22. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“Rigor Mortis”
Begins: fervent, buoyant, ached with pining.
Ends: bloated, rigid, ravaged with dying.
I flip up the collar of my coat as the icy rain licks my cheeks and pelts the brim of my fitted cap. Turning down a side street, I avoid the upcoming Main Street tourist trap. It’s the third city since Brooklyn. I’m sure it has a name, but the number is what comes to me.
Three down, four more to go.
Last stop: San Francisco.
A sports bar spilling out with shivering smokers has me crossing the street.
Keeping on until I hit the riverbank, I take a sharp left and descend a staircase.
I blow on my hands as the wind lashes my back, propelling me along.
Except for a woman in a plastic poncho and her dog, I don’t see another soul for a quarter of a mile.
Two zigzag turns and the crossing of a footbridge, my head raises and scans the area—unless you search for it, you’d never find it.
Slowly blinking into sight is the incandescent caduceus, settled in the inky, gauzy facade of a weathered stone building.
When I’m back home, I’ll wonder if I imagined it, and that wonder will scratch at me until I return.
Sometimes I stare out of my bedroom window at the small birds perched on the cable lines. Every day, they reappear in the same spot, almost at the same time, and I’m further convinced I’m trapped in a simulation, and the wooly static of my brain runs on an entirely different operating system.
Almost everything in my life since my first breath has felt like it’s running on a program, and I’m the glitch.
Not this bar, dark and out of sight.
A man aged enough to be my grandfather flicks a glance up when I enter. Our eyes exchange a quiet acknowledgment. Except for a couple in the corner, the place is as empty as I remember it.
“Toddy,” I request as I reach for my wallet, peel off cash, and slide it over. Ignoring it, he gets to work on the drink.
The wooden floors and low-slung furniture creak from bearing decades of the troubled seeking a reprieve from the ills out there.
Or the ills within.
Ever since Brooklyn, I’ve been losing time.
Memory lapses.
Memory traveling.
Once or twice, you show your antenna’s broken, people give you the benefit, but a third time?
The locker room falls silent when you enter, averted glances, breaths retracting from the stench of the two-legged disappointment.
I settle into the corner booth, facing the wall, and warm my hands over the tealight candle.
Always the same playlist: Nina, Coltrane, Ray.
Ms. Simone is right. It did rain today. All week, if we’re being metaphorical.
Starting with game one after Brooklyn.
“Watch your mouth. I’ve been busting your ass for years,” I reminded the cocky, trash-talking power forward after spectacularly embarrassing him.
Talking shit all game, I waited until the fourth when we were in isolation.
Catching the ball, I hit a slow dribble.
He got low in anticipation of my next move.
I lunged forward, making him jump back—an overreaction, food for the serpent in my belly.
I followed with a hesitation dribble that had him trembling in wait.
Then I finished him, hitting a sharp crossover dribble from right to left.
The fool lunged left as I escaped, pushing back, crossing the ball behind my back, then powered to the wing.
I set up for a quick release, drawing him in.
With too much speed, he sailed past as I sidestepped left and fired the shot.
Bang!
I raced downcourt, laughing my ass off with Sid, when a blur in the crowd had me screeching to a halt.
The build of a retired NFL tight end, ink-black hair, neck tats, cold glare.
I wasn’t only frozen, I was sweating bullets, and on each rapid blink, corners of the arena chipped away until I was back in my high school gym…
Carter had looked like he’d had a few drinks.
It had been hard to tell from the court, but his knees had appeared to be wobbling.
I’d frozen as he’d walked toward me. Was he so drunk that he’d walk directly onto the court mid-game?
Why was he there? He’d never come to a game before.
I couldn’t breathe. A whistle had blared in my ear, and I’d stumbled back, each step feeding power into my legs until I’d booked it.
Coach and my teammates had yelled for me.
I’d run.
I’d reached the school basement, wedged open the closet, and crashed into the dark, shutting the door behind me. I’d tripped over a bucket, stayed down, and folded myself into the corner. Weak tears had streamed down my face as I’d gasped for air.
The cringey part is that I’d later learned it wasn’t even him that day in the gym. When I’d finally crawled home way after curfew, bracing for the worst, Ana?s had told me that he and our mom had left town that morning on a media trip.
After all these years, I saw his ghost today on the court and froze. Again.
I must have looked like I was about to piss my pants because when I finally snapped out of it, everyone was staring at me. Thousands of lashing eyes.
My drink appears in front of me. “Thanks.”
The man returns with pretzels. “You’re always so blue when you come here.”
“Blue?”
He nods.
I shrug. “Didn’t know you did that.”
“What’s that?” he asks, tossing a bar towel over his shoulder.
“Talk.”
He laughs, deep and rich. “I try hard not to.”
He walks away.
Words to live by.
I raise the mug, and my hand stills as my phone lights up.
That’s Salem’s third call this week.
Take the out, man.
I’m not an expert at dating, but I’m pretty sure a crash course intro to the most dysfunctional family is the red flag you need to run free.
I resist the urge to cradle my head in my hands.
Speaking of outs, Sid saved my ass this week.
And how did I repay him? By damn near barking at him to back off when he tried to check in with me.
No one knows about the shit Ana?s and I went through growing up, and I mean to keep it that way.
Or meant to. But now Salem’s gotten a glimpse, and it’s been messing me up all week.
Forget the foot pressed against my chest since that day.
I keep thinking about climbing back into the closet in high school and staying there until…
Just until.
Still. Sid saved my ass, and I bit his head off.
During our post-game conference in Philly, a reporter asked what I thought about a call in the third quarter.
The foul was against me. I apparently shoved a player into the stands.
I had no idea what she was talking about.
It happened again in Indiana when a reporter asked about another scrap between me and their point guard.
I leaned in and said, “Nah. That was last game.”
Sid laughed, instantly relaxing the sideways glances around the room, and said, “That’s Arnaz’s way of saying, no comment.”
Confused, I took the out.
We swept all three games, so I could give two fucks about reporters, but I should definitely buy Sid a car or something.
One of these days, he’s gonna get tired of myself. I’m tired of me. It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.
But, fuck, it looks like I’m doing it on purpose.
In Philly, I missed a critical wide-open pass. The moment it happened, I could see myself standing there, melting like a snowman. I raised my chin and took it when Coach laid into me.
I respect him, and I deserved it.
I’m so tired. My brain’s turning into a super host rivaling my mother’s galas.
Sending invites to the uninvited, rolling out porcelain china, importing flower arrangements from Ikebana Grand Masters, and serving a twelve-course tasting menu.
Mr. Anxious-For-No-Fucking-Reason having a rough time sleeping?
No worries. We’ll wake Arnaz up at two o’clock in the morning to accompany you.
Since he’s up, we’ll have him carry a spine-caving load of emptiness.
Still, the feeling that I’m being backed into the corner by some looming, invisible monster has haunted me since Brooklyn.
There’s a lot about that day I can’t look at directly.
Including how good it felt to wake up in Salem’s arms.