Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

One-word Lucifer?

One-word Lucifer. How you like that motherfucker! Feel good? Taste good? That tongue just flappin. And those big hands shakin in yo face like he jus rolled seven. Yeah, he had some big hands, but they was slow. Lucifer wasn’t no good at handling the ball. Dribblin. Catching a pass. Spokesman told John, Throw it at his face. He’ll catch it then. It worked. Same way with everything: Spokesman had an answer. Standing there, watching from the sidelines, rubbing his belly like a crystal ball. Tryin to science the game. Geometrize plays for the Funky Five Corners. This is a human behavioral laboratory. You know, white smocks and white rats. Test tubes and Bunsen burners. Ideas lead to buildings and bridges. I like to think about yall, us, the team, the Funky Five Corners, and visualize yall, us, the team, being better players through my schemes. He measure the court with a slide rule and a triangle, then write some figures down on his notepad, sketch some pictures.

Damn, nigga. What you doin?

Always tryin to science something.

You may be Einstein but you ain’t no Jew. Still black. Science or no science.

One time he took these big-ass pliers and measured every nigga’s head on the court. They let him, too, wanting to be part of the experiment, get written up. Spokesman. This other time he took this big magnet and poked it all around in the air and kept poking it. We jus shook our heads.

When he made his report he expected you to abide by it. He shook his head when you fumbled a pass. A person your age and height normally covers three and a half feet with each step, so we must conclude that you shouldn’t have taken more than ten paces. An unnecessary waste of energy. Drew his lips tight with anger when you missed a layup. Lucifer, be slow about obeying the laws of gravity. And he was always placin bets. Oh, we can’t lose. I got this all scienced out. John, if my right eye jump, we win money for sure. We won some money too. Serious money a coupla times. Lost some. Did we profit? Who can say? I guess it evened out.

YALL GON PLAY OR WHAT?

A cool breeze wafted onto the stifling court, stirring up the stench of wine and weed. Jesus breathed through his hard-winded nostrils, unsure whether it was time to breathe in or breathe out. Everything was off, out of whack. Just need some more time. Gotta learn how to fly again. He was drowning in dark waters, in spinning lights. Blood on his tongue. He surveyed the players, searching for that one face which would sanction his plight. Freeze cracked his anxious knuckles. Keylo checked his shoe soles. No Face hard-breathed. Then the sun awakened, clean and clear.

I said yall gon play or what?

Jesus saw in precise detail thick, ropelike veins stretched lengthwise in skinny arms and hands. Saw a red sleeveless T-shirt and a red baseball cap, brim backward, the price tag dangling from it. Jesus saw him. Jesus knew him. Engaged sight the pulse of his color. Red, he would get back in the game. He would — yes he, he alone, not his team — make a run.

He fired the ball to No Face, who fired it to Freeze, who fired it to Keylo, who fired it back to Jesus. Jesus held the ball above him, squeezed in one hand. He brought it upcourt, dribbled three times, blip, blip, blip, then took it up the alley, body curved, elbows high. He faked the layup, drew back for the jumper, kicking his feet ballerina-like in midair. The ball arched from his fingertips. Sunk.

Country Plus grinned. I gave you that one, he said. Felt sorry for you. He took the ball in. Lifted off his toes for the jumper. Jesus caught the ball in the palm of his hand, midflight, fly to fly strip. Swatted the ball to Freeze, who lifted for the easy basket.

You got lucky on that one, Country Plus said. He looked Jesus flush in the face.

Guess so, Jesus said.

Mad Dog fired the ball to Country Plus. Country Plus crouched low in the dribble, challenging Jesus.

Pass the ball, Country.

Nigga, stop showin out.

Jesus punched the ball from between his legs, scooped it up, and arched it into the net.

Country looked at Jesus, anger and frustration concealed like fishhooks in his eyes.

Thunderbird inbounded the ball to Mad Dog, who bounced it in MD 2020’s direction. Jesus hopped on the ball mid-air, squeexed it tight between his thighs, and rode it for a second or two like a bucking bull. Country Plus faced him, crouched, arms out, yellow sweat covering his forehead. Jesus bobbed and weaved, then broke for the basket, elbows working, tearing off a layer of Country’s flesh. Jesus soared in solar heat — he could stay up in the air long as he wanted — gave niggas plenty time to count each tread mark on his rubber soles. He looked down on the basket miles below him, and released the ball like a bomb.

Okay, okay. Don’t get happy. Game ain’t over.

Country Plus planted his feet, tent in a field. Wind, Jesus blew him flat. Jumped for the shot. The ball hit the rim. Bounced. Once. Twice. Freeze snatched the rebound. The enemy unit trapped him within a wall of raised arms. Freeze fired the ball to No Face. Perfect pass. Except No Face was three seconds behind the ball.

Bitch, Freeze said.

Damn you slow, Jesus said.

Bitch, Keylo said, you better stop fuckin up. Or I’ll wrap my dick around yo head like a turban.

No playin bitch, Jesus said. Sweat dribbled down his nose, his mouth, his chin, every inch of his skin, every cell flooded with the energy of the game, the rhythm of his breathing. He studied his heart’s double beat. Defense. That was the key. Offense through defense. Offense through defense. Fundamental. Time and distance. Count the pauses between bounces. Feel the game, deep down, somewhere behind the belly, near the lungs. Play as you breathe.

Country Plus rose like a wave for the basket, and Jesus chopped him down with one stroke.

Damn!

Jesus dunked and almost threw himself through the hoop. He landed on the court with easy footing, tiptoes, a ballerina.

That’s game.

We won.

Country Plus lay flat and still on the concrete, like something you could stick a fork into. Mad Dog extended an aiding hand. MD 2020 and Thunderbird followed his lead, but Country Plus slapped their hands away, then raised himself warily, like someone trying to stand up on a rocking boat.

Next time, Country.

Next time.

Good game.

Yeah, Country said. Good game. He studied Jesus with nonforgetting, nonforgiving eyes. Good game. Catch yall later. He turned and led his unit from the court, parading his anger and his wound.

Jesus gave Freeze a high five, palms slapping. Slapped some skin with Keylo and No Face. Memory warm like sweat on his skin, of the Funky Five Corners — John, Lucifer, Spokesman, Ernie, Dallas — celebrating a victory.

You play a strong game, Freeze said. He greeted Jesus with a quick hug.

Yeah, Keylo said. He removed his pilot’s cap, exposing a thick wave of greased hair, raised and stiff, a parrot’s comb. He turned the cap upside down and dumped out a gallon of sweat. Liked the way you conned them mark niggas, actin like you couldn play at first. He fit the pilot’s cap back snugly on his head.

You got it going on like a big fat hard-on.

Jesus said nothing. He wanted more game.

Straight up. Hard.

Ain’t no man, woman, or beast can beat me, Jesus said, words warm with his heart’s heat.

You got that right.

Word.

You the man.

Aw, Freeze, No Face said. You don’t know him from Adam. This nigga can tell some stories.

Stories? What kinda stories?

Like—

Like the time he fucked yo mamma.

No Face looked at Freeze.

Keylo twisted off the metal cap on a cloudy, missile-shaped forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor. Threw his head back and gulped down the liquid, Adam’s apple working. A big booty switched by. Some bitch got a big booty around here.