Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

— Come on, Uncle Isaac called to me as he stood at the mouth of the park.

People were coming and going, it was chilly. The older ones sat on the benches that circled the park, all concrete and not any grass, talking to one another out of the sides of their faces and wiping their necks. We passed the small brick building that once had open bathrooms, when I was seven. The only thing that worked now was the water fountain. My man Dennis was holding his little sister up so she could get a good mouthful. I waved at him; he nodded.

Near the handball walls one tired-ass rim hung limply, begging for someone to notice. I clutched my balls at the sight of another pole. We stood at the thing, Uncle Isaac stretched his legs. — You should warm up, he said. You’ll hurt yourself.

I moved in different directions, but my body felt so closed up I was surprised I could lift my hands above my head. He passed me the rock. — Shoot it. Let’s see what you’ve got. I held the ball like it was a punchline.

— Shoot the goddamn thing.

I threw it, watched it sail over the other side of the backboard. Sounded like thunder when it landed on the ground, echoing among the buildings that surrounded the park on all sides. — That’s okay, Uncle Isaac said. He ran the ball down and threw it back at me. I shot again, missed. Run it down, he insisted. I walked it back. He put out his hands, I tossed it to him. He dribbled at the free-throw line, rocked back and forth, stared at the basket like he was in the Final Four. Anthony, he said. What happened today, with your friend. With Malik. It can’t happen.

I couldn’t lift my head for anything; I stared at his shoes, the toes a little nicked.

— Did you hear me?

— Yes, I said.

— Well?

— It won’t happen again. I started to cry.

He stopped bouncing the ball. Watched me. — Turn those off.

I wiped my eyes and sucked it in.

— Now this kid Malik, I think you should keep away from him.

— He’s my best friend!

— Well, you know what he’s going to become?

I didn’t answer.

— He’s going to turn out funny.

— Funny?

— You know. A faggot.

— Oh, I said.

He bounced the ball a little easier. — And do you know what faggots do?

— I don’t want to know, I said. Can we go home Uncle Isaac?

— Faggots put their dicks in each other’s mouths.

I made a face. Then I said, — What?

— That’s right. Is that what you want?

I knew the answer to that one, fuck no. — No.

— Good.

He took me to Baskin-Robbins, where he let me put two scoops on a cone. He was still a little worried so he mentioned this island, Trinidad. I listened as we walked by apartment buildings. If I was remembering right, we passed the one where four girls had hurled glass bottles at us as we stood in their courtyard. When Uncle Isaac was through, he’d explained that they didn’t want to send me away, but would if I kept acting wrong. I was sold.

So I planned it. Both our families watched us closer. But one afternoon Mom and Grandma had gone to the doctor and I convinced Malik to come use my Atari. We played Dodge ’Em furiously because it was the only game that worked. I’d taken the others apart to learn of the brittle mechanism inside, had expected more than a wafer-thin board of green and silver. I kept going to the living room, spying out the window until I saw the two ladies returning. Then, back in my room, I pawed at Malik. He had a small head shaped like a cashew nut; he was good looking and we loved each other the way boys often do. He hesitated, said that his father would be taking him to Chicago if we were caught again, that he should be going. I thought of Trinidad and how it wasn’t Flushing. Malik was my truest friend. I smiled. And I persuaded, showed him I was willing to go further than before. When I heard the keys at the door I coughed loudly so Malik wouldn’t be warned. This time, when they found us, we were in our underwear.

My mother came to get me.

My mother with a vacation, off from typing letters and filing things. End of August and here she was: the dress was new and Aunty Barbara was complimentary.

— Thank you, my mother said. Sitting in the living room Mom sipped tea like she was a part of Aunty’s set: the pinky out, the ankles together as well as the knees. It was afternoon, my bags were packed, the new bike had been given to Orpheus. I walked outside and onto the front porch. Down to the black gate, its paint dried over little clumps of dirt, I rubbed those raised bumps against the back of my hand.

My mother came out with laughing Barbara, both walked down the stairs. Aunty turned to me, her appropriate gold earrings framing her stern face. She smiled and threw open her arms. — Come give your Aunty a hug. I grabbed around her middle as she laughed and held me tight. Her earring, sharp at the corners, was cutting into the side of my face. I wasn’t going to move until she let go; I liked the way she felt when she laughed.

My mother admired the plants.

— Are we going now? I asked Mom.

— No, but soon.

— Can we see a movie? I asked.

She took me, after dinner and in Aunty’s car. Driving it, there was a pleasure on my mother’s face I hadn’t seen before. It was that face that enjoys ownership, even temporarily.

My mother chose the flick; I bought the candy and giant soda. She paid for everything. The theater was a place that should have been for royalty — giant ceilings, carpets everywhere, all the things. We climbed two sets of stairs, weighed down with food. At dinner my mother had put her hands on my face as though she wanted something from me.

— What’s wrong? I asked as we found two good seats.

— You really going to eat all this? she asked, pointed.

I nodded. — Of course. This is nothing.

The lights died and the screen — blip-, -blip-, -blipped- to life. Projector noise filtered down to us. On with the film: the first one was easy, some violence, more violence — a guy taking the streets back from the vermin (human). I got through it fine; my mother was quiet, covered her eyes when people were being shot and when an old lady had her finger pliered off by some kid in a mask.

This wasn’t a popular place so to get any money they had to do a double feature. The second was as bad as the first, this one had a lady with a giant chest. She was a spy and a martial artist; she got in fights over and over. Ten seconds into every melee something tore her shirt off — a knife, someone’s hand, a strong wind. Any chance for this woman to pop out a tit. I was enthralled.

But you know how it is, I was watching this shit with my mother.

I was rocking a hard-on like you wouldn’t believe — I was impressed anyway. But I couldn’t sit back and let it go, next door was the lady who’d cleaned my ass once. I was leaning forward so my waist wasn’t exposed, but the thing kept groaning against my little shorts; it was so persistent I thought it was making noise. By about the third breast explosion I stopped thinking about my dick and looked at my mother, offered her some candy. The lady was in tears. I mean the big stuff, the ugly stuff. — Mom, what’s wrong?

She touched my head, grimaced. — Don’t you think she’s pretty? Mom motioned, the screen. Do you?

I was lost. — What?

— Well, you’re just sitting there. Like it’s nothing.

I shook my head, laughed at what she didn’t know; funny wasn’t how she was feeling.

— You have to stop, Anthony. You have to stop being like this.

— What are you talking about? I leaned into her weeping face.

— You can’t live this way. You don’t want to do this. I don’t know why you would do this to me. To you. Stop it. It’ll be bad.