Jonathan Lethem - The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

That should be the end of the story, but it isn’t. Elwood and I were in a bar two hours later when the sports channel switched to a live broadcast of Vanilla Dunk’s press conference, his last with the big Knicks logo on the wall behind him.

His agent spoke first. “Mr. Gornan has reached an agreement with United Artists Tokyo, regarding his motion picture and recording career—”

“What about the Knicks?”

“UA Tokyo has purchased Mr. Gorman’s contract from Gulf and Western. This is a binding, five-year agreement which guarantees Mr. Gorman eight million a year before box-office—”

“I wanted to wait till the end of the season to make this announcement,” said Dunk. “Didn’t think it would come this quick, but hey—” he paused to sneer “—that’s the way it goes. Look out America, we’re gonna make some movies!”

“Dunk — what about basketball?”

He smirked. “That’s a little rough for me, y’know? Gotta stay pretty.” He rubbed his face exaggeratedly. “You’ll see plenty of action on the screen, anyway. Might even dunk a few.” He winked.

Elwood and I sat watching, silently transfixed. The implications sank in gradually. The Jordan skills were gone; league rules stated that they were retired with the player. The occasion that Elwood had so slowly and painfully risen to had vanished, been whisked away, in an instant.

“Tell us about the films,” said a reporter.

“Ahh, we’re still working out my character. Called Vanilla Dunk, of course. Gonna do some fightin’, some rappin’, some other stuff. Not like anything you’ve ever seen before, so you’ll just have to wait.”

“The contract includes album and video production,” added the agent. “You’ll be seeing Vanilla Dunk on the charts as well as on the screen.”

“Your whole sports career is over, then? No championships?”

He snorted. “This is bigger than a sports career, my friend. I’m bigger. Besides, sports is just entertainment. I’m still in the entertainment business.”

“Your decision anything to do with Elwood Fossett?” He cocked his head. “Who?”

I turned away from the television. I started to speak, but stopped when I saw Elwood’s expression, which was completely hollow.

And that is the end of the story.

I’d like to say we went on to win the championship, but life doesn’t work that way. The Hyundai Celtics beat us in the next round of the playoffs. They were completely ready for our trapping defense, and we were lucky to win one game. Elwood faded in and out, tantalizingly brilliant and then godawful in the space of five minutes. The Celtics went on to lose to the Coors Suns in the final.

I myself did win a ring, later, after I was traded to the Lakers. That led indirectly to a fancy Hollywood party where I got to drunkenly tell Alan Gornan what I thought of him. I garbled my lines, but it was still pretty satisfying.

Elwood I mostly lost touch with after my trade. We partied whenever the Lakers went to Miami, and when the Heat came to L.A. I had him over for dinner with my second wife — an awkward scene, but we played it a few times.

When I think about what happened with him and Vanilla Dunk, I always come around to the same question. Assuming that it’s right to view the whole episode as a personal battle between the two of them — who won? Sometimes I drive myself crazy with it. I mean, who came out on top, really?

Other times I conclude that there’s something really pretty fundamentally stupid about the question.

My brother showed me the gun. I’d never seen one up close before. He kept it in a knapsack under his bed at the Y. He held it out and I looked at the black metal.

“You want me to hold it?” I said.

“What, at the place?”

“No, I mean now. I mean, do you want me to touch it or something. Now. I mean like, get comfortable with it.”

He stared.

“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. What do you want me to do with the gun?”

“Nothing. I’m just showing it to you, like ‘Look, I got it.’ Like, ‘Here’s the gun.’ ”

My brother was two years younger than me. I was just back from dropping out of my junior year of college, at Santa Cruz, and was living, quite unhappily, at my parents’ tiny new house in Plainview, Long Island.

Our parents, Jimmy and Marilla, had kicked Don out for the final time while I was away at school. They hadn’t heard from him for almost a year. I went and hung out at Washington Square and found him within a few hours.

“Okay,” I said. “Right. Nice gun.”

“Don’t get freaked.”

“I’m not freaked, Don.” I paused.

“Then let’s go, right?”

“Let’s go, Don,” I said, and I swear I almost added: This is good, we’re brothers, we still do things together. I almost said: See, Don.

Our parents named my brother Donovan because all their friends had already named their kids Dylan, I guess. It wasn’t important to Don. His only chance of ever hearing Donovan was if MC Death sampled “Season of the Witch” or “Hurdy Gurdy Man” in a rap.

Myself being a bit older, I knew those songs in their original versions, not from the radio, of course, but from the days when our parents still played their records.

I followed my brother downstairs. It was night. We walked the short distance to Washington Square Park but stopped half a block away. I stopped.

“What?” said Don.

“Nothing. Should we call the airport? Find out—”

“Like you said, there’s always gonna be a plane, Paul.”

We went into the park, through the evening throngs, the chessplayers and skatebladers, and I stood on the pathway waiting, shrugging off offers of nickel bags, while Don found his two friends, the ones who were supposed to kill him for stealing drugs.

“—gotta talk to you.”

“Randall sick of yo shit, Light.”

“Can we go up to your apartment, Kaz? Please?”

Don walked them towards me. A fat black man with a gigantic knitted hat: Kaz. Another black man, smaller in every way, with a little beard, and wearing a weirdly glossy, puffed-out gold coat: Drey.

Nobody my brother knew had a regular name. And they all called him “Light,” for his being white, I suppose.

“The fuck is this?” said Drey, looking at me.

“Paul,” Don mumbled.

“Looks like yo fuckin’ brother, man.”

“All us white dudes look like brothers to you, nigger.”

Drey grinned, then tightened his mouth, as though remembering that he was supposed to be angry at Don.

We walked out of the park, east on Third Street. All the way Kaz mumbled at Don: “Can’t believe you, man; you fuckin’ come around here; you took Randall; can’t believe you, man; fuck you think you doin’; look at you stupid face; you think you talk you way out of this; I should be doin’ you; fuckin’ crackhead; can’t believe you man.” Et cetera.

And Don just kept saying, every thirty seconds or so: “Shut up, Kaz, man.” Or: “Gimme a minute, man.”

We went into a door beside a storefront on First Avenue, and up a flight of stairs. Don and I ahead of Kaz and Drey, through the dark.

Kaz stepped around and let us in, and I looked down and saw Don take the gun out of his coat. Don wanted to pull it coming in; he’d said he knew that Kaz kept guns in the house. But not on his person. That was crucial.

We all got inside and Kaz closed the door, and Don turned around. “You’re dead,” said the fat black man the minute he saw the gun.

The place was just about empty: crumbling walls, a bed. And a cheap safe, nailed instead of bolted to the floor, price tag still showing. A safe house, literally. Crash and stash, as Don would say.