Rules For Becoming A Legend Part 8

She finally snaps out of it and fumbles with the boxes and plastic packaged fluff. The scanner wont take the last box of Boston Baked Beans. The cardboard is crumpled around the barcode. Shes sweating. The scan gun buzzes instead of beeps each time it fails to read the barcode. The girl says, as though chanting a prayer, "Sorry, Jimmy, sorry, Jimmy, sorry, Jimmy."

"Just scan one of those again." Jimmy points at the first two boxes of Boston Baked Beans that went through fine. The buzzing of the scan gun is giving him a headache. His focus floats. He thinks he sees something scuttling out of the corner of his eye. Sandy, cold.

"Oh yes, oh, YES!" she says and scans the first one. Beep. Right through.

Jimmy squints his head clear and pays.

"Jimmy, are you worried, you know? About 6A? You not playing this year because of that? Are you waiting for next year, when well play at 4A? I heard that the teams in 4A are much worse."

Its her voice. Sound almost close to shattering. Shes the girl from the hospital, he thinks, and then, quickly after, shes pretty.

"Im just . . . dont really play anymore." He hurries to get out of the door before the talk continues, paper sack full of sweets tight in his hand.

"Hey Jimmy?" she calls out.

"Yeah?" he turns back.

"Im Carla."

"Im Jimmy," Jimmy says, but then, realizing the redundancy of it, he gets embarra.s.sed and quickly leaves. The bell above the door dings.

Then it happens-the gossip spreads. Not because Carla wants it to, or because shes a bad person, but because she is new in the small town she has moved to, and wants desperately to be a part of its social scene.

She would be a freshman in high school if she werent homeschooled. In her spare time she often writes poems. She wrote one this morning about Jimmy, in fact, called "Oh Kamikaze, Why?" Her father is the preacher down at St. Marys Star of the Sea Chapel. Her mother, when shes not teaching her and her brothers, runs the youth group. Shes only been in town a year, but she knows all about Jimmy. Hes a story she cant get enough of. She picks up loose conversations that are dropped in the aisles of stores or tossed over gas station pumps. Shes pieced them all together in a giant, oral mosaic.

She cant believe she called out to him as he left. The sensation just before she did it was like something rising in her bowels. Maybe Im sick, shed thought. No, not sick. Just a little bit of recklessness bubbling up in her up-to-that-point carefully plotted life. Shes heady.

Jimmys this weird kid who hardly says anything-at least not anymore. There are rumors that he talks to himself now, just like the Flying Finn. People say hes turning into a ghost, roaming the woods, looking for the people he lost. Carlas heard it all. Her fingers are itching to call the friends shes made at youth group and finally be the start of gossip. n.o.body had believed her when she said she saw Jimmy in the hospital. This time theyll have to believe. Its her turn to tell them something they dont know. Something they cant deny. Say, "Youre never going to believe who came into the store just now. Yes! Kamikaze Kirkus-he bought Boston Baked Beans and like MoonPies." So she dials.

Then whoever she calls, calls someone else, and the story s.h.i.+fts until its, "Guess who went into Peter Pan Market and stole twenty boxes of Boston Baked Beans and ten MoonPies? Yeah, Kamikaze Kirkus. Hes bonkers."

Baked Beans and MoonPies? Shouldnt he be in school?

Hes a delinquent. Hes over at Peter Pan Park right now, really losing it.

Might head over just to see.

Just to make sure.

Me too.

Poor Carla doesnt know it, but shes the lighter. . . . Doesnt really matter though. If its not her, itll be someone else. Kid Kirkus is gasoline.

Rule 8. Be a Bit Off.

Wednesday, October 15, 1997.

JIMMY KIRKUS, SIX YEARS OLD-TEN YEARS UNTIL THE WALL.

Jimmy and Dex were out of the house, flying. They ran down Glasgow street, through the Barness backyard-careful of Sam the dog, his chain goes farther than youd think-out on to Alameda and then into Tapiola Park. Across sloping fields where people walk their dogs and kids use broke-down cardboard boxes to sled the gra.s.s, digging big streaks of bruised green.

"Do you hear it?" Jimmy asked.

"No!" Dex said.

"You dont hear it? Cause I hear it."

"No, not yet, do you? Really, do you really hear it, Jimmy?"

Dex was bigger than Jimmy already, but slower too, and huffing to catch up. His brothers feet ate up distance with an amazing appet.i.te, like Sonic the Hedgehog after some gold rings.

"Theyre playing! I can hear it!"

The basketball courts werent even in sight, there was no way he could hear b.a.l.l.s bouncing. And yet. "Jimmy, wait up. No fair, come on, wait."

In the year since they saw their pops wallowing at the beach in the soupy incoming tide, a lot had changed. Ronnie ORourke had pushed Todd into working night deliveries with the high school kids, a punishment. This meant Genny Mori started working the day s.h.i.+ft with a recently hired doctor named McMahan. So here it was: when Jimmy and Dex came home after school it was to their let-anything-fly mom, instead of their too-watchful pops. All they had to do was be back to the house by dinner, and it was fine. Most days, Genny was too busy gossiping on the phone with her friend Bonnie to even notice the boys had left. Jimmy and Dex took in how their mom didnt particularly care if they were around and this drove them out all the more. Basketball gave them reason to ignore their mom before she could ignore them. Were not alone, were looking for a game; were not lonely, were just waiting to be found. They ran to the outside world with its wide-open possibilities of revealing the beautiful game every chance they got.

They were almost there, one more gra.s.sy rise and then a long sloping spread of park to the Tapiola basketball courts. Dex could hear it by then, and he was amazed that his brother Jimmy had heard it so far back-the sounds of basketb.a.l.l.s bounced, guys grunting in effort, calls of "And one!" and "Foul!"-and it only cemented further the mythical place Jimmy held in Dexs mind. He was shy in everything else, let Dex take the lead, except in this, except in ball, and Dex loved the game for this reason. With Jimmy on basketball, he was the little brother.

There were eight guys playing four on four. Two more sat on the gra.s.s, watching the game, laughing and calling out taunts. Also-look!-three basketb.a.l.l.s not being used, lying beautiful, just waiting for Jimmy and Dex to grab hold, dribble and shoot at the opposite side of the court from the real game, ears p.r.i.c.ked for any sounds of play coming back their way.

This was an every-day-after-school thing for these two brothers. They roamed unattended through Columbia City, looking for the paved squares of basketball heaven that popped up in city parks. Running secret trails, hopping fences, skirting drunks, all to get to the next court. Always the next game. In the past year since Jimmy had discovered basketball hed converted completely, like how some come to religion. An instant, intense, before-and-after thing. There was something preordained in hoops. It was a fact that wasnt lost on the town: all anyone could talk about was how Jimmy was taking after his pops. Teachers, other kids at school, the bus driver on field trips, all had memories-first-, second-, or even thirdhand-of his pops playing for the Fishermen. To play basketball was to step into a role Jimmy felt-even at so young an age-written for him. A relief. With a little dose of context, he didnt need to worry about who he was because his last name was Kirkus. Kirkus = basketball. Hed got his brother to buy in too. So he and Dex were just two kids jonesing for a bounce, praying for the rain to hold off for just a little while longer.

People who saw them couldnt believe it.

The Kirkus kids? Naw, couldnt be them.

No, its them. Little half j.a.ps. Dark-skinned like their mom. Theres not another like em in town.

You seen these kids around?

They show up at any court in town if theres a game going on. Its like they can smell it.

Where are their parents?

How these little kids watch games so patiently? They should be shouting, crying-you know, sc.r.a.ped knees and gum bubbles out their mouths. Not watching like this. Creeps me out.

Kindergarten and first grade? d.a.m.n. Dont sleep on them. Ive seen them make shots you wouldnt believe.

Jimmy shot and Dex rebounded. Then, when the game came back down, they ran off the court, watched some sloppy play unfold, before someone missed, or made it, and the game went galloping off to the other end. Then it was Dex shooting and Jimmy on the bounds. Switch and repeat. Repeat. Until the lights went on, until the players, steaming from their workouts, zipped up their duffels, left. Repeat.

So it was Jimmys turn to shoot. Dex snapped the ball back to him and he made a few in a row. Then there was a breakaway in the game. Someone picked a pocket at the top of the key and Dex wasnt quick enough to warn Jimmy. "Run!" Some knee-braced sweat-machine, all facilities focused on dribbling, running, not messing up in front of the guys, didnt see Jimmy in time. Ran our kid down. Sc.r.a.ped knees. Wind gone. Covered in this guys sweat. Disgusting. The weight of him. Guy got up, and then pulled Jimmy up after him.

"What the h.e.l.l, little dude?" the man said. He was someone Jimmy recognized. Then again, it was an odd occurrence when Jimmy didnt recognize a person in Columbia City.

Jimmy stood up, chest heaving.

"You OK?" The man put a hand on his shoulder. "Just breathe. You got your breath knocked out of you."

"Fat as you are, Im surprised the kid isnt loose a lung!" someone said.

Jimmy looked back at where the other men were standing, arms making triangles as they held their hands at their waists. He started off the court with the ball hed been using. I wont cry, he kept telling himself.

"Listen, Im sorry, but you got to get out of the way. You could get hurt."

Jimmy kept walking, ball on hip.

"Hey, pa.s.s it," one of the guys from the sidelines said. "Thats my ball, give it here, kid."

Jimmy rolled him the ball. Suddenly the other men were getting theirs as well. Basketb.a.l.l.s zipped up in bags.

"Maybe enough for tonight," another guy said. "You need a Band-Aid or something?"

Jimmy did not. What he needed was a basketball of his own. But how? Every time he asked their parents to buy him one, he was told there wasnt money to spare. And so basketb.a.l.l.s became hugely expensive, precious objects in his mind. Still. It was the tipping point. His inalienable rights might as well read: life, liberty, and the pursuit of hoops.

The next day, Jimmy got his chance. David Berg came to cla.s.s with the brand-new basketball he got for his birthday, and Jimmy had an idea.

"This the one they got in the NBA," David told everyone. "Real leather and genuine size."

"You seen the glow-in-the-dark basketb.a.l.l.s?" Jimmy asked. Imagine, being able to play the beautiful game even after the sun went down.

"Those are for babies. This b.a.l.l.s real."

Jimmy shrugged. "OK, lets play."

"I dont want it dirty."

"If its the real thing, than lets play," Pedro said. "Me and Jimmy versus you and whoever you can think."

"You, you and Jimmy?" Ever since the Ninth Shot, Jimmy and Pedro had become inseparable. It was one thing to lose your best friend, it was another to lose him to your worst enemy. David practically boiled. "Thats not fair."

"OK," Jimmy said, "Well play you and I wont even shoot, only Pedro."

The small crowd of kids who had gathered sank into whispers. The story of Jimmy and Davids fight was famous. A prominent footnote to the Ninth Shot.

"Um." Jimmy had him in a tough spot. If David played and lost with Jimmy not even shooting, hed never hear the end of it. Then again, if he didnt play at all, hed be tagged as a scaredy-cat, and never hear the end of that either.

"I told you," Jimmy said, "I wont even shoot."

Pedro interrupted him: "Ah, Jimmy, I."

"I wont shoot and if you win you can throw the ball at my head, hard as you want."

This was too good to pa.s.s up. "OK," David said.

They played with that beautiful leather basketball, just like the NBA guys used, and every time Jimmy touched it, he pa.s.sed. Poor Pedro played valiantly, but he was a little bit slow, a little bit fat, and a lot a bit off with his shot. Jimmy stuck to his word. He never shot the ball.

When David and his teammate won, eleven to two, he had Jimmy stand a few feet away so that the rest of the deal could be completed. The crowd of kids hushed. Jimmy stared straight at David, never flinching.

David addressed the crowd. "Its like how my dad says. Even if you are the best shooter, you need good teammates too, and Pedro isnt any good."

"f.u.c.k you, puta!" Pedro said.

The kids oohed.

"Shut up, or Ill tell on you," David said.

"Doesnt matter, your abuelo dont even like you."

Jimmy turned away from David to look at Pedro and David saw his chance. He whipped the ball straight at the back of Jimmys head. The crowd watched breathlessly. Pedros eyes widened, he wanted to tell Jimmy to LOOK OUT, but the words were stuck.

Then, just as the ball was about to hit our kid Jimmy square on the melon-quite a good throw from David, really-a miracle. Jimmy spun around a moment before it was too late and caught the basketball. The leather snapped against his palms, ball humming a centimeter from his nose. The crowd, G.o.d bless them, erupted in cheers. Jimmy smiled at David and said, "Thanks." Then he took off, running for the far end of the playground, Pedro whooping at his side, David in pursuit and all the other kids following, laughing and screaming at the tops of their lungs. A rain was just starting, finally acting on the threat the gray skies had been issuing all day. With a thrill, Jimmy felt the first drop detonate on his forehead. More touched down just after. He pumped his legs faster.

"No fair!" David shouted. "No fair!"

"Viva Jimmy!" Pedro yelled back.

Dex sat in his kindergarten cla.s.s. He hadnt said a word the entire first month of school-even more stubborn than Jimmy in his refusal to speak. The teacher would often look back on that speechless month with nostalgia, because after Dex started talking, he didnt stop.

Dex looked out the window and saw his brother running across the playground with the most beautiful basketball in the world held in his hands.

"Basketball!" Dex shouted. "My brother and a basketball!" His teacher dropped an armful of Play-Doh canisters. When they hit the floor the kid-dirtied globs jumped out in a dull rainbow. "My brother and me, we love basketball!"

Back at the Kirkus household, big Freight Train, alone and lonely with those northwest winds knocking on the windows, the raindrops tattooed with the days spectrum of light, burned his lips on the coffee he was sipping. He spit it out across the table and poured the rest down the drain. It was terrible. He noticed how many coffee grains were mixed in with the sludge at the bottom of his cup, and this made him very sad.

He wiped the table with paper towels.

Genny Mori sat at the coffee counter in the hospital cafeteria. She was trying to ignore the persistent stares of one Dr. McMahan. He was a little guy, tanned and bowlegged. A large easy laugh and ready opinions. Great smile with deep dimples asterisking each side. He had eyes like galaxies being born, each time she looked into them they seemed to have changed. Well-formed hands that he used when speaking, to shape his opinions and ideas, which she found herself following even when she wished she werent. He was always wearing the mask of whiskers coming in, a five oclock shadow that Bonnie called a five ohot shadow. He had these sticky little looks hed paste on her at the hospital that she found later in her thoughts, long after she was home from work for the day. She fumbled with the sugar dispenser while he stared at her. Spilled sugar all over the countertop. She wondered if it was the same as salt, if she should throw some of it over her shoulder.

She should have.