Sean Beaudoin - Welcome Thieves

“That’s weird,” says Poltroni.

“Yeah,” says Xavier.

Then Makarov misses two more. His locker is still there and his no-name sneakers are still there and his jocks are still there, but he isn’t.

You seen Makarov?

Phones ring, doorbells buzz, no one knows shit. Suddenly there’s MISSING! posters and HAVE YOU SEEN ME? leaflets and REWARD! Xeroxes on every light pole in town. All week Coach Grout stands around gumming his whistle, until even he gets it.

Makarov isn’t coming back.

Someone starts a rumor that Fitchburg had him kidnapped and that night their library is vandalized. Someone else claims they spotted Makarov at All-American Dog, and the next day forty people mill around the lot, eating footlongs and waiting for a sign. There’s an article in the school paper that says Makarov had to go home to Republic of Whereverthefuck because of a coup. Or feudal uprising. Turns out he’s from a royal family, enjoys a daily breakfast of borscht and bison vodka. The editor gets canned. The writer gets suspended. The MISSING! posters start to fade, replaced by arrogant cats and unlucky dogs.

It’s all crap anyway.

The only truth is the West Boylston Bolts are nothing without him.

Hey Bolts! Go Screw!

We lose six in a row. Blown out by Temporal Catholic. Crushed by Rockwell Math and Science. Even lost a squeaker to Ulysses S. Grant, 114 — 66. The crowds disappear, the photogs disappear, all the feel-good disappears.

I call up Southern Community about my spot on the team, try to explain the collapse isn’t my fault. Ring Ding says, “Don’t worry, kid, you’re still on my radar.”

So we go back to squeezing our tools and joking around under the bleachers during practice. Coach stops bothering to hide his flask. “Jump,” he says a couple times, but no one listens. After a while he stops coming out of his office at all. Our last game of the season there’s six people in the stands and five of them are Xavier’s sisters. Coach has to prop himself against a scrub to keep from falling off the bench. We lose by 3 to Hammerchin Academy, the worst team in the state, a bunch of pasty jarheads grunting and shouting and trying really hard. I’m scoring from everywhere and have us in it right until the end. I spin and whirl, in a groove, hit from outside, take it to the rim, for the first time all year the best player on the floor.

It still isn’t enough.

With ten seconds left I’m wide open in the corner. Washington makes a move, dribbles off his foot. The ball spins out of bounds. Game over. All the way to the locker room jarheads prong around us, laughing and hugging.

AFTER THE GAME, Steve’s waiting outside, sunglasses on even though it’s dark. The truck idles with attitude.

“How’s it going?”

“It’s going.”

“You win?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“Guess.”

“You want a ride.”

“With you?”

A WEEK LATER I get an envelope from Southern Community. Ring Ding can barely believe it himself, but two of his recruits blew out their knees and now he’s got an open spot. Half scholarship plus board. It just needs a signature.

Am I still interested?

Underneath the paperwork is a stack of newspaper articles. They’re from regional sports sections over the last decade, each one a variation on the same story. The first is about Aussie Jim Rhodes, surprise hoops phenom, who flew in from the deep Outback to single-handedly resurrect Small Time High. There’s even a headshot of Aussie Jim, smiling.

Except it’s Makarov.

The next is about Beau Candie, surprise hoops phenom, who flew in from Saskatchewan to single-handedly resurrect Somewhere Else High. There’s a picture of Candie dunking.

Except it’s Makarov.

There are more articles and more names. Francois LeMay. Knute Benzinger. Makarov without glasses, Makarov with unruly sideburns, Makarov with a gold grill and his name is Jody “Riff” Raft. Fucker is Peter Pan with hops and a great handle, has been shopping schools for years. Hey, why bother growing up when you can be a teenager forever, milk the glory, and then split as soon as anyone starts asking questions? A coach in Milwaukee is quoted as saying, “Hell, for all I know he’s thirty-five and not even from Iceland. But man, the team sure does miss him.”

Makarov created his own Comedy Hour. Except he was smart enough, even for a little while, to star in it.

At the bottom of the envelope is a Post-it note from Ring Ding with a chocolaty thumbprint in the corner: I knew I recognized your man, so I did a little research. Wasn’t so much his face as his jump shot. I never forget a jumper. Pathetic. Hope they catch him and string him up by the nuts. Anyway, like my stepdad always said: If it’s too good to be true, it’s too true to be good. We’ll see you on campus, kid. And don’t forget to bring some extra jocks. You can’t have enough. My stepdad never said that, but if he had, he would have been right there too.

THAT NIGHT I HEAR a mewling downstairs, like Dad forgot his sandwich again. But it’s not Dad, it’s Steve.

I open his door.

“You ever heard of knocking?”

His room hasn’t changed since eighth grade. Zeppelin posters and titty girl cutouts and neon beer clocks. There are condom foils scattered under the bed like dried tulips. He’s wearing boxers and a tight black shirt with the sleeves cut off, arms massive.

“Says the dude with a thousand secrets.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“Sure you were.”

Steve nudges a stack of magazines with his toe. One of them slides to the floor, open to the centerfold, a gleaming yellow Chevy.

“So are you going to Southern Community or what?”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure until right that second. And then the answer was so obvious it was like it’d been my plan all along.

“Nah, I’m done.”

He looks up.

“With me?”

I want to say yes. Drop it like a depth charge, watch it explode against his starboard motor.

“No, man. With the team. Teams. Basketball. Fuck it.”

Steve pulls a nubby blanket over his shoulders. I sit next to him on the bed. Out in the yard there’s a rusty bicycle wheel, buried halfway up to the spokes.

“I guess you and I are supposed to have a talk now, right?” he says.

“Like some after-school special? All about accepting ourselves and shit?”

“Then you put your arm around me and everything’s okay.”

“Sure it is. A year later we open a business together.”

“You get married, buy a house. I live in the barn out back.”

“Right. Then there’s a scene at Thanksgiving. I’m slicing the bird. You give me a look more meaningful than a dozen novels. My wife raises a glass of wine, says, To family. Roll credits.”

He slides those perfect, dangling bangs behind one ear and I wonder how I could not have noticed, all this time.

That my brother has a tiny little scar on his chin.

“Seriously though, dude?”

“What?”

“Did Makarov ever tell you his real name?”

Steve wipes his nose on my shirt, face puffy and oblivious.

“What do you mean?”

Snap!

“Nevermind,” I say, and go get us two of Dad’s beers.

SO WASHINGTON GETS accepted to Purdue and sells me his car for twelve hundred and an ounce of pot. Poltroni gets married and moves to the city to manage his dad’s meat warehouse. Xavier joins the air force and gets stationed in the North Pole or somewhere.

For a while I keep it up with the doggie bags and the bus pans, then after Christmas put in for sous chef. Georgie clears it with Diamond Spatula and eventually takes me on as an apprentice. He says I’ve got perfect hands, big and soft. Also, I work at night, which means I never miss Comedy Hour. Matter of fact, I’m parked there right now. You should hear the rumble of the.351, idling behind the Dumpster. You should see the parade of students, fresh and scrubbed and oblivious as ever, each centered in a gleaming silver frame. You should see the kid who wears an eye patch as he comes pounding through the tunnel, the way he grips the wheel, hunched over, a look on his face that knows even when he’s fifty the pirate jokes will never end.