Pick-Up Game by Marc Aronson

Author:Marc Aronson [Smith Jr., Charles R.; Aronson, Marc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7636-7188-4
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2011-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

I go to work. I shoot the train station elevator as it opens to grab a crowd coming out of the subway. That’s my angle: the Cage as a magnet pulling all kinds of watchers, ballers, and regulars. The Mecca. First I’ll show the cabs. The crowds. The buses. From uptown, downtown, and crosstown, all rushing to the Mecca. All hail the Cage.

Now the people. I get the schooly-old black dude in his purple turban, long purple tunic, gold beads. I get his maroon Pumas and the Puma gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s straight out of Bethlehem. One of the Wise Men coming to worship. Then I pan the spectators, the bodies lined up, two men deep, clinging to the outer frame of the Cage. I pull in close on black, brown, tan, yellow, white, fingers hooked through chain link. Then mouths instead of eyes. The Cage is tight. The crowd is hungry, wanting to be on the inside, running and gunning. Suits and messengers, all “used-to-bes,” playing through the players. All hail the Cage.

And then there’s the lovelies, whose nail-tipped fingers also grip the chain-link fence. I grab those long-spined cheetahs in minis and shorts staking out the prey. I forget about ESPN, although he’s there in the background, going, “This is my film. My film.” But those summertime calves and thighs are too lovely to miss. Six-inch heels talking to concrete. Look-a-here, look-a-look-a-here. The Canon loves the lovelies.

“Hey, man. We gonna do this or what?”

I click the pause button. Do actors tell Spike?

“Flavor, man. Remember? Like I said, when the game starts up, I’ll be on you. OK? All you.”

“Top-ten player of the day,” he says, shooting and making an imaginary outside shot.

He steps away in time for me to grab this head full of honey-brown locks bouncing my way. The face flashes a cheesy lip-glossed grin my way. I’m not the only one scoping. I guess that’s what the lovelies aim for. To stop play inside the Cage for a quick holler. A few guys on the inside oblige, and sure enough, that’s all she wants. I take aim. Girls love being shot. No such thing as a girl who doesn’t. I call out, “Hey, Lovely. Over here.” She swings her head to me, all teeth and lips, proving my point.

I want her to speak, but she doesn’t. She just keeps walking, so I call out, “¿No habla inglés?” She won’t turn around and give me that close-up. One more try in my best fake Boricua, “¡Mira, mira, ’oni!” All girls wanna talk to the camera. Canon loves the lovelies, and the lovelies love the Canon.

But then some dude in the Cage turns, looks my way. Says, “What?” like De Niro in Scorsese’s Taxi Driver film. Like, Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me?

All I said was “Mira, mira,” but he acts like I’m calling him out and he’s waiting. I stand with my Canon. He stands with the ball. It’s like Gary Cooper staring down guns in High Noon.

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