Read Online Rails Under My Back by Jeffery Renard Allen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeffery Renard Allen
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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!
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
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!
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
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