make fifty thousand a year and live in a room in your uncle's house?”

  “Because that's all I need,” she said. “I send money to the DR for my parents and my little brother, pay my bills, do a little shopping, and help my uncle with his expenses.”

  “But he ain't broke. He owns a store.”