Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

I was—

Freeze cut Keylo off with a sharp glance. Shoved him into No Face. Kiss and make up.

What?

Kiss and make up. Freeze’s biceps were round and solid, train wheels. Go on. Kiss and make up.

Keylo searched the crowd, pleading eyes and mouth.

Freeze cut a grin. The crowd flew into stitches.

You see the look on his face?

Yeah.

Had that nigga goin.

Yeah.

Thought he was serious.

Bout to piss his pants.

Shit.

No Face bobbed in place, grinning, cannibal teeth, appreciative, glad that Freeze had made a fool of him. Freeze slapped him on the back. You did good, he said. He looked at Jesus, and his eyes spoke recognition. Jesus was sure of it. You did real good.

Thanks, No Face said.

Something inside told Jesus that Freeze’s compliment went beyond the battle with Keylo, addressed some secret subject.

Yo, Freeze.

The voice spun Freeze’s head.

You had yo fun. A short dude spoke, coal-black face under a red baseball cap, brim backward, manufacturer’s tag dangling from the side like a tassel on a graduate’s mortarboard. You ready to do this?

Aw ight, Country Plus, Freeze said. If you hard.

I’m always hard.

So pick yo team.

Well you know I got my nigga here. Freeze nodded at Keylo. They slapped palms and locked fingers in some private ritual.

Huh, Country Plus said. So what else is new? Ain’t yall married?

Freeze ignored the comment.

Give me MD 2020.

My nigga.

Cool, Freeze said. You can have him. Give me my man No Face. No Face swelled up with gratitude, chest out, lips inflated into a grin, one eye expanding expanding expanding, and he rose, tiptoes.

Thunderbird.

Damn, Freeze, Keylo said. You gon let this bitch play on our team?

Jesus breathed his first whiff of Keylo’s gravedigger breath.

Give a nigga a chance, Freeze said. Even a bitch. He gave Keylo a quick hug.

Come on, Country Plus said. Choose another man.

Damn, who else? Freeze studied the crowd.

Pick him. No Face pointed to Jesus.

Freeze gave Jesus a fishy-eyed look. I want him.

That doofy-lookin muddafudda, Keylo said. He and Jesus faced one another, eyes colliding.

And I’ll take Mad Dog. Okay. We set.

Jesus pondered the faulty mathematics. That’s only four. Four players, not … No Face pulled Jesus into the huddle.

Yo, g, Freeze said. What’s yo name?

Jesus.

Jesus?

Yeah.

Welcome, Jesus. I’m Freeze. Freeze extended his hand, and Jesus took it with his firmest grip.

Country Plus pulled a dime from his pocket and tossed it shimmering into the air. Call em.

Heads, Freeze said.

The coin fell to the surface of Country’s skin. He slapped his palm over it.

See, Freeze said. You already lost.

What you call?

You know.

Country removed his palm. Heads.

See.

Country Plus stared into Freeze’s face, the price tag dangling from his cap and jerking back and forth in the breeze like a hooked fish on a line. From this time forward, I will make you hear new things.

Whatever, Freeze said. You talk a good game. Let’s see if you can play.

No Face unzipped his jacket and pulled it off, removed his T-shirt, and revealed his Mr. Universe torso.

Hey, Jesus, Freeze said. That’s yo man. He pointed to Country Plus. Stick him.

Word, Jesus said. Damn, how Freeze tryin to play me? Jesus always played center, the tallest and strongest player on the court. And here Freeze was, playin him like a guard.

We skins, No Face said. Ain’t you gon take off yo shirt?

Nawl.

Why not?

Nawl.

Yo shirt gon get all funky.

I’m aw ight.

Better take out yo earring.

Nawl.

Nigga yank it off.

Nawl.

No Face, Freeze said. Take out the ball.

No Face took out the ball. MD 2020 snatched his lazy entry pass and tossed an easy layup. Good steal. Country Plus congratulated his teammate, and his team — Thunderbird and Mad Dog — celebrated their first basket. No Face looked at Freeze with a drowning man’s eyes (eye!), begging for mercy.

Country Plus threw Freeze the ball.

Wait a minute, Jesus said. It’s their ball.

Wake up! Keylo said. You in South Lincoln. Red Hook rules. Stonewall rules. Stonewall rules.

Freeze took out the ball. Fired it to Keylo, who crouched low and ran it hard on his short, baby-thick legs. Country Plus’s unit swooped down on him, a flock of small fast birds moving in streaks, sparrows in a room. Keylo froze in place. Fired the ball at Jesus, but Country Plus clawed it in midair, and in the spark of a moment swept Jesus aside like a swatted fly. Jesus gave chase with everything in his legs. Country Plus launched for the nest-high basket, his elbow catching Jesus in the throat.

Damn!

Don’t sweat it, Freeze said. He took the ball out. Fired it in to Jesus. Jesus dribbled. Green-thumbed grass poked through the concrete and snatched at the ball. Tall weeds twisted around his legs. And puddles swamped him, quicksand. With each putting down of his heels, his whole body sank further into the court. Then Country Plus liberated the ball from his paralyzed fingers. Rode an invisible rainbow to the hoop. Reaming sight. The rim vibrated colors.

Freeze looked at Jesus. Took the ball out, fired it to Jesus. Jesus barely caught it. A large fish. It slipped from his hands back into the dark court waters. Country Plus clawed it up, bearlike. Lifted for the jump shot. Jesus jumped as hard and high as he could, springs in his toes. Fake. Country Plus had never left his feet. Now he took it casually to the hoop. Jesus landed back hard on the court, waves of hard concrete pulsing from his feet and through his body, mixing with waves of laughter circulating the court.

You see that muddafudda? Way up in the air.

Yeah. A real sucker.

Freeze took out the ball.

Wait, Jesus said. You take it in. The center is supposed to—

Freeze fired the ball hard into Jesus’s defiant chest. Jesus watched him a moment, eyes working. He dribbled the ball up the court. Country Plus yanked it from his hands, a string on rolled twine. He dribbled, in front of him, behind his back, between his legs, while Jesus grabbed at the ball, again and again.

Damn, look at that mark nigga!

Gettin played like a bitch.

Country Plus blew past Jesus. Took it behind the backboard for the reverse lay-in.

In yo eye, punk.

Mark.

Trick.

Ranked and intense observers watched Jesus. No shifting, no craning among the still faces, the still eyes. Country Plus laughed in close, Jesus hearing himself, the laugh erupt from his own belly.

Be true to the game, Freeze said.

Jesus lowered his eyes. The ball went weightless in his hands, so he hugged it to prevent it from floating away. The leather skin peeled away to allow him to look directly into the ball’s hollow inside, where shapes formed then started to move. Thick sweatbands pinch head and wrists. Sleeveless T-shirts loop skinny shoulders. Jogging shorts sag like oversized diapers. Layers of brightly colored socks curve like barber-pole stripes around thin calves. Converse All Stars, Pro-Keds, and leather Pumas scuff the court with rubber music. John, Lucifer, Spokesman, Dallas, and Ernie — the Funky Five Corners — geared up for battle. Chuckers doing chumps. John with his quick little hands, hands so fast they don’t move when he passes the ball. And Lucifer, mouth open, his tongue hangin in the air, some magical carpet lifting him above the ground, the court, the basket.

And you shoulda seen that nigga shout out when he jammed the ball. Served up a facial. He’d be like, Take that, you punk ass motherfucker!

Quiet Lucifer?

Yeah. Quiet Lucifer. I dawked that in yo face!