Rules for Becoming a Legend (18 page)

Doc McMahan and Genny Mori laughed over the responses
they wished they could say.
Me too. So was I. Thanks, but no thanks. Was I in them before?
She appreciated that he let her be angry when she felt like being angry. Not like Todd who either exploded right back at her, or told her to cool off, think about it from the other person's point of view. For Genny this was the thing about Todd. She was never entirely sure he was on her side. With McMahan she could let loose. There was no doubt.

And in talking about Suzie with this wet, little man with the beautiful eyes, something happened to Genny Mori that should have happened fifteen years before. Her heart broke where before it had only cracked. Here was someone else who had lost the most important thing in their life without any fault of their own. So instead of building from the ruins with her husband when it had happened, she did it much later in a beachside condo with little, tanned-dark Doc McMahan. She found all sorts of reasons to believe he was the right man come along. Finally.

Tough luck for her, that one.

McMahan didn't actually live in Seaside, the small town where the hospital was, just down 101 from Columbia City; he commuted there three times a week. Whenever he talked about his life in Portland, all Genny saw were differences she had no hope of competing with. Back in Portland was his wife and their two other kids. Soccer practices and community softball. Potluck dinners and hikes in the Gorge. Big games and barbequed meat. The wife worked as an account manager at some ad agency. They had a huge house in the right neighborhood. They could afford to eat extravagant Saturday brunches at restaurants with two, sometimes three, accent markers in the name. They traveled to Europe when the kids were on break. He owned a small sailboat—the reason for his constant tan. However, on days McMahan worked in Seaside, always three- or four-day stints strung together, he stayed at a condo he owned on the beach.

This condo made the affair too easy to start and too difficult to end. Genny Mori would swear it off and then find that she had left something of hers at the condo. She would return to pick it up and then . . . One Thing, and Another—they liked to play follow the leader.

McMahan was such a welcome relief from Todd, the only man she'd ever slept with before in her life. Todd Roll-Over-You Kirkus. Todd Get-It-Done-Then-Saw-Some-Logs Kirkus. Bang, bang, snore. A man who had put on the pounds since high school and became soft in the middle. Meanwhile McMahan was ropy with the muscle of an active leisure life and a dedicated personal trainer. He was affectionate in just the right way. He always made sure she was taken care of first. He liked to laugh in the bedroom. Wasn't offended when her body made strange noises, when a weird gasp escaped her lips. He seemed determined to consume every part of her. In his eyes she was the sexiest thing in existence, and so she began to feel this way too. He said he liked the way she tasted and smelled. She could see that he was telling the truth by how eagerly he traveled down, and so she became relaxed and started to come on a regular basis for the first time in her life. And yet he was always with her because she let him. He never pushed the issue, which made her want to push it for him. Jump all over him. He was sweet, but passionate. He always asked, each and every time before he entered,
May I?
but he also had ripped a fair amount of her blouses in frenzied backseat hookup sessions that seemed almost comical in their headlong passions. He was the perfect mix.

And then there was the afterward cuddle. A concept she hadn't even believed existed outside of movies before McMahan. She described his affections to Bonnie as teacup cuddling. Small, fragile and taken in small sips as if someone were watching and might
ding him for bad manners. Pinkie up. Hip goes here, hand goes there.

“Sweet Jesus,” Bonnie said. “Who would have known the little guy had it in him.”

“I know.”

“It's like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel.”

“He's nice.”

She was able to see him two to three times a week—evenings worked fine with the boys at practice or going to Pedro's house and Todd still in night-shift purgatory—time she spent sweating with McMahan in his expensive condo, under his expensive sheets, crying about their lost kids into expensive tissues. He cultivated in her the belief that there was still a chance for her life yet. He liked to talk about the future. She could study hard, go to medical school, become a doctor too. They could run away and open a clinic somewhere tropical. And why not? It seemed her family needed her less than she ever dared to think. The Flying Finn just had to move back in, and it seemed everything was fine—everyone except Genny Mori. What was to stop her?

•   •   •

As to what Doc McMahan saw in her? It came to be a million things—how Genny Mori was compassionate about his recent loss, laughed at his jokes and listened to his opinions—but interest always starts with just one thing.

“If you'd have told me when I was eighteen that I'd be with Freight Train Kirkus's girl, I'd have called you insane,” he told her over smoozy-lit dinner at his condo. “I played against him in high school. People thought he was such a big deal.”

“You're with me because I'm Todd's wife?” He saw her anger swelling.

“No, no.” McMahan's face lit up red, he could fell it. “It's just
life is
extremely
interesting
. How it all ends up, you know? You never think it'll go where it does. I'm with you because it's impossible to not be. I'm with you because I care very deeply for you. You are my obsession. Truly. I love you, Genevieve, I do.”

Teacup loving.

•   •   •

One day, while the Flying Finn took a fitful nap in full biking gear, Todd and his boys shot hoops at Tapiola.

“So you were gonna go D-1, huh pops?” Dex asked.

“I had some offers,” he said.

Jimmy whistled. “Oregon?”

“Oregon, OSU, UCLA, even some East Coast schools.” Todd smiled. “The NBA. Larry Brown called your grandpa about me. He was coaching the New Jersey Nets back then.”

“And your knee went out?” Dex asked.

“That's about it.” He paused, shot the ball. Another drain. The net swayed.

“You got in a fight, Pops?” Jimmy was looking at Todd's feet. “With a cop?”

Of course his kid had heard the story. Columbia City, she liked to hear her own voice. However there's truth, and then there's what you're willing to believe. Todd bet on the second. “Where you hear that? I blew out my knee at practice, and that's all she wrote.” If Jimmy pressed, if he really pressed, Todd would tell him the truth. First his son had to prove that's what he wanted.

•   •   •

For the rest of the day, our kid Jimmy tried to come to terms with the fact that his father's knee injury had happened
on
the court, not off like he had always thought. Sure, Jimmy knew about injuries. NBA players had them. Knocked them out for a few games, sometimes knocked them out for good. It hadn't seemed real
though. Like
really real
, if that made any sense. And with the knowledge that it had happened to his pops, it
was
real. Really real. It was a strange thought because the game he loved had only ever given him good, solid things. Got him and Pedro a spot at the popular table even though he rarely spoke with girls and had nothing to add to the jokes or talk on music and movies. It gave him a language to use with Dex—a kid who had no trouble being cool and popular and at ease. It had brought his pops back into his everyday life, blinking like a mole in the sun.

So can we blame the kid for being shocked that the beautiful game also brought dark things with it? Hell, even though our kid Jimmy was set to enter high school in a few weeks, he was still a little kid in many ways. Finding out that his pops busted his knee playing the magical game was like fleecing him of the invincible wool all young people think grows around their lives.

Our poor Jimmy.

Later, as he ran along the river walk, easily putting distance between himself and Dex, he was so caught up in the thought that basketball took as well as gave that he grew careless with his feet. He tripped. His hands were quick enough to brace the fall, but they slipped in the gravel. He smacked his chin. In his cloudy vision after the hit, he swore he could see the sandy-skinned movement of something scuttling off. Something huge. He felt pain in his ankle.

Walking back home, Jimmy leaned on Dex and kept his weight off the gimpy ankle. The whole way, Jimmy mumbled his delirious complaints. “I'm gonna grow sandy skin, tongue bread crumb. I need white tears. Tears from a sand toad.”

“You're talking crazy, Jimmy. Sand toads? Come on.”

The next morning Jimmy still felt dizzy, his ankle sore, and when he tried to shoot, he was off. Nothing would go in. What a
muddy and cold feeling for the kid. In the next few days his ankle healed and his touch came back—but it was too late, in some ways, for Jimmy. Our kid Kirkus had seen the other side of the coin and it was frightening and viral and taking root in his chest, spreading everywhere.

Monday, December 24, 2007

JIMMY KIRKUS, SIXTEEN YEARS OLD—SEVEN DAYS AFTER THE WALL.

C
hristmas Eve. Joy to the world. But Santa was a stinker and there appeared a terrible gift on the Internet. A blog titled
The Missteps
. Its first and only entry actually went live on Saturday, December 22, but for the first day and a half of its existence, it was largely ignored aside from a comment by hoop_star_45 who wrote, “damn . . .” By midday of the twenty-fourth, inside the Oregonlive.com high school basketball chat room, purpleperson128 posted: “You remember Jimmy Soft, now I guess Kamikaze Kirkus? Check it:” with a link to
The Missteps
. Suddenly the blog post jumped in hits. The comments below the first from hoop_star_45 exploded downward. Everyone had an opinion about Kid Kirkus and the Nine Games.

The Missteps

Kamikaze Kirkus and the Grand Trick

Columbia City High School Junior, Jimmy Kirkus, aka Kamikaze Kirkus, has the entire town buzzing. Two disappointing seasons into his Fishermen career, and everyone is eating out of his hand again. Yesterday at Peter Pan courts, Kirkus beat ten opponents in a row. This included such luminaries of Fishermen basketball as Ray Atto and the All-League duo, Brian and Chris Johnston, at the same time.

However, this apparent resurgence of our long-lost star is the
absolute worst thing that can happen to Fishermen basketball, especially in our final season at 6A. If Coach Kelly allows Kirkus back on the team, prepare yourself for another downward spiral with Jimmy, or should I say Kamikaze, piloting.

Jimmy has been anointed Chosen One since grade school. I remember first hearing about him after the Ninth Shot when he was just a kindergartener. A shot from a kindergartner? We had taken it too far even then. But let's look at the facts. He was a standout in grade school and middle school. A fine thing, but plenty of kids with a little coordination do well in those leagues. Then he had one full and disappointing season of Fishermen basketball. Then last year, with him sitting out for understandable reasons, we posted a respectable 13-13 record behind the blossoming of the Johnston brothers. So far this season, and it's still only December, we're 3-2 sans Kamikaze. Why risk tarnishing our swan song in 6A with a risky bet on a shaky kid?

Many people are saying 6A is the strongest it's ever been this year. Don't you think Jimmy will be in a little over his head?

Quick history lesson for those young people who think Jimmy's new nickname is so cool: back in World War II kamikaze pilots were the guys who flew their planes into battle ships. They destroyed themselves and the ship too.

Kirkus is a good kid who's gone through some terrible things, but as a fan and lifelong resident of Columbia City, I can't in good faith put any more hope in him—and neither should you.

Last night Jimmy Kirkus may have beaten ten other young men. However that wasn't the greatest feat he managed—he also pulled the wool over our eyes.

It's Coach Kelly who calls Todd about the blog post.

“Todd?” is the first thing he says when Freight Train answers the phone.

“Yeah, coach?” Todd knows it's him right off.

“I just want you to know that this whole
Missteps
thing has nothing to do with me or any of my staff.” A let-out of breath. “I don't know who it is, but it sounds like that letter to the editor from back when you were playing? Look, I just wanted to let you know. I'd never be involved in that sort of thing with Jimmy, especially since. Look. It's not any of us, I'm just saying.”

“Thanks for reaching out, Coach,” Todd says, having no clue what the hell he's talking about. He takes down the blog's address and then hangs up. They have dial-up Internet at the house but it's nothing Todd really messes with. He got it for Jimmy to do stuff for school, although only thing he ever sees the kid getting into when he passes by is ESPN or Nike and one time the shot, belly-button up, of a naked woman, oiled and glistening with huge breasts.

After what seems like an unnecessary amount of screeching noise, Todd manages to get connected, info card from the installation guy clutched in one hand. He taps out the address with his two index fingers.
Missteps
pops up. The blog's format all simple. No photos and done in purple and gold. Hard to read with those two colors bordering the text but the content tips Todd in. He splashes down in the words and comes back up dripping with anger. He clicks madly about the post, looking for any kind of name he can associate with this piece of shit that's hammering on his son. He wonders if it's the same person who wrote that opinion piece from years before. Certainly the same tone. He suspected who it was then, and if he finds that his hunch is right now, one big fatty sun-glassed head was going to roll.

Fifteen minutes after Todd Kirkus reads the blog post he's down at the high school, storming through the winter-break-emptied halls, looking for the computer lab and Johnny Opel. Whoever had answered the phone when he called Opel's house—sleepy-voiced, female—said he'd be down here. Merry Christmas. Opel,
guy who graduated same year as Todd and Genny and went bouncing around town working gas station jobs while reading fantasy novels at the pump. Then, boom, computers, Bill Gates and soon, the Internet. Johnny Opel was sucked in. Started his own business called Dr. Wires, helping people with their computer programs, going in and killing viruses, driving around a stupid van he'd painted himself with a computer that had slanted eyes and a wriggling line for a mouth, thermometer jutted from its lips. Eventually he'd become the computer teacher at the high school and Dr. Wires shifted into a weekend business. Todd guessed the pay working for the school was steadier.

He found the computer lab on the first floor, nestled among the senior lockers, a room he remembered as being Business 2 when he was in school. He'd once made a business plan for the class with James Berg about a lawn care company whose main pull was that Todd and James would work with their shirts off. Dumb-ass high school stuff.

Todd ducked into the room, trembling. Johnny sat in a large cushioned wheelie chair, using a full table for a desk. Before him were three different monitors all sitting at different heights and angled to face him like inquisitive eyes of the same alien animal. His head jerked up at Todd's presence.

“Hiya, Todd.”

“Looky, it's Johnny Opel.” Todd was trying for casual, not an easy thing for him. He felt that if he were smaller it would come off better, but there was no way around the fact that he was huge. Tall and boxy in high school, he'd only packed on around his equator in the years since. Especially this last year. His hands in tight orbit between food and mouth. Eating somehow doing a trick on his thinking. Sounds, mostly. That's what he thought about. Had they screamed? Had the breaks?

He closed his eyes, slowed himself. He could do this, seem
calm. He didn't want to spook Johnny Opel so bad the guy didn't help him. “How you been? Still here, I see. No Bermuda vacation plans for you.”

“I sunburn too easy.” He took a slow sip of an enormous 7-Eleven bucket of pop.

“Hey, you know back in the day we always used to say you had a good name to be a rock star. You ever try that out? Being a rock star?”

The wrong thing to say. In school Opel been obsessed with Kiss and wore his hair long. Got pushed around some because of it.

“No I guess I haven't tried being a rock star, Todd.”

“Oh, well, too bad. You would make a good one.” Then, trying to take some of the weight out of the conversation, backpedal, “I tried to be a basketball star once, you saw how that worked out, ha ha.”

Johnny sighed. “What's up?”

Todd ran a hand through his hair, paused to itch at the back of his skull. “Well, I guess you've seen this thing on the Internet? A website called, I guess, it's a web blog or something, called
Missteps
?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I saw it.”

“I was hoping, because you got Dr. Wires and you're the computer teacher, you could tell me who made the damn thing? Or at least take it down maybe.”

“I don't know, Todd.”

“Opel, it's not really for me though, you know? It's about my son, he's a quiet kid, like not really one to use what he got from playing basketball to lord it over other people. Different from me, you know? Look, I was an asshole, I get that. In high school, the worst. But this isn't for me. Jimmy, he's already had a tough go of it lately.” Todd sank Johnny Opel with a stare that said what he hadn't said—
You know, about him and the wall and everything else.

Already Opel was typing. “I don't know what I'll be able to do
about taking it down. This blog is hosted by Google and they're pretty tight, really, for a public, free setup. We can send in a complaint, and they'll shut it down in a couple of days themselves. But what I can do now is post a link as a comment directly to the administrator, and he'll have to click it to approve or not, which will then get his ISP and I'll be able to get his physical location, you know. Or proximity. Like where his house is.”

The whole explanation is beyond Todd and he has the distinct thought he's forgetting what's being said even as it's being said. He noticed something in Opel's eyes just before he'd cut them to the screen. Must be strange for him to see the former king of high school groveling.

While he works, Todd paces the room ringed with computers all showing the same rushing stars screen saver. He touches the mouse of one computer and it murmurs to life. Desktop a blown-up image of Columbia City High School's mascot, the Stomper. Big old fisherman with one foot forward, ready for a giant step into the future. Dopy nose and droopy eyes, Todd remembers how he was always a little embarrassed to be seen with that logo on his jersey while the other teams rocked things that could kill you. Cougars, lions, bears.

“Damn, guy already responded and, he's at, looks like the address is . . .” Johnny says. He looks up from the screen, hesitating.

“Yeah?”

“I guess it's old man Berg.” Johnny coughs and takes a pull of his Coke. “At least I'd give it a ninety-eight percent probability it is.”

Well god-fucking-damn. It's not how he thought it would feel. Knowing this. No blow-the-circuits-out anger. What Todd feels, really and truly deep into his bones, for the first time in his life, is old.

•   •   •

Meanwhile, Jimmy's in his room, lying on his back, passing his ball up to the ceiling, where it bumps softly and dislodges paint
flakes, thinking about what his grandpa said in the car. Magic. His basketball giving the people a little something to take with them. This thought almost bails out a bankrupt love. Almost. It still doesn't seem different enough from when he played to be perfect and anything less was failure. He can't slip back into basketball being his only counterbalance. That weight, he's found, is inconsistent.

He's noticed, thinking about his past, that there are moments that seem small in the before but grow big in the after. This thing the Flying Finn said about magic? Maybe it's a giant in the after. Seeing his mom lean into Doc McMahan's window, face red, back when he was nine? That's a redwood. The fact that his father keeps a dead cow skull glued to the dashboard of his work rig? A mountain. His grandpa a periodic bum? An ocean.

He needs to parse this out. This could be important. He's all buzzing. Then an image of Carla. Scribbling at the counter. A journal? Like a fucking after-school special, he laughs to himself. That's what it was like. Joke Dex would have loved.
Just write down your feelings, Lucy, and things will be OK . . .

Jimmy is surprised Carla's number is in the phone book for some reason. Aren't they new to town?

A man answers. “Ferguson residence.”

Jimmy pulls himself to it. This isn't natural. Butterflies on speed chipping away all manner of vital things on his insides. “Hi, may I speak to Carla, please?”

“Who's calling?”

“It's, well.” Jimmy knows no one would want their daughter talking to him. His nickname is suddenly Kamikaze, after all, destruction. He says the first thing that comes into his head. “It's about Jesus?”

A let out. A sigh. That was a good move. “I'm a preacher, son, maybe I can help.”

“It's just, see. Carla was talking to me about it . . . I was kind of hoping we could talk more.”

“Who is this?” He asks again. Softer now.

“I'm embarrassed. Maybe I should go.”

“No, hold on.”

Scuffling, murmured words. Voices back and forth. A pause. Then clicking, scraping. “Hello?” It's Carla.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Long draw-out on the
i
. She isn't sure who he is.

“It's Jimmy.” He sits up. “Jimmy Kirkus? I saw you in Peter Pan.”

More noises of the phone being brushed against something. A closing door. “Hi. Did you call me about Jesus?”

“I'm not scared of 6A.”

“What?”

“You asked me, if I was scared? I'm not.”

“But you're like, not on the team.”

“Still.” He's got the phone cord up around his feet so that he almost trips when he walks over to his window. Rain—again—and condensation on the glass. He draws a smiley face into the window fog. “You were writing? At the counter? What was that, like a journal?”

She giggles, nervous. “I guess it's something like that. It's
so
embarrassing. Don't tell anyone.”

“Like your feelings?”

“Like my day. Or. Sometimes poems, or whatever.”

“Can you write me one?”

“A poem?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I don't really do that anymore.” Voices in the background, the door being opened. “I gotta go,” she says.