whatever happens, you knew me. you knew me.
Date: Jan 12th, 2008 2:01:09 am - Subscribe
Mood: sparkly
true story: (actually, this is a fiction piece) :)
the boys that i knew were all too tall. they had wrists without substance, thin baklava, only a few leafy layers of flesh, waiting to be torn from their mediocre arms during a low-exertion basketball game. arms with the muscle given to all boys at a certain age- muscle they didn't earn, but were given, so they felt like they could play sports even if they weren't cut out for it.
my friend jimmy was the only boy i ever understood. we'd sung together in the church choir since we came out of the canal, and jimmy had a beautiful voice. "sings like a songbird, swings like a sloth," my mom used to say- after jimmy's third agonizing year of little league. he was awful, and he knew it. the worst part of the whole thing is jimmy's dad just could not, would not accept that his son was not an all american anything. Mr. Baxter made him try every sport in ashbard county, and when that didn't work out, he even went so far as mccomb just to see if he was made for crew.
he wasn't.
jimmy finally settled on being the manager of the high school varsity basketball team. he said it was near enough to a court to make his dad happy, but took little to no talent in relation to a sport at all. it seemed to about please everyone, anyways, he said. and that was better than he had been able to do before. often i would look from the stands to examine his wrists- thick, meaty, strong enough to hold loads of sweaty towels and keep water bottles on hooks latched firmly on six of ten fingers until time out when the gods of the court required them. jimmy was a sort of servant, and i doubt they really see much of him- always covering him with their sweaty towels. i mean that in a deeper way too, of course- one i can't quite explain, one that i saw on jimmy's face when he locked up the gym at night. i waited by the door after every home game for jimmy to come out. i even had enough time to finish a cigarette, crushing the butt underneath my sneakers when he came out with a sigh, sweat glistening in the cool air.
"i hate this" he said
"you're good at it, jimmy. sometimes you even look like you're having fun with it, talking with the guys and all."
"not really a conversation, joie, usually they want their water bottle, or an advil or something. they don't know me or nothing like that."
"if they did, they'd place the towel on your arm instead of throwin' it at'cha, i know they would."
he paused beneath the lights outside the building for just a second and kind of shook his head, but smiled.
"thanks. thanks for waiting. let me carry that for you," he'd say, putting my messenger sack on his shoulder.
it was always right then, when he hoisted up that bag, i would catch a glimpse of his wrists and think again- they are strong.
and i would wonder if jimmy felt like he was carrying the world, and not just my bag.
Comments: (2)
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xbang_bang - January 12th, 2008 |
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d8mtr - January 12th, 2008 |
