casual conversation one long double entendre—so accustomed to using her physical charms that she did not know when to turn them off. Myron chatted with them both briefly and excused himself.
The bartender informed him that they were not stocking any Yoo-Hoo. He took an Orangina instead. Not just orange soda, but Orangina. How European. He took a sip. Pretty good.
A hand slapped Myron’s back. It was TC. He had foregone the
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“It’s been interesting,” Myron said.
“Come on. I’ll show you something.”
They walked in silence up a grassy hill away from the party. The incline grew steadily steeper, the music fainter. The rap had been replaced with an alternative group called the Cranberries. Myron liked their music. “Zombie” was on right now. Dolores O’Riordan was repeatedly singing, “In your head, in your head,” until she got tired and moved to repeating the word, “Zombie, zombie” several hundred times. Okay, the Cranberries could work on their chorus lyrics, but the song still worked. Good stuff.
There were no lights now, but a glow from the ones by the pool provided enough illumination. When they reached the plateau, TC motioned in front of them. “There.”
Myron looked out, and the sight nearly took his breath away. They were up high enough to get an unimpeded, spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. The sea of lights seemed to shimmer like beads of water. The George Washington Bridge looked close enough to touch. They both stood in silence for several moments.
“Nice, huh?” TC said.
“Very.”
He took off his sunglasses. “I come up here a lot. By myself. It’s a good place to think.”
“I would think so.”
They looked off again.
“Thumper talk to you yet?” Myron asked.
TC nodded.
“Were you disappointed?”
“No,” TC said. “I knew you’d say no.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “Just a feeling. But don’t let her fool you. Thumper’s good people. She’s probably the closest thing I got to a friend.”
“What about all those guys you were hanging out with?”
TC sort of smiled. “You mean the white boys?”
“Yeah.”
“Not friends,” he said. “If tomorrow I stopped playing ball, they’d all look at me like I’m pinching a loaf on their sofa.”
“Poetically put, TC.”
“Just the truth, man. You in my position, you don’t have no friends. Facts of life. White or black, it don’t matter. People hang around me because I’m a rich superstar. They figure they can get something for free. That’s all.”
“And that’s okay with you?”
“Don’t matter if it’s okay,” TC said. “It’s the way it is. I ain’t complaining.”
“Do you get lonely?” Myron asked.
“Too many people around to get lonely.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” TC sort of jerked his head from side to side, like he was trying to loosen up his neck before a game. “Folks always talking about the price of fame, but you wanna know the real price? Forget that privacy shit. So I don’t go out to the movies as much. Big fucking deal—where I come from you can’t afford to go anyway. The real price is you ain’t a person anymore. You’re just a thing, a shiny thing like one of those Benzes out there. The poor brothers think I’m a golden ladder with goodies at every step up. The rich white boys think I’m a fancy pet. Like with OJ. Remember those guys who hung out in OJ’s trophy room?”
Myron nodded.
“Look, I ain’t complaining. Don’t get me wrong. This is a whole lot better than pumping gas or working in a coal mine or something. But I always got to remember the truth: the only thing that separates me from any nigger on the street is a game. That’s it. A knee going pop, like with what happened to you, and I’m back down there. I always remember that. Always.” He gave Myron hard eyes, letting his words hang in the crisp air. “So when some hot babe acts like I’m something special, it ain’t me she’s after. You see what I’m saying? She’s blinded by all that money and fame. Everyone is, male or female.”
“So you and I could never be friends?” Myron asked.
“Would you be asking me that if I was just some ignorant fool pumping gas?”
“Maybe.”
“Bullshit,” he said with a smile. “People bitch about my attitude, you know. They say I act like everybody owes me. Like I’m a prima donna. But they just mad because I see through them. I know the truth. They all think I’m some ignorant nigger—the owners, the coaches, whatever—so why should I respect them? Only reason they even talk to me is because I can slam the ball through the hoop. I’m just a monkey making them money. Once I stop, that’s it. I’m just another dumb slice of ghetto shit not fit to sit my black ass on their toilet.” He stopped then, as though out of breath. He looked back at the skyline. The sight seemed to rejuvenate him. “You ever meet Isiah Thomas?” he asked.
“The Detroit Piston? Yeah, once.”
“I heard him doing this interview one time, must have been when the Pistons won those championships. Some guy asked him what he’d be doing if he wasn’t a basketball player. You know what Isiah said?”
Myron shook his head.
“He said he’d be a United States senator.” TC laughed hard and high-pitched. The sound echoed in the still night. “I mean, is the brother crazy or what? Isiah really believe that shit. A United States senator—who the fuck is he kidding?” He laughed again, but the sound seemed more forced now. “Me, I know what I’d be. I’d be working in a steel mill, the midnight to ten A.M. shift, or maybe I’d be in jail or dead, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “United States senator. Shit.”
“What about the game?” Myron asked.
“What about it?”
“Do you love playing basketball?”
He looked amused. “You do, don’t you? You buy all that ‘for the love of the game’ bullshit.”
“You don’t?”
TC shook his head. The moon reflected off his shaved pate, giving his head an almost mystical glow. “It was never about that for me,” he said. “Basketball was just a means to an end. It’s about making money. It’s about setting me up for life.”
“Did you ever love the game?”
“Sure, I guess I must have. It was a good place to go, you know? But I don’t think it was the game—I mean, not the running and jumping and shit. Basketball was just what I was all about. Everywhere else I was just another dumb black boy, but on the basketball court, I was, well, the man. A hero. It’s an incredible high, everyone treating you like that. You know what I mean?”
Myron nodded. He knew. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Go ahead.”
“What’s with all the tattoos and rings?”
He smiled. “They bother you?”
“Not really. I’m just curious.”
“Suppose I just like wearing them,” TC said. “That enough?”
“Yes,” Myron said.
“But you don’t believe it, do you?”
Myron shrugged. “I guess not.”
