Manx went to school following the progression he usually took during the winter months. He cut through a yard with an open fence that led to a small park with maple trees a few scattered pines, a playground, two baseball fields and an outside basketball court. If there was more than a foot of snow on the ground he usually stuck to sidewalks. Other factors played their parts- girls, friends, enemies of a youth’s proportion, seasons, and time all served as variables in the morning walk to school. Never did school serve more than a purpose of destination.
Today at P.S. 118 Manx was extremely bored and had grown tired of listening to his teachers. His English teacher, Mrs. Gridge, was reading aloud when Manx decided to get out a blank sheet of paper and pen. He started to draw an abstraction of a building, yet never following a point of perception. It came out of the ground one way, and just when you thought it was going to stop- it morphed into the end of another building falling from the sky. The objects around the buildings were not drawn to scale; the whole picture itself followed no real basis. No right side up, no down side down- didn’t matter. Manx was completely focused. Complete attention to detail, little time passed in between thoughts, lines, shades, shapes, picture. His teacher had finished reading and given out an assignment for the students to do in class. Soon after the order she noticed that Manx was not paying attention. She walked over to his desk from behind, stood at his back and hovered over Manx’s shoulders. Her shadow cast over half of his drawing, and at that point Manx looked into his creation far more intently with fierceness like it was the first time he had ever completely seen something. Mrs. Gridge swung her arm over his shoulder and snatched the paper from his desk, ripped it down the middle and threw it away while staring at him with eyes that told him what to do next. Manx sat motionless and unsure except for a little irony that pulled him apart because he could never take that lady seriously. Manx had been ripped from a dream as he felt a jolt run down his spine. He was slightly embarrassed because he knew the class waited for moments like this- got by on moments like this, and ate lunch with moments like this. After the initial and raw shock, there was a still and resonating tingle in Manx’s foot that had not been grounded.
The day passed and standard procedures went as followed: lunch, recess, classes, bell. In those linear hours talk formulated. Manx was a large portion of P.S. 118 gossip.
“Did you see the look on his face.”
“Hahaha., I bet he never does that again” crept through cracks of conversations.
Manx played along with the fun. At lunch the boys were sitting with Manx; many of which would have considered themselves to be friends with him raved about the English class incident. Manx laughed and saw humor in it but didn’t participate unless obligated. He didn’t care, that was all. A word here or there about it in response would do, but it was just to please. Other kids dramatized for certain reasons. And that is why matters like this always got the best out of other children breaking them down to tears or making them sad for the rest of the day, or even week depending on who it was. The fragile Meredith McCoy could attest to that. It usually took the weekends to clear a child’s relative mentality. If the situation were substantial enough the parents would be notified. Perhaps a call to Manx’s mother would be in order from the teacher, or even better the principle. The slight threat of authority and fear of discipline can tear at a young youth’s heart. Not Manx’s. Not because he was a rebel or anything like that, but he understood that this thing happening was insignificant. He laughed at the ones who took it too seriously. He was calm, whereas many children could only comprehend the immediate, impetuous moments of life. In this situation he felt no wrong, and no error of judgement on his part.
It’s safe to say that once Manx left school he wasn’t apart of what had conspired that day. The other kids walked and talked vicariously with the dramas of school. Telling parents, friends, and younger siblings all that they had to offer. They shared what had gone on that day in school, who it was about, where it took place, why it happened-always including the embellishments, after all, that’s what people wanted to hear.
Manx walked to his nearby home using detours to fill his delight. This day in particularly Manx walked with a friend that lived nearby. Nick was a good fellow and meant no harm and Manx enjoyed his company enough. Sometimes he would invite Nick over to play afterwards. A short get together would suffice for today. When Manx got home around 3:30 he greeted his mom who hugged him with her apron on as she prepared dinner, then she asked how his day went.
“It was good.”
“What did you do at school today.”
“Nothing, kicked a homer during recess.”
“Goooooooood.” Manx’s mother said in her sweet and praising voice.
“When’s Dad getting home?” Manx asked, even though he knew it would be the regular.
“Five-thirty.” She stretched her voice out to Manx already skipping upstairs letting room for insignificant talk that need not be explained.
***
“I hate it when people complain.”
“Me too Nick,” Manx gave hints of slyness without all the irony.
The goal was to stretch his expression far enough so that Nick could keep up, but at the same time, recollect, and say, ahhhh. Nick would however lose the connection much like how a dream escapes. Manx viewed it almost as a conditioning experiment. In the back of his mind it was just one player game. Nick never played.
“Are you-” Manx said while pointing across the street to the gym.
“Am I what?” Nick didn’t see him pointing and Manx was still playing somewhat of a game.
“Nothing.”
“Am I what!”
“Nothing Nick, just wanted to know if you were going to…play basketball.”
“Basketball?”
“Yea at the YMCA, I think there are a bunch of guys meeting after school today.”
“Who’ll be up there.”
“I don’t know, some of the guys from class. Jerry, Darren, Marcus- the usual.”
“Nah.”
“What else are you going to do?” He knew the answer, which was watch TV or play video games.
“I’ve got better things to do.”
“Like what complain?”
Manx had played basketball in Nick’s own driveway for years. Even though he wasn’t much competition it was still fun- at least they were running around. Driveway’s, or “home” courts, appealed to Manx because they had their own unique way of play. You had to know where the cracks were that affected the bounce of the ball and the lightness of your feet. You had to understand the spatial realm of the court. A rectangular shaped driveway that had a fiberglass basketball hoop could be exploited with jab steps and vertical quickness much more than a sloped concrete court cut with irrigation canals for depressurization. The ladder, concrete slabs and all was Manx’s home court
YMCA’s carried characteristics of people unbelonging to the orderly realm society. At least the ones Manx went to. Apparently it’s some kind of Christian association.
“Score?” Manx yelled onto the court.
“10-7”
Manx dribbled around and waited for his time on the court. Games were played up to 12- win by 2, or straight up to 15. He looked at some of the players, most of them showed little potential. A few of his classmates were there, some guys a couple years older, and a cute girl with a parks and recreation shirt on. She wasn’t playing.
On the walls of the gym were action shots of people playing sports. They were blue or pink. Guy and Girl presumably. Their joints were rounded off in every way- they were stencils handicapped to walls like expressions sown on dolls. Manx didn’t get it. He didn’t know if they agitated him, or whether he found them tacky, or if he liked them- they were a staple of the YMCA.
“Ball!” A quick pass from the wing followed. Some call it the tit of the court. It’s where the three-point line curves around to the baseline.
“Swing it!” Marcus said.
Manx faked the pass and drove the lane. He jumped in the air for the layup. At the same time Darren hit him across the face intentionally.
“Fuck you.” It wasn’t until his mid teens where words like this entered and exited his lingo without feelings of regret.
“That’s the game man!” Darren shouted.
“It is if you can’t win.”
“What?”
“Keep foulin’”
“I will.” The emphasis was on the I.
The game continued and Manx got more aggressive. The ball bounced off the rim and Manx went up for the rebound with Darren beside him. Manx stuck his elbow out after gathering the rebound and clocked him on the head.
“Sorry part of the game.” It was Darren’s turn to get mad.
“Ahhh!” He pushed Manx in the chest. A bunch of foul jumbled words mixed with grumblings in Darren’s quivering, on edge of tears voice. Manx pushed back keeping pressure on Darren’s chest but never forcing him off balance. It was defensive and articulate of certain softness. In that way Darren understood there was to be nothing more.
The next time down Manx hit a short jump shot.
“Game.” He walked off the court straight to the drinking fountain.
After the game Darren and Manx strolled home together. A cut on the side of Manx’s face and a goose bump under Darren’s wiry black hair.
“You playin’ tomorrow.” Darren said while giving Manx a handshake and bump with the side of his shoulder.
Manx nodded his head down never really bringing it back up.
It was later that night Manx lay in bed reflecting upon the day’s time. In the dark he thought about the pointless things around him. A fan with basketball team logos on it that didn’t exist, his grandpa’s Rebmen’s Lanes bowling trophy from 1982 – a prize won six years before Manx was even born. There were swords on mirrors, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling with planets including Pluto, posters of skiers and snowboarders, Batman merchandise, box’s with nothing in them, nesting families, and a dream catcher in the window that overlooked a ravine.
These things combined with a sort of guilt in Manx. He got out of bed and started to draw. He drew the images that appeared on the wall’s of the YMCA. They were a little messy but just as nondescript as the actual’s. He looked at them after they were done, then he looked around his room that was now lit. He compared the images before him at random.
“Pluto, the blue planet, meet Blue Man.” He thought to himself.
“Guy with bowling ball- Blue man with blue ball.”
“Dream catcher catch the Blue man’s throw.” He started smiling, then crumbled up the paper and threw it at the dream catcher, whom he named Sandy Alomar, and went to sleep.
***
