I remember that Shotgun cat, Dallas said. He was always startin up fights on the court.
Yeah, Shotgun was a real mean cat, Old-man Perkins said. Cops came in one day and slapped the cuffs on em, too. Grabbed him right in the middle of a fast break and pulled him out by his elbows. Ain’t nobody seen em since.
Damn, Slim said.
Guess you could figure out why they call him Shotgun, Johnson said.
So anyways, Perkins said. He starts tellin Shotgun what he liked about the movie. He says, Ah man, I th-th-th-think that Jimmy ch-character c-c-could sure sh-sh-sh-sh-shoot the ball. Then he sits up in the bleachers with us cause he all happy we ain’t talkin about nothin illegal. You remember all this, Johnson?
Johnson nodded his head and laughed.
Perkins continued: Sam says, M-makes em all d-day on that d-dirt c-court, that Jimmy. So Shotgun says, You kinda shoot like Jimmy yourself, Sam. I seen you out there knockin down jumpers between games when nobody be payin attention. And Shotgun’s one hell of a lie about all that, cause you all know that dude Jimmy couldn’t throw a rock in the ocean if he was standin on a pier. He pointed over at Jimmy, who was kneeling next to some homeless man now. But it pumps him all up inside, see. He says back, F-f-for r-real, y-you s-s-s-s-s-s-seen me? Shotgun nods his head up and down like that’s the straight truth what he said.
Old-man Perkins stared at the floor for a few seconds and shook his head. From that point on everybody called Sam Jimmy. He liked it so much he crossed out his own name Sam on his office door with a black felt pen and wrote in Jimmy right above it.
He was so hyped about his new name, Johnson said. He pulled his cap off again, scratched the top of his head, put the cap back on. Next few days he was comin up to everybody, telling em to call him Jimmy.
Still does, Slim said.
Ain’t no Sam no more, Dreadlock Man said.
Plus he don’t stutter none when he says Jimmy, Dallas said, his eyes all big like he’d stumbled onto something important. I ain’t never even heard him slip up on it once.
That’s gotta tell you somethin, Johnson said.
Hell yeah it does! Old-man Perkins said, looking right in Sticky’s eyes. Tells me something, all right. Tells me we gave that cat a whole new life when we changed his name.
When Baby yelled out from the tub—her voice piercing like boiling water from a teapot, the late-night sound of two cats screeching outside the bedroom window—Sticky was standing next to the one window of their sixth-story apartment, holding a chunk of government cheese and trying to spit into the bed of a dirty red pickup parked below.
STICKKKYYYYYY! she screamed, over and over. STICKKKYYYYY!
It was the first time she’d said his name like that, just Sticky, without the Boy coming after, but it wasn’t the first time she’d screamed out for him. Baby was always getting loud about some crazy thing: She screamed if there was a trail of roaches running around the fridge, or when the fat rat that lived in their bedroom peeked its ugly head out; she screamed at the TV if she was unhappy with something going down in her soap opera, or if a bill came that she couldn’t possibly pay; and she always screamed when she needed a fix. Oh, my God! Baby needs her medicine! Baby needs her medicine!
The screaming was nothing new, and Sticky spit a few more globs of orange saliva down at the red pickup before he even thought about moving.
Even back then, at age seven, Sticky knew how he was about things. How if he spit once he might be stuck there all day. He’d definitely been down that road before, spitting at some target outside his window. An empty Burger King bag or some stray cat. There were days he’d be in the window spitting for hours, until there was no more spit in his mouth and his throat went sore. He’d slap at himself to stop, pull at his own hair, but nothing could slow his momentum. He had to keep on going until something clicked. Baby would eventually give up and close the curtain around him, saying: I don’t understand. What’s wrong with you? Acting all weird all the time. Normal boys don’t do things like this.
And this time was no different. Sticky spit again and missed wide right.
STICKKKYYYY! Baby yelled.
He spit again and grazed the bumper. He knew he should at least check on Baby, but the pull to get one perfectly in the truck’s bed was too strong.
He knew the next one would hit perfect, and when that missed, the next one.
STICKKKYYYY!
He knew one of the next five at least, cause he had a knack for stuff like that. He gathered saliva up and spit again: windshield. He glanced back at the half-closed bathroom door. Listened for his mom. Baby. She was screaming. He was trapped again, and he had no idea how to break free. He felt like crying, but he wouldn’t let himself do that, either.
STICKKKYYYY!
Just Sticky she’s yelling out. He leaned out the window this time for a better angle, felt the cool breeze against his face, held on to the wall for support and spit again: wide left. Just Sticky. Why just Sticky?
Spit again: left door handle. His mom. Baby.
Spit again: missed everything.
Just Sticky.
Spit again: missed.
Spit again: missed.
Spit again: missed.
When the screaming stopped, the apartment went silent. His mind went silent. His life went silent. There was only the sound of what was outside: the wind in his ears, a distant siren, the honk of an impatient car, the guy walking by holding his daughter’s hand and whistling. His life went silent. Everything that was inside him went silent.
There was nothing left inside.
And outside, it was just the sound he made as he spit again.
We gotta think up somethin else for this kid to go by, Old-man Perkins said. He stared at Sticky and thought hard.
What about Little Bird? Dallas said. He got that nice little jumper from the outside.
Pistol Pete, Slim said, jumping off the bleachers, pointing at Sticky’s socks. Look at them limp-ass socks. Same as Pistol Pete use to wear.
How about Eminem? Old-man Perkins said, and all the guys laughed.
Yeah, Johnson said. Or maybe Little Norm. For Norm Nixon. He laughed hard at his idea. Old-man Perkins, Dreadlock Man, Slim and Dallas looked at Johnson with straight faces, trying to make out the connection.
What’s that mean? Slim finally said.
You know: Norm Nixon.
We know who goddamn Norm Nixon is, J, Old-man Perkins said. But why you wanna call a white boy Little Norm?
It just sound right, man. Plus Nixon was a light-skinned brother.
That’s just plain stupid, J, Perkins said. It don’t make no kinda sense.
Sticky grabbed his bag in his hand again. The frustration bubbling in his stomach was becoming too much. He clenched the straps as hard as he could and shouted: I don’t need some stupid name! I already got a name! My name’s Sticky!
Dallas shook his head. Nah, kid, that ain’t no kinda name.
That just ain’t natural, Perkins said.
I can’t be callin nobody Sticky, Johnson said. I could tell you that right now.
Sticky sound like Dicky, make em sound like some little homo from West Hollywood, Dreadlock Man mumbled. He lifted his front tire and smiled gold teeth. Sometimes the guys couldn’t quite make out what Dreadlock Man was trying to say, but half the time they laughed anyway.
Sticky stood up to leave. He started stomping down the bleachers, but Old-man Perkins reached out and snatched his forearm. Where you goin, kid? I ain’t done talkin to you.
Sticky dropped his bag.
He been disrespectin all day, Johnson said.
Old-man Perkins glared right in Sticky’s face. Dreadlock Man got off his bike, set it on the floor. The back wheel was still spinning.
Let em go, Slim said.
Nobody moved.
Let the kid go!
Jimmy’s head whipped around from the homeless court. H-h-hey! he yelled out. He dropped the blanket he was holding and stood up.
Sticky ripped his arm from Old-man Perkins’s grasp and jumped down from the bleachers. When he reached back to grab his bag, Johnson moved behind him so he couldn’t go anywhere.
You gonna keep playin ball here, Old-man Perkins said, then you gotta start showin some respect.
Jimmy started walking over. Wh-wh-what’s the p-p-p-problem?
Sticky slipped by Johnson and made his move for the door.
Johnson and Old-man Perkins threw their hands up at the same time and said, Ain’t no problem, Jimmy. There ain’t no problem here .
It’s all good, Dallas said.
Sticky turned around and looked all the guys in their eyes, each one of them, first time he’d done that, and shouted: I already got a name! My name’s Sticky!
Come on, kid, Dallas said. It ain’t gotta be like all that. He walked toward Sticky, said: Lemme buy you a hot dog or somethin. From the food cart.
Let us buy you lunch, Perkins said, eyeing Jimmy.
There’s a food cart right out front, Johnson said.
But Sticky shook them all off. His name was Sticky and nobody was going to call him anything different. Nobody. He turned away from them and walked out the gym door.
Whenever Sticky pictures himself walking into the bathroom that night, to check on Baby, his memory locks up. It stops him cold and spins him back around the other way. He remembers her yelling, Sticky! He remembers spitting over and over out the window at a truck. He remembers feeling something strange in his chest when her voice dropped off. The sudden quiet of the apartment making him nervous. But when he finally pulls himself away from the window and walks through the bathroom door, that’s the part he can’t get to. Everything crumbles in his head. It slips away. The images disappear. But he remembers her calling him Sticky. That’s the last thing she said. Sticky. So that’s who he is now, Sticky. That’s what his mom called him. And he’s never gonna answer to anything else.
It’s Just Hoops
now. Ten guys, two buckets and a basketball. Everything else shut off like the beats on Sticky’s duct-taped Walkman. No more Fat Chuck. No more two old cops in the bleachers posing questions. No more sunlight-glare sneaking through the open doors. No more waiting on a sorry sideline, watching. No more cleaning out a cut or coming up with a birthday game plan.
No more thinking.
It’s just Sticky and a game now. His game. Hoops. Ball. Pickup. Fives. It’s Sticky in his secret world. His haven. And he’s making plays that look like magic tricks. He’s clowning whoever’s guarding him so bad the guys on the sideline are on their knees, laughing. Whistling. Hooting and hollering.
What does it matter how the rest of the day goes? Getting home on time, swiping a bracelet, buying a bear? Sure, there’s a time and a place for all that. Of course there is. Real life always comes whipping back around at you like a boomerang. But right now there’s one last game to play. And Sticky’s right here. In the zone. Flowing. Every shot ripping through a nylon net and playing the same song. And it’s almost mean the way he does it, making people look so bad. So sad. So human. But this game is Sticky’s drug. It’s his stage. This court is Sticky’s home. It’s his hiding place. It’s his church. And he’s the one who gets to talk to God.
It took two games and forty-five minutes for Sticky to get back on the court, and even then he had to get a lucky break. TJ and Daway from the winner’s squad had to hustle off to their jobs at Chevron, leaving two open slots. Dreadlock Man picked up Dante first and then yelled out: Hey, yo, Stick! You wanna run with us? We need a point guard!
Sticky hopped down from the bleachers, pulled off his Walkman and stuck it deep inside his bag. Then he ran out onto the court and the game began.
At first Boo was checking him, a long-limbed, light-skinned brother who plays for Santa Monica College. But that was no match. Boo face-guarded Sticky all around the court, nose to nose. He was oblivious to everything else. His breath like the bottom of a soup can. Eyes bugged like he just got tapped on the shoulder by the devil. Boo played defense so tight that if Sticky had run out of the gym midgame, to score a quick dog and Coke at the snack cart, Boo would have run right out of the gym with him.
Sticky handled Boo like a puppet. The game wasn’t ten minutes old and he had all four of his squad’s points. That’s when Rob called for the switch. I got white boy, he yelled out, and he shoved Boo out of the way.
Boo backed off and sought out Rob’s man with his head down and his tail between his legs.
Rob checked ball and stuck a forearm in Sticky’s chest, told him: Forget all that, white boy. Said: You ain’t scorin not one more bucket.
But Sticky played deaf to all that. He dropped in two quick jumpers and asked Rob how bad it hurt to have a skinny white boy school him like that. Asked could he at least get a hand up in his face. Call for a double team. Anything so it wasn’t so damn easy.
Rob kept his mouth shut and ran back the other way. But a man’s shifty eyes are like a window to his busted-up ego.
The only thing that stopped Sticky’s barrage on Rob was when Crazy Ray came stumbling out onto the court for a second time. He lifted himself off his piece of cardboard on court two, started launching into his typical tirade, pointing his finger at the guys in the game and walked right into a fast break. Three players trampled over him on their way to the basket.
New York, tripped up on the play, let the ball sail out of bounds and got up pissed. Now that’s some dangerous shit right there, he yelled. He stood over Ray. I ain’t tryin to get hurt out here, now. I got my kids to feed.
Ray lay flat on his back, holding his head.
Dallas had to come to his rescue again. He helped Ray up, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pretty much dragged his ass back to the homeless court.
That’s when Sticky first looked up and saw it on Rob’s face. The confusion. The helplessness. The look of a trapped animal. And he knew it might turn bad.
Sticky gets the pass out on the wing and sizes up. He swoops by on the drive, but Rob reaches out two tree-trunk arms and wraps up. Holds on tight so Sticky can’t go anywhere.
Check ball, Sticky says.
Dante checks the rock up top. He flips it back in to Sticky and tells him: Go to work, boy.
Sticky stutter-steps and spins into the lane, but just as he’s about to let it go, Rob swings his arm out and cracks Sticky in the face.
Sticky springs off the ground and throws an unpolished right hook that thuds against the side of Rob’s neck.
Rob stumbles back, puts a hand to his neck. He looks back at Sticky, stunned.
The gym goes silent.
I’m sick a them fouls! Sticky yells, and he steps up and wings another wild right. Rob ducks it and wraps Sticky in a headlock. Slams him to the ground and pounces. He throws muted blows at the top of Sticky’s head. He knees him in the ribs. Sticky reaches back and claws for Rob’s face.
Dante and Trey move quick to pull Rob off.
We don’t need no fightin in here, Old-man Perkins says as he steps in on the action too.
Dante gets Rob’s arms locked up behind him and pulls him backward. He doesn’t say a word.
Rob tries to yank free but can’t. I’m gonna kill you, white boy! he yells.
Dallas pulls Sticky away and holds him by his elbows, tells him: Be cool, kid. Be cool.
Sticky rubs the back of his head. Touches the cut from earlier and checks his fingers. Blood.
Rob breaks away from Dante and charges. Pushes Dallas and Perkins out of the way and cracks Sticky in the ear with a solid right. He wrestles him to the ground again, holds Sticky’s head still and fires quick jabs to the mouth and chin.
Sticky puts his hands up to try and muffle some of the blows.
Dante strides up from behind and pulls Rob off by his face. When Rob stands up, Dante busts him in the mouth twice with a quick left-right combination. He doesn’t say a word. Rob’s knees buckle and he spills back to the hardwood. Blood trickles out of a tear in his bottom lip.
&
nbsp; Jimmy comes hustling out of the office. W-wh-wh-what the h-h-hell’s g-g-g-going on? he yells. A couple guys turn and watch him marching toward the scuffle.
Rob touches at his lip gently and eyeballs the red on his fingertips. This wasn’t none a your business, D, he says, and looks up at him. Wasn’t nothin to do with you. He clenches his fists and goes to get up again, but Dante blasts him twice more, above the right eye and on the chin.
Rob crumbles to the hardwood again. Blood is oozing from above his eye now and branching down his face.
Just stay down, Trey says.
Rob turns and looks at Trey. He frowns and goes to get up again, but when he’s on his feet Dante cracks him in the ribs with an uppercut and smacks him on the chin again. Rob spills back to the ground and with a dazed expression on his face looks up at Dante.
I said to stay down! Trey yells.
Don’t get up no more, New York says.
Dante stands over Rob and doesn’t say a word.
Dreadlock Man steps up and puts a hand on each of Rob’s shoulders. You done fightin, dawg, he says. You done.
Jimmy walks right between Rob and Dante and yells at everybody: G-g-g-get outta here! He’s so mad, spit flies from his mouth.
Nobody moves at first. They all stare as Jimmy looks down at a trail of blood splotches that dot-to-dot through the free-throw lane. He yells again: G-g-get outta here, all y-y-y-y-y’all! G-g-g-g-get out!
Everybody scatters.
Sticky goes over to the bleachers holding the bottom of his shirt against his cut. He unties his bag and checks inside for his twelve bucks: still there. Then Dallas and Dante lead him out of the gym. New York and Slim head over to the bleachers and grab their bags. Old-man Perkins tosses the ball toward the homeless court and heads for the door. Big Mac rumbles out shaking his head. Three newcomers who were waiting for next cruise out of the gym together.
Ball Don't Lie Page 16
