ftp.wwiv.com/ftp.wwiv.com.zip/ftp.wwiv.com/pub/BBS/KBCOS3.ZIP/TEXT.ZIP/COZ5.BBS

File List | 1995-04-06 | 72KB | 784 lines

            This is a tale of urban horror by a writer who knows
       the world he is writing about, and the people who live there.
       This is a tale of unfulfilled dreams, lost opportunity and a
       drug that steals from the soul.







                       The Shooter From Cocaine Alley
                                        by Tom Gordon



            When I woke it was already hot. These project apartments

       are never the right temperature. The winter is the worst, no

       matter how high you turn up the thermostat or how many blankets

       you wrap around you; it's always cold.

            My brother Sammy was snoring from his bed in the corner.

       He had been out most of the night again. He didn't seem to be

       affected by the heat. I worried about Sammy, he'd been

       spending more and more time running with the gangs, living more

       in the street than at home. Sammy was only a year older than I

       was, we used to be tight, I feel like I hardly know him now.

            I put on my jeans and the black high-top basketball

       shoes. My oldest brother Jim bought me these shoes. At first I

       couldn't wear them around Mother. She never let me keep

       anything Jim bought. When she finally saw me in them she

       surprised me by not saying a word. Sometime I forget my mother

       grew up in these same projects. She knew the streets, and what

       new sneakers mean to a player.

            I found my jersey, with Jordan's name and number proudly

       on the back. I took ball from the bottom of the closet. When

       it was new it had been a good street ball, now it was worn and

       near the point where it would become lopsided. It was just as

       well, if it were in better shape the older kids would have

       already stolen it. I walked out the bedroom and into the

       living room.

            I always loved the morning, everything seems so fresh and

       new. I got half way to the refrigerator before I caught

       myself, there was no use looking for anything to eat. It was

       Wednesday, the day before mothers check came in, and two days

       since there had been anything to eat.

            Outside the sun just finished rising. I stood on the

       porch looking around. The projects seemed so innocent in early

       morning. Everything quiet and uniform. From a distance the

       gang graffiti on the buildings looked to be art. The

       playground with it's castle-slide looked to be the entrance to

       wonderland.

            By midday the projects were ugly. Radio's blaring,

       traffic congesting in the streets, people everywhere. Then at

       night it all turned deadly. The gangs roaming their previous

       turf, crack dealers on the corner. The sound of people

       fighting in their apartments; five different fights, the noise

       all mingling together so it sounded as one. Occasional a

       gunshot would ring out and the everyone would stop and wonder

       where their children were. At night the projects were evil.

            I walked crossed the parking lot. A wino was sitting on

       the bench outside the basketball courts. These were the main

       courts. During the day and early evening this was where

       everything was happening. Player's from all over city came to

       play on these main courts. Some of the older men brought lawn

       chairs and in the summer sat drinking beer and watching the

       action.

            I didn't get much chance to play here. At fifteen I was

       younger than most the main court players. When they did let me

       play I was no asset. My defense was weak and my jumper never

       seemed to fall on the main court. I got used on the main

       courts

            I practiced shooting for a while, I hit the backboard, I

       hit the rim, seems like I hit everything but the basket.

       Around nine o'clock some of the older guys came by, so I took

       my ball and left.

            I walked across the front of the projects. There was

       glass on the ground and litter sprinkled across the grass.

       When I was eight I used to go around picking things up, back

       then I figured if I worked real hard some day I'd clean it all

       up. No matter how hard I worked it never seemed to get any

       better, so like everybody else I gave up.

            At the corner of the projects was Church Street, that's

       the name in the map in the Mayor's Office; but everyone on the

       street call's it Cocaine Alley. The dealers hang out in vacant

       storefronts and business is conducted at the curb.

            I jogged across the street then down the path behind the

       Liquor Store. Another block down and I came to the back of the

       building that once was Longfellow High.

            My brother Jim had gone to this school. By the time Sammy

       and I were old enough, it was already closed and we were bused

       over to Central. The city was always talking about tearing it

       down and building a community center, or a park; ten years

       later it was still here.

            Graffiti sprayed boards blocked every window, the grass

       was uncut, A six foot steel mesh fence surrounded the

       property. I threw the ball over the fence then climbed over

       after it. I walked around the building to the pavement court

       in the back. As always it was empty.

            I climbed another fence to get on the court and swished

       my first twenty foot jumper. This was my court. I played here

       almost everyday. This was a magical place, on this court I was

       Reggie Lewis taking the final shot, or Jordan gilding in for

       the jam.

            All-round me I could hear the pounding rhythm of the

       city; the constant hum of traffic, planes overhead, and the

       mingled voices of the people. Yet on this court it seemed I

       had complete seclusion. I swished another jumper. I owned this

       court.

            I told a few of my friends about this place but none of

       them wanted to go. Some said a kid got killed there by the

       gangs, another said nobody went there because that's where the

       junkies hung out. I didn't know how the rumors started or if

       they were true. In all the time I'd played there I had never

       seen anyone else.

            I fired up another jump shot. I was invincible here.

            "Hey kid you looking for a game." I turned around in

       surprise, the ball bounced off the backboard and rolled toward

       the kid who was standing on the court. I had not heard the

       sound of the metal when he climbed the fence, or his footsteps

       on the court. Yet there he was; standing less then ten feet

       from me. A tall black kid, with a big smile and a pair of worn

       Converse high-tops on his feet.

            "Sure," I said. The black kid walked forward toward where

       the ball that had stopped rolling. He kicked it on top with

       his foot, the ball bounced up and he picked it up in a

       dribble. I bent into a defensive crouch. The black kid looked

       to be my age, maybe a year or two younger. But as soon he

       moved I knew I was in trouble. He moved all liquid and loose,

       the way the good players move, the way some of the main court

       players moved, the way my brother Jim used to move.

            He dribbled the ball free and easy, like the ball was

       alive in his hand and dancing to his music. I tried not to

       watch, I'd seen guys on the main courts get mesmerized, by

       fancy ball work.

            As he moved closer I reached forward to try and steal the

       ball. He did a lightning fast cross-over-dribble and blew by

       me, I turned to see him sky over the rim and hammer in a

       monster jam.

            We didn't say anything but we both knew. I felt abused.

       We played into late afternoon; street one and one, lots of

       hand checking, lots of pushing and shoving, lots of in your

       face defense. We didn't talk much. I was having too much

       trouble just concentrating enough to be competitive. The black

       kid was the best I'd ever seen.

            I was the first to quit, I was covered with sweat. My

       sides ached and my ankles felt swollen. The black kid looked

       the same as he did when he walked on to the court. I sat back

       against the fence trying to catch my breath. He watched me for

       a second then flipped me the ball.

            "Later," he said, and starting walking across the court.

            "Wait a minute," I said. I stood up and held out my hand.

       "Thanks for the lesson," He smiled, free and easy.

            "You did all right," He lied.

            "No way," I said. "What's your name man? You're the best

       I've ever seen. Where do you play?"

            "People call me Twinks and I play here." The smile

       flickered from his face, leaving a coldness about him that the

       smile had concealed. He walked back across the court, jumped

       the fence then disappeared around the front of the school.

            The main courts were packed when I got back. Two five men

       teams were playing and two others waiting for their turn. My

       brother Jim was playing and his team was ahead. The other team

       was lead by Roger Harris an ex-college player from uptown.

       Roger started taking over, driving every time he got the ball,

       dominating the game.

            Jim blocked one of his shots, three others found the net.

       The final shot was a twenty-foot jumper, Jim was so tired he

       didn't bother tying to stop it. I heard him curse as the ball

       dropped into the hoop.

            Jim walked over to where I was watching. One of his

       buddies walked over and handed him his Rolex watch, Jim

       slipped it over his wrist, another handed him his beeper and

       he snapped back on to his belt.

            "Got any money?" He asked. I shook my head. Jim pulled

       out a roll of bills and handed me two twenties. "Give twenty

       to Sammy." He said. "Where have you been?"

            "I was playing down behind Longfellow High." Jim gave me

       a funny look.

            "You shouldn't hang down there, that's a bad place. Lot's

       of weird shit happen's down there."

            "I go there all the time, there's never anyone there."

            "That's cause everyone else got more sense then you," Jim

       snapped. "You stay away from that place. You hear me?"

            "But Jim I played a guy down there today that was the

       best I ever saw, man he was unbelievable."

            "Ya, who's that." Jim didn't seem interested, another

       game had started and he was watching.

            "Twinks," I said. As soon as I said the name Jim spun

       around and grabbed me by the front of my jersey. He pulled me

       close so his face was only inches from mine, I saw the flash

       of red madness in his eyes.

            "You playing games with me. You think this is funny." His

       breath was hot, and stunk of whiskey. I pushed his arms away,

       people were watching. I back-pedaled then spun around and ran

       back to the apartment. Sammy was already gone I locked the

       door to my room and sat down on the bed. My face was wet with

       tears.

            When I was only five years old. Jim was the pride of the

       family, popular in the neighborhood, the star of the

       basketball team. He seemed like a God to Sammy and me. He was

       the perfect big brother.

            Then something went wrong. He started staying out all

       night. He ran with the gangs in the street, a series of

       arrests, burglary, possession, armed robbery. He did five

       years in prison and had only been out a little while.

            I didn't hang much in the streets, but I heard the

       stories. Jim was a big time crack dealer and lots of the guys

       in the neighborhood sold for him. He had a whole group of guys

       who hung around him. Word on the street was my brother Jim was

       a dangerous man. People were afraid of him.

            I never was, to me he was still great, still the hero of

       my youth. This was the first time I'd ever seen the dark side,

       the first time I saw him for what he was, and not for what I

       wanted him to be. Hero's die hard when your fifteen. I spent a

       long time alone in my room.

            Mother was in the kitchen when I came out. I handed her

       the forty dollars.

            "I saw Jim he gave me this," I told her.

            She held the money in her hands looking at it as if it

       was something vile and dirty and not the paper of life.

            "Drug money," she said contemptuously. I shrugged my

       shoulders and walked away. A few minutes later I heard her go

       out. There would be food to eat tonight. Sammy came home long

       after midnight. He was drunk again and in the darkness he

       knocked over the night table.

            "Where you been," I whispered.

            "Went to a party down on East street." I heard him drop

       onto the bed. "You should have been there, man it was wild."

       I didn't say anything for a while, but I was glad I didn't go,

       Sammy liked nothing better getting wasted, most of his summer

       would be finding new ways to get wasted. Hanging out with

       Sammy got old real fast.

            "I saw Jim today," I said. "He got all pissed off at me

       because I was hanging behind the old school."

            "Well he's spooky bout that place. Can't really blame him

       after what happened down there."

            "What do you mean? what happened?"

            Sammy laughed, "I don't believe you don't know that

       story. Jim wasted some guy down there; back when he was our

       age, hell everyone knows that story."

            "I don't believe it." I said. I'd heard rumors about Jim

       killing somebody but I just put it off as fool talk.

            Sammy laughed again. "Blew him away man, shot him right in

       the face, ask around everyone knows about that."

            Early the next morning I went back to the court. Twinks

       was waiting for me. We played for six hours straight. If

       anything Twinks played better than he had been the day before.

       His jump shot was deadly, he could dunk with ease, his foot

       speed was unbelievable.

            I had seen a lot of players on the main courts; high

       school all Americans, college players even an occasional pro.

       I'd never seen a better player then Twinks.

            "You must play on some team." I said.

            "I used to," Twinks told me. "I was a freshman played on

       my varsity team. Scored a lot of points, already had some

       college guys talking to me."

            "What happened?"

            "Started hanging with the wrong crowd, got into trouble

       doing drugs, stealing. I lost everything."

            "You still can play. You can make a comeback."

             Twinks tuned away. "Can't never comeback," he said. He

       dribbled the ball behind his back then spun around into a

       thirty foot fall-away. Swish; all net.

            I climbed the fence to the street and there were four

       guys on the sidewalk waiting for me. For a second I felt a

       rush of fear, then I saw my brother Jim; these were his boy's.

       I felt relief until I saw my brother's face. Jim stepped

       forward and slammed me against the fence. The move was so

       unexpected I dropped the ball and fell down.

            "What are you doing down there, I told you." Jim was

       livid with rage. He kicked at me as I tried to get up. Two of

       his partner's grabbed Jim and pulled him back.

            "I'm was just playing with a friend," I mumbled. I was

       looking at my brother in shock. He looked like a stranger.

            "What friend? I don't see nobody but you."

            "My friend Twinks, he's down there all the time."

            "Twinks who?" My brother asked, his voice all funny

       sounding, the anger seemed to drain out of him. He shuddered

       as if a cold wind just blew down from Cocaine Alley.

            "I don't know, some black kid bout my age. You should see

       him Jim, he's the best I ever saw. Better than you."

            "I told you Jim," one of the other guys said. "Lot of

       people seen him down there."

            "Shut up," Jim screamed. "Will take a walk down see if we

       can find this guy."

            "Not me," another gang member said, "Ain't enough money

       in the world to make me go down there."

            Jim turned to me. "You get on home, I catch you down here

       again I'm gonna kick your ass.

            I walked a few feet away. "I'll go where I please, I

       yelled. "You ain't my father, your nothing but a dirty crack

       dealer." I braced myself to start running but Jim ignored me.

       I watched as he climbed the fence and walked down to the

       schoolyard.

            Sammy didn't come home. Mother sat up all night waiting.

       I spent a few hours with her, trying to tell her it was all

       right, that he was probably at a friends house. She kept a

       strong face for me but after I went to bed I could hear her

       crying.

            I went to school and in the afternoon went back to the

       old basketball court. Twinks was there waiting. We played until

       late evening. This time when I left the playground there was

       only one guy waiting for me.

            "Was he there?" Jim asked. He wasn't angry this time. I

       nodded my head. Jim's face drained of color.

            "He's probably still there want to meet him?" I asked.

       Jim turned and walked away. I had to jog to keep up with him.

            "What's Twinks got you so spooked for?" I asked. Jim

       stopped and lit a cigarette the flame of the lighter shook

       with the rhythm of his hands.

            "It ain't him, it can't be him, some fool playing games

       is all, someone playing with my head." Jim was talking more to

       himself than to me.

            "What are you talking about." Jim looked at me, he sat on

       the wall in front of the pool hall. He took a drag from the

       cigarette, when he spoke his voice was all twisted.

            "When I was your age my friend's and I spent most of our

       time playing behind that school. Lot of the guys who play on

       Saturdays down on the main court's learned down here. There

       were two great players in the neighborhood back then, one was

       Twinks, I was the other."

            "This guy's my age," I protested, "Maybe younger." Jim

       didn't seem to hear me.

            "We were inseparable, better than best friends. We

       figured someday we were both going to make the pro's. Then we

       started hanging out after the games. We drank with the older

       guys, sniffed a little coke. Our freshman year of high school

       Twinks and I both made the high school varsity team. That

       summer we did more and more drugs.

            I started dealing, Twinks started messing with heroin. I

       was making a ton of money, basketball seemed like a pipe

       dream. I quit school.

            Twinks stayed until his junior year, by then he was doing

       so much junk he could hardly play. They kicked him off the

       team.

            Twinks owed me almost three hundred dollars. He was still

       a friend so I carried him for a long time. But after a while

       it got old. Every day he was hounding me for more drugs. One

       night we were behind the school drinking. We started arguing,

       than fighting. Twinks pulled a knife and I shot him in the

       face. I ran away and Twinks died."

            Jim paused in the story he looked at me in pain. "Nothing

       was the same for me after that."

            "You killed your best-friend?" I asked.

            "He owed me money." His face got all cold again. He stood

       up and started walking away. He jumped the fence with the

       smooth flowing motion of an athlete. He headed across the

       street and back to Cocaine Alley.

            I didn't go to the schoolyard the next day, or the day

       after. When I went back again the place was deserted and I

       practiced alone.

            I played on my high school team and got a scholarship to

       college. I was in my freshman year of college when I had to go

       home for the funeral.

            Jim only had a few friend's left. Most of his old gang

       was dead or in jail. Laying in the coffin he looked like an

       old man, even though he still wasn't thirty. The crack had

       taken his youth. My mother did not cry, to her Jim was long

       ago dead and the body they buried was only a shadow of the son

       she loved, the bullet in his head only finished what the drugs

       had started.

            Sammy didn't show up for the funeral and when I asked my

       mother about him she turned away in pain.

            That night I walked through the old neighborhood. If

       anything it had gotten worst then I remembered. I came to

       Cocaine alley and saw my brother Sammy standing with a group

       of dealers on the corner. When he saw me he ducked into an

       alley. I ran to catch him but he knew the streets too well and

       disappeared through a maze of alleys.

            I went back to where I first saw him and talked to some

       of the guys hanging around. They told me Sammy was all strung

       out and too embarrassed to let me see him. They told me he had

       a hundred dollar a day habit and with Jim dead they didn't

       know how he was going to feed it. I felt all sick inside.

            I walked down the path behind the liquor store and jumped

       the fence into the back of what once was Longfellow High. I

       could see two figure's playing on the courts.

            As I walked closer and I could see the player's clearly.

       The guy with the ball was a big black kid, no more than

       fifteen years old. He had a smile on his face and as he danced

       with the ball, he seemed to radiate joy. Guarding him a

       shorter kid with fast hands and tons of youthful enthusiasm.

            I stopped dead in my tracks. Twinks stutter stepped,

       crossover dribbled then faded into a fall-away jump shot. My

       brother Jim hung on him like glue. Jim's right hand flashed up

       and he swatted the ball out of the air and into the fence.

            The two players laughed. Twinks took the ball out of

       bounds he lowered his shoulder and drove for the baseline. Jim

       back-pedaling to keep up. They both leaped as one and for a

       magically second they hung in the air together. I heard the

       swish of ball and net.

            I turned and walked back to Cocaine alley. It took me

       three hours to find my brother Sammy, and another to talk him

       into coming home.





                       copyright 1994 Tom Gordon
        -----------------------------------------------------------

This story is from Cosmic Debris number one.
Copyright 1994 by Tom Gordon