Jim Gavin: Middle Men: Stories

• • •

St. Polycarp had a van that could safely seat nine people, and the next day Coach Boyd used it to drive all thirteen of us to Bishop Osorio High School in Watts. We tightroped up the 110, avoiding the hood for as long as possible, but eventually we had to get off and make our way to Central Avenue. There was no shade anywhere. A phosphorescent haze hung over the streets, making the sky feel like a wall. We passed an abandoned shopping center. All the windows were boarded up and in the middle of the parking lot there was a burned-out Fotomat. We stopped at a light and a few black kids our age were standing on the corner in front of a liquor store. They didn’t notice us until Overton opened a window and screamed:

“Nigger!”

This must’ve been planned in advance, because Overton and the other black guys on our team immediately ducked down, leaving the black guys on the corner staring at a van full of white supremacists. We all ducked, except Tully.

“I remember that kid,” he said. “He played at Osorio last year.”

“Don’t point at them!” said Coach Boyd, hunching over the steering wheel. Overton was laughing his ass off.

“Hey, man!” said Tully, waving. “Remember me?”

I heard obscenities coming from the corner. A soda can hit the window.

“Come on, baby, Come on, baby…” Coach Boyd was trying to will the light to change. I kept my head down until we started moving.

Everyone on Bishop Osorio was black, except for one Samoan. I felt buoyed walking into their gym with our black guys, who, in turn, seemed embarrassed to be on a team that was predominantly white. In the layup lines, Overton and Weaver only talked to each other. The Big Wallys rebounded in deferential silence. It was about ninety degrees in the gym. Our mesh jerseys were soaked and we spent most of our time wiping dust from the bottom of our shoes. Before the tip, Coach Boyd gathered us together and we put our hands in a stack.

“Play the man!”

Early in the first half, I crossed over Bishop Osorio’s point guard and all his teammates laughed at him. It didn’t happen again, and for the rest of the game it was hell just bringing the ball up the court. The whole summer would go like that: flashes of glory overshadowed by long stretches of competence. In this game, Tully actually played hard, or harder than usual; every time he got a rebound, he’d swing his elbows and yell, “Get the fuck off me!” Whenever possible I got the ball to Weaver, who had his little baseline floater going all game. We lost by ten, but played better than I expected. I never came out of the game.

“I’m really proud of you guys,” said Coach Boyd.

When we got back to Long Beach, he pulled into a Jack in the Box and announced that he was treating us to milkshakes. In the drive-through, he realized he didn’t have enough money. “Keep making them,” he told the guy at the window. “I’ll be right back.” He drove across the street to a bank. For a while we all watched as he hunched over the ATM, pushing buttons. Then he tried to go inside, but the bank was closed. He pressed his face against the glass door, trying to see if there was anyone still inside. After a while he came back out and got in the van, but instead of going to Jack in the Box, we drove back to St. Polycarp in silence.

• • •

K-Mart paid in cash. On Fridays, I went to the cashier window, showed my ID, and they handed me an envelope with three twenties, a ten, a five, two quarters, a dime, and three pennies. My mom took her royal fifth for groceries and tuition, and I set aside the rest for getting my braces off. I was ruled by vanity. Our neighbors across the street had a pool, and before work I would sneak into their backyard, get down on my stomach, and dip my face in the water. The chlorine, I had discovered, dried out my acne, making it seem less rosy and bulbous. On my breaks I walked by Layaway, hoping to find Jessica, alone, but Tully always seemed to be there, leaning on his hand truck. One afternoon they walked by the employee lounge and saw me reading The Call of the Wild .

“Don’t take your breaks in here,” said Tully. “It’s a graveyard.”

“One of the greeters slit his wrists in the bathroom,” said Jessica. “Security had to smash the lock to get him out of there.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

I followed them out to the loading dock. There were some plastic chairs set up behind a stack of pallets. “You can read your little doggy book out here,” said Tully, patting me on the head, and they walked away.

• • •

After we lost by thirty to St. Callistus of Gardena, my dad found Coach Boyd in the parking lot and got in his face.

“You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re doing,” he said.

My mom grabbed him, apologized to Coach Boyd, and guided my dad back to the minivan. She drove home. My dad sat in the back, bouncing my youngest brother on his knee. “They’re pressing full court,” he said, “and Pat’s stranded out there.”

“If you were worried about Pat ,” she said, “you wouldn’t embarrass him in front of everybody.”

“Who hired that fucking clown?”

“ Language ,” my mom hissed.

The next day at practice Coach Boyd asked if my dad was “okay.”

“He just thinks we should put in a press break,” I said. “That’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trinity presses,” I said. “We need outlets, and we have to keep someone behind the ball. I know how to set it up…”

“If you ever need to talk, about anything ,” said Coach Boyd, with a hand on my shoulder, “I’m always here.”

• • •

I suppose my best friend on the team was Weaver, but all we did was hang around the gym together, killing time between our afternoon practices and evening games. We’d shoot around for two hours straight and not say a word to each other. Most guys ate lunch at Overton’s house, which was close to school. Weaver and I only went there once. Overton’s grandma made us grilled cheese sandwiches and we watched Return of the Jedi . The tape was warped from so many viewings.

“Imagine Princess Leia taking Jabba’s dick,” said Tully. “I mean, just imagine it. Seriously. Use your imaginations.”

“Is she the only human girl in the whole movie?” said Pham.

“No, there’s an English lady,” said Overton, his sleepy eyes fixed on the screen. “She tells the rebels what to do.”

“What was Trinity like, Higginbottom? You probably got all kinds of crazy South County ass.”

I shrugged rakishly. As soon as Overton’s grandma went down for her nap, Tully produced a joint, and so Weaver and I, the squares, retreated to the gym. During a game of 21, I ripped a fingernail on his jersey and it started bleeding.

“You got some nasty nails,” Weaver said. “You should get them done.”

“What?”

He showed me his pristine cuticles. “I heard Michael Jordan gets manicures. So I started going with my mom.”

“Is it expensive?”

A couple days later his mom drove us to a salon on PCH. On the way over she kept asking where my family went to church, and if we liked it.

“I guess.”

“Well,” she said, looking at me in the rearview mirror, “maybe we could have a conversation…”

“Don’t,” said Weaver.

“Don’t don’t me,” said his mom, as we pulled into the strip mall. She turned around and smiled. “We can have a conversation, right… what’s your name again?”

“Pat,” I said.

She dropped us off and went to run errands. Weaver told me to go first. He sat down in the waiting area and flipped through a glossy fashion magazine. My manicurist was a short blond woman named Michelle. She wore tight jeans and her heels clicked on the linoleum floor. The second she touched my hand, I got an erection. She asked if I was a Michael Jordan fan, like Weaver.