Dark 19
Abandoned as a baby, Desmond was adopted by a Jewish couple from Chicago, who could not have children of their own but convinced they would make good parents wanted to help an underprivileged kid. To this end, both lawyers, they took on pro bono work for Catholic Adoption Services (having identified them as the most reputable) and kept an eye out for what they both felt they’d know when they saw it. Rachel saw it first, Spring1961, a black and white photo pinned to the ‘Available’ board—fat black baby standing up in a crib with ‘Desmond’ printed in the bottom margin. Below the picture, a paragraph of typed text (full of typos) described his unfortunate circumstance and mysterious origins in Thibodaux, Louisiana. The Deep South… Rachel thought, knew this was it and told Daniel that night. Next day he came with, agreed wholeheartedly and they started the process. By Hanukah, Desmond was home with them in their 19th floor penthouse, 189 E. Lake Shore Drive.
Desmond was a big baby and black, very black but all anybody knew about him was he first appeared at St. Lucy’s Church in Thibodaux, Louisiana, Christmas Morning 1960, when Sister Theresa Lascaux found him, while sweeping the rectory steps, bundled up and by a man’s belt attached to the white whicker porch swing. She named him Desmond on the spot, as was her wont, had a knack for naming kids and seldom had to deliberate. Proper names came right away to Sister Theresa, at first sight, most times, they popped right in. The adopting parents, Daniel and Rachel Kahn had plans to name him—Leviticus Joseph Kahn II, after Daniel’s deceased father, Holocaust survivor and world renowned orthopedic surgeon for the Chicago Bears but changed their minds when several nuns praised at great length Sister Theresa’s remarkable record in that department, “Most parents keep the name she gave their kid and are always glad they did,” Sister Constance explained and pointed to a wall of plaques commemorating donations made in the names of adopted children past, “Everyone but one… kept the name Sister Theresa gave,” the nuns nodded in unison as if at a well known fact, details of which are better left unsaid. Rachel imagined neglect and a baby dead and Daniel—how the name might be a bit much for an African-American Jewish kid.
Desmond Levi Kahn, they settled upon and for a kid bigger and better than his peers at most things, Desmond Kahn made sense and proved to be a wellspring of nicknames—Dez Kahn, D-Kahn, Kahn Man and of course—Genghis, once he got into organized athletics and dominated the competition. Desmond, a force of nature, spawned no little wonder at who his parents were and/or what became of them. His story kicked up the old nature vs. nurture debate and on hearing, people loved to speculate about how things might have been for him were he not adopted? Because no doubt about it, The Kahn’s nurtured Desmond well. They believed happiness came from good health and above average intelligence, researched age appropriate training, hired consultants from local universities, had obstacle/logic courses installed on the terraces and made them adjustable, so degree of difficulty could increase, once he got through without a mistake. Dez took the stairs from an early age and only rode the lift (their private penthouse elevator) on his birthdays, a big deal and special treat. Rachel consulted nutrition experts and Exercise Physiologists, came up with diets and programs aimed at a solid base of strength, endurance and flexibility. He retained childlike range of motion, could still do the splits with ease and put both feet behind his head at age 17, had incredible endurance, ran in the first Chicago marathon, with his uncle, Duke. Rachel researched each life stage the way she would a big case and it worked well to a certain age but she always dreaded the end game. Experts all agreed—pull the plug by age 19, kick them out of the nest or insist they pay rent and utilities at least, abide home rules, lead productive lives but most importantly, communicate this need for separation well in advance, frame it as a win-win success. It should come as no surprise to the teenage mind when the realization hits, “What do you call a father whose 20 year old son dropped out of college and moved back in?”
“I don’t know Dad, what?”
“Counterfeit Bill!” These bizarre emancipation proclamations (they dubbed them) always came out of the blue, often on his birthdays and felt to Dez like déjà vu. The lift would mysteriously stop and, “What is this?” Daniel would ask, “Here we are… floor 6, age 6. Desmond Levi Kahn, 6 floors big!” Daniel would rub his head, squeeze an elbow, pat his back, tell a story and deliver some useful instruction, “You my little friend are like this tall building we are in, working on floor 6 now but when we get to…” he’d point at the dark 19 above the door, “you’ll be so big you’ll need a foundation all your own to support yourself and grow bigger with.”
So amazed to even be on the lift, as a kid, he always imagined it a rocket ship and never really got the gist of what this meant until one night, just after his birthday (set as November 28th) coming back from a Bulls game and thanks to the newly remodeled interior, now with wall-to-wall mirrors, Dez saw Daniel stop the elevator with a little round key, “You got a key?” He blurted out, incredulous, as Daniel quickly slipped it back into his coat pocket. Like Toto sniffing out the Wizard of Oz, Dez realized then what dark 19 meant. He felt manipulated, betrayed and furious all at once, balled his fists, grit his teeth, did not want to hear a stupid speech, hated suddenly this man he’d loved so much, wanted only to be out of the lift and away from him, yet… had a lot of guilt as well for feeling like this.
“See?” Daniel pointed to the lit 15.
“Yeah, I know. You’re kick’n me out at 19. Got it. We can go now. Presto Chango!” Desmond jumped apart his feet and flailed his hands towards Daniel, fingers wriggling, like he’d seen the Bulls’ mascot do at opposing players during free throws, to make them miss. Daniel found this display ugly, grotesque even, when moments earlier, while getting on the lift in the lobby, he had thanked Daniel for taking him to the game and arranging things like he did, excitement at getting to ride the lift. But now Dez turned away, tears in his eyes, no place to hide, no place he couldn’t see Daniel, receding to infinity, his look of incredulity—shoulders slumped, palms out like, What did I do to deserve this? Repugnant. He closed his eyes, wanted to act tough, indifferent, smash glass, punch the door but just felt crushed. Daniel stayed the course, talked about feelings of rebellion, how normal it is, hormonal chaos, not your fault, clear thinking so important in big choice moments coming along, communication and restraint, desire channeled in productive ways. Trust in those who only want what’s best and are most qualified to prescribe necessary action, steer clear of pornography. We love you… Dez paid no attention, squinted at the farthest reflection he could find in the mirrors.
Daniel, losing his patience, “This… IS exactly why we pause from time to time and reflect on what comes next and what doesn’t,” got angry when Dez started alternating eye blinks to make his reflection shift back and forth, “Look at yourself. You act like your actions don’t reflect back on you and others aren’t going to see it,” he put a hand on Dez’s back, tried to make eye contact but Dez swatted it away, “Case in point, this irrational behavior and rejection of your best friend and benefactor. Who got tonight’s tickets? Hmm? Opening night? Buffet unlimited? Did you enjoy the Luxury Box? Meeting Bob Love? Who sprung for that? Hmm? Look me in the eye Desmond, please?”
Desmond never brought playmates to the penthouse. It just wasn’t done. They’d ask when he was young, out on the beach, “Where do you live?”
“Up there,” he’d say and point to the top of 189 E. Lakeshore Drive, “19th floor…” they’d shade their eyes and look up. Sometimes Dez brought along his telescope and they’d use it, ask questions like, “You live on top? Way up there? All those plants? There’s trees up there?” He told them he had a monkey. They’d want to see it, ride the elevator, look off the balcony, “Terrace,” he’d correct them, as his parents did him, “We use the stairs.” When he was really young, no one wanted to climb the steps or they’d go about five flights and quit. Once he made it all the way with a kid, Billy Sullivan, only to be turned back, a few steps in, by Daniel, who snapped at Dez and terrified Billy, actually escorted him out the door and down to the public elevator on the 18th floor. Desmond realized then they did not want visitors. Daniel and Rachel seldom fought but if they did it was about the need to have people in—contractors, delivery people, certified mail needing signatures… neither liked it but Daniel was obsessed. Even relatives were chased off, some who’d come for years. An only child, Daniel bought out Leviticus when he retired and moved to Florida. It was the only place he felt safe. Family gatherings shifted to suburban homes with big yards, where kids could run around and not be in the house disturbing grown-ups. Happy to take Dez anywhere, they just wanted control over who came into their home and interviewed hundreds of applicants in the lobby before hiring a driver or nanny to watch over him if they were unable. Home was for the three of them, a large aquarium of fish, two spiders, a snake, Uncle Duke and Aunt Janet. Uncle Duke was Rachel’s twin and the only one who ever just dropped in, had a key to the lift and once let Desmond ride it, on a day not his birthday; set off a heated argument with Daniel, so it never happened again. They often came for Wednesday game night, where they’d play Tripoli or Monopoly or cards, either Euchre or Hearts. Desmond loved to play cards and was really good at it.
Duke ran the athletic equipment cage at Depaul University and took Desmond to work with him in summers and on weekends. He introduced Dez to organized athletics and gym culture, designed the first obstacle course, before professionals were brought in and logic components added. Dez got big and strong quick and when the neighbors started complaining about him jumping around on the roof or running up and down the steps, he needed somewhere safe to go and burn off all the energy he had. Daniel and Rachel were huge sports fans and they knew Desmond’s involvement in organized athletics was probably inevitable, yet feared outside influence and serious injury. Daniel had witnessed lots of serious injury as a kid. His father, Dr. Levi Kahn, renowned orthopedic surgeon, operated on many famous athletes, “Professional athletics equals job security, my boy!” He’d say to Daniel sometimes and rub his head, when they were alone together in the hospital elevator or driving home after a game, wanted him to become a surgeon too but science was not Daniel’s strong suit.
After the elevator debacle Desmond turned outward, embraced peers and organized athletics to which he’d been somewhat indifferent, up till then, preferring time at home, on the beach or in the Depaul gym to the rigidity of teams, seasons and dictatorial coaches. Increasingly hyper-competitive however, Dez wanted to win where it mattered most. But more than win, he wanted to dominate, imagined himself the black Dick Butkus. Pinned every picture from Sports Illustrated’s NBA Enforcer issue to his wall and felt a guilty thrill when Kermit Washington smashed Rudy T’s face, had a lot more respect for Kareem after he laid Kent Benson out. Dez wanted his name in the papers, crowds watching, cheerleader girlfriends and interviews with him on TV. He started to hang around after school, even when he wasn’t practicing, loved goofing around with girls. Daniel and Rachel made allowances for the usual teen stuff—rejection, outbursts, rudeness, extreme mood swings and indifference to their requests. They worked hard to bridge the gap, always asked about and attended his events, kept in contact with teachers and coaches, monitored progress towards college, lay awake at night worrying. His increasingly erratic and defiant behavior however only confirmed and strengthened their overall commitment to the end game. These were the years you just have to get through, all the experts said. Alienation—a small price to pay, compared to what happens if kids won’t leave the nest—the loss of your life’s enjoyment.
Desmond attended Bernard Zell, a nearby Jewish day school. Rachel hoped he would go on from there to her alma mater—Ida Crown Academy in Skokie. But Ida Crown had no football and the basketball team seldom won. Desmond hoped to play both sports at a high level and win every game, be ranked, go down state. Daniel, a big basketball fan, encouraged Dez to find a powerhouse program for basketball (with good academics) but lobbied hard against football, witnessed as a kid, on the sidelines at Soldier Field with his dad, grown men crying, on stretchers strapped to golf carts, his father bent over asking questions, manipulating their arms and legs, sometimes having to shout over the roar of the crowd or put an ear close to their mouths. Saddest sight he’d ever seen—big strong men crying and writhing in pain, his father so patient and gentle with them, rides in the ambulance, post-surgical satisfaction at successful reattachments of ligaments and tendons. Daniel didn’t like it… feared the escalating violence in sports. Feared Dez was too intelligent and sensitive for the tyrants and egomaniacs that drive organized athletics. Feared he would live as an adult in constant pain, joints replaced at an early age. Dez would not be dissuaded, insisted on playing both sports and chose Leo, a Catholic prep school with proud athletic traditions and competitive teams. He excelled from day one in football, basketball and at track and field events, where he ran sprints, put the shot and threw javelins. Graduated first in his class with a 4.0 and scored near perfect on the SATs.
Tom and Dez met at Knox College, August 27, 1979, early in the morning, first day of football doubles. Tom, a sophomore, did not play football but made a deal with Harley Knosher—Athletic Director, assistant football, head basketball and golf coach—to intern with the Equipment Manager (who doubled as Trainer) in order to get away, soon as possible, from his home town. Tom would rather fold towels and handle sweaty practice bags, than mow grass for the Parks Dept. (his summer job) or be around his sister. Time at Knox with open access to gym and weight room, competitive pick-up games everyday at noon and no distractions (work), was just about heaven for Tom. Faculty, staff, alumni and locals all came. Football players too, always wanted to play, “Just one more! I’ll sub out in a minute! Just let us finish! C’mon Coach! We win’n!” They’d plead and play on, even when told no and reminded of the rule against. Sometimes it went on the whole game like this, ping-pong banter and one-upmanship until some coach took the ball away and made them quit. Whence they’d protest, hop about and enact some juvenile dumb-show while everyone else waits, goes gets a drink or hunts up subs to replace whomever has to quit. These shenanigans annoyed Tom who wanted a serious game, hated delays and trash-talk, which there almost always were if football players played.
Dez played every day. Hyper-competitive and accustomed to high stakes, big city pressure, Dez, from the first, by general consensus, didn’t know his place and rubbed people the wrong way. But… bigger, stronger, faster and better than everyone else, he put it a lot, as they say—in your face, won every game, talked trash way more than anybody at Knox ever had, disturbing some who felt it was not the ‘Knox way’. Dez on your team guaranteed you won the game and he often played an hour or more, full court, between two-a-day practices, where he dominated both sides of the ball, then sometimes went on to run routes with QB1 Jeff Clark until dark, even if it was 100°. Coaches were giddy at the prospects and teammates in awe of his prowess. Faster, stronger, smarter, bigger and more competitive than anybody else who’d ever gone to Knox, it didn’t take long to either love or hate Dez, depending upon which end of the stick you got. Tom remembered the previous Spring’s talk about an amazing prospect from Chicago, near perfect SATs, 1st in his class, All-State Illinois in football, basketball and track, big school, big-time talent, scholarship offers galore, fell for Harley’s magic and applied and might actually come because he values academics and scholarship schools won’t let him play both sports or go both ways in football and Harley told him play all the sports you want… it droned on and on like that, all spring term with no resolution. Far as Tom knew—false hope was standard fare during recruitment.
In the gym, early morning, first day of football doubles, shooting and running wind sprints, Harley entered and yelled out, “Bones!” A nickname Tom didn’t much like but seemed stuck with, as everyone called him that since he’d been back, even Mrs. Mendrick, the Athletic Department secretary, “Hey, Coach,” Tom held the ball and walked towards Harley, who stood just inside the double doors with a big grin, one thumb up like he did when he wanted to make a point, “Bo…” he started, then shuffled forward a few inches and readjusted, “Bones…” again he trailed off, shifted his stance and had to recompose himself, almost laughed, let out a sort of, “Ha!” And shook his head, as if too amazed at what he was about to present, “There’s someone… I want you… want you to meet… our new best friend!” He whistled, stepped aside and held out a hand in presentment, as through the double doors Dez burst in, pointed to the far hoop and yelled, “Alley oooop!” Shirtless, yellow sweat pants pulled up to his knees, no socks and flip-flops he kicked off, as with long loping strides he charged down-court. Tom took a couple dribbles and tossed the ball a foot or so in front of the rim. Dez caught it one hand on the way up and tomahawk slammed it hard, landed soft and backpedaled to the top of the key, where he spotted up and called for the ball. Swish! Tom rebounded and fed him as Swish! Swish! Swish! He hit ten shots in a row, nothing but net. Tom had never seen Harley so giddy… at half-court during this display, clicking a front tooth with his thumbnail and scooting towards them like he did on the sidelines at games, one shuffle per click.
Everyone was excited. By all accounts Dez could bring Knox unprecedented success. Tom, while impressed, preferred to withhold judgment, had seen plenty promise go unfulfilled, potential overestimated. He just hoped last year didn’t repeat itself. They had talent, even without Dez, but something broke the year before, talent be damned. That team’s collapse so bad… Tom thought for sure he’d transfer if anything like it happened again.
It was arranged for them to be roommates during two-a-days and beyond that if they wished. Daniel, Desmond’s father, shared with Harley the details of a hazing incident involving Desmond at Leo, along with concerns that Dez’s temper could at times get the better of him. So Harley recruited Tom to help him steer clear of trouble. Tom did not want this job, thought it put him in an awkward position with a team he wasn’t really a part of and protested. But Harley missed the point and insisted that assistant trainers were just as much part of the team as anybody else. And what choice did he have? He wanted to be Harley’s guy, hoped to start and play a lot that year. Harley had only just realized, in his 27th year at Knox, how much hazing actually takes place and right under his nose in most cases. It had gone on for years and was, in Tom’s opinion, what destroyed the 1979-’80 team, projected to be the best in Knox history. The top players abused the scrubs and freshman, way too much, for their own enjoyment. Torment at times turned psychotic. The scrubs—Program Players they were called, rah-rah men who never got off the bench, took it, for a long time, in silence. Tom witnessed all this because he was moved up to varsity when Team Captain Ray Blinsky hurt his knee, jumping over a couch in preseason, stupid drunk and on LSD.
Tom could not believe the cruelty and dysfunction of that team. The scrubs—Wad, Cratty, Baldy and Mac (as they were known) became the incessant butt of jokes—jockstraps filled with Atomic Balm, beds short-sheeted on the road, cups of piss leaned against their door, towels stolen, hot water turned off in the middle of their shower. Cratty’s last name became synonymous with boredom, campus wide, thanks to their incessant ridicule. Tom avoided this stuff in high school and hoped college would be different but it wasn’t. A little resistance from the victim was expected, added enjoyment to the process. But too much backtalk or physical response and things escalated quick—teasing turned to torment and emotional abuse. After eight straight losses to start the season, team broken, the victims spoke out during a ‘clearing’ and exposed everything—the partying, the abuse, multiple injuries sustained in a drunken night of couch jumping. Lies and transgressions replayed, drinking, smoking marijuana and snorting cocaine. Not everything came out—they never got around to the LSD… which led to couch jumping. Harley, who valued honesty and integrity above all things, was shocked and disappointed to say the least. He cried at the meeting and ultimately made them promise (again) not to smoke or drink for the duration of the season, named all four scrubs Captain—a joke and team death sentence. Four of five starters played high every game, on marijuana, speed or both. Elaborate schemes were in place to assure they got their hits on the road, before and after games. Post clearing, everything collapsed. They won six and lost eighteen. Most miserable season Tom ever had and he couldn’t wait for it to end. An experience he did not want repeated, was hopeful for the new season, as most of the afflicted and afflicting parties graduated or transferred.
On hearing of Harley’s hazing concerns, Dez told Tom not to worry and shared the story from Leo, “Everyone hated this senior—David Lebedeff. Got off on hurt’n people, you know? Real psychopath, had that cocky stance—pigeon toed, you know? Gut out, walk’n like the big boss, wag’n his fat head, talk’n real slow, like it pains him to get a word out. Everyone said, when I visited, “Watch out for Leo-bedeff!” He called himself that, believe it or not, “Lucky! You only get him for one year,” they’d say. So I’m already on to him when, first day a doubles, he calls out the freshmen and makes us dig holes behind the bleachers. Has like 25 shovels, old man owns a hardware store, I guess. Says we’re dig’n the graves he’ll put us in if we fuck up his team, keeps yell’n, “This’s my team, boys! And you will NOT fuck up my team!” I’m like scrape’n off gravel, not really dig’n. Dude, the ground’s hard as hell but he’s watch’n me so I jump on the shovel, you know? Like to push it in and it bends in half, folds right up, is a piece a shit! He starts over to where I’m at, real mad, when, “How deep’s it gotta be?” This kid, Danny Hart, asks as he goes by, “What? Give me that shovel, Boy!” He stops, snatches the shovel from his hands and whacks him up top the head! Pow! Just like that! With the fuck’n shovel part! Right up top his head! Laid him out flat! Points at me and says, “That’s on you, rook!” Everyone’s now look’n at me like what am I gonna do… and I’m think’n it’s time for a regime change, so I throw down my shovel and go at him. Dude swings Hart’s freak’n shovel at me… first thing! Whoa! At my head! I ducked it and shit got re-al, quick! I tackled him, some’ I’m good at, beat him senseless, pretty much know’n I’d get away with it, after what he did—dude signed his death wish. Lost my mind a little bit, have to admit, went postal on his ass. They had to go get a coach a pull me off ‘im. Broke ‘is nose. Some’ said he called me Jew-Nigger, for good measure, but… I don’t think he did. Sealed the deal, though. He never came back. Gold Coast crew threatened a lawsuit if their demands weren’t met, one of which was expell’n Lebedeff. They met every other demand too—Gold Coast crew don’t mess around. Lawyers galore… got a lot in the bag, dude. We won’t get hazed.”
Tom, not reassured by this, feared Desmond underestimated what he was up against. Bad as basketball hazing could be, football was worse, like they couldn’t get enough. Obsessed… the more hazing took place, the more they seemed to crave, would sit around and talk about who was next and how they’d do it, almost as much as they talked about sex. Monday, second week of two-a-days, Victor Sarkhan got wind of his special assignment and announced Tom was on deck for initiation, as first year trainer, chose him because he knew a posse would be less than enthusiastic if the announced target was Dez; did however hope to find them together and double team it. Steve Harmon, Tom’s freshman year roommate, played football and added further fuel to the fire when he announced that Tom had not been initiated in basketball either, had gone to great lengths, early on, to avoid the mob, which eased off, once they were exposed in the clearing. Sure enough, the posse formed before evening practice and set off after Tom, reportedly in the basement auxiliary training room taping Desmond. Tom learned to tape in the first place because so many players needed it done twice a day. Harley assigned him to Dez because most initiations took place before or after practice and the auxiliary training room’s basement isolation made it a popular place for an ambush.
Halfway through the first wrist, “Wait!” Dez hissed, “Step back,” pushed Tom away, tore off the dangling roll of tape, climbed down off the table and snatched an emergency backboard off the wall, wrapped its Velcro straps around his wrists and headed for the door. Tom saw the mob appear, other end of the long narrow hall to the auxiliary training room. They had rolls of tape and tubs of Atomic Balm, “Initiation time!” Sarkhan yelled, when he realized they’d been spotted and, “It’s two for one, Boys! Welcome to The Club, rooks!” With a glance over his shoulder, to see that the pack had his back, Sarkhan bum rushed the door. Dez, with a quick kayak like paddle motion, wedged the backboard against the outside frame and leaned hard into it, just as they hit. It bent in but held. The posse bunched up on itself. Only two could be in front at a time.
“PUUUSH!” Sarkhan yelled and put a shoulder to the board, thought the mass of them could snap it. But they had no traction, Dez dug in and it held, “PUUULL!” Sarkhan reversed course, grabbed the board and everyone grappled for a grip on whoever was in front of them. Dez, at first, resisted… until, momentum shifted, he pushed hard against their collective pull. Footing lost in the sudden surge, they staggered back en masse and collapsed. Still strapped to the backboard, Dez scrambled on top and jammed it repeatedly into Sarkhan and Guido’s necks, “That all you pussies got? All done Big Man? Who da boss? Huh? Who da boss now?” He screamed in their faces, spit flew out his mouth. Nobody in the pile could move. Six guys pinned with Dez on top, rubbing it in.
“C’mon Dez, it’s done! It’s done! Stop, Dez! Stop!” Tom undid the straps from his wrists and got him free of the backboard, whence he scrambled over the pile, indifferent to whom he stepped on in the process and headed at those who’d come along to watch. They scattered and ran, whence Dez flexed, threw back his head and roared, like he did after monster hits. Tom slipped past the stunned posse, still struggling to untangle themselves, got a hold of Dez and dragged him outside onto the practice field, where coaches were milling about, comparing notes. The posse was crushed—Sarkhan couldn’t move, slipped a disk in his neck, went to the hospital in an ambulance, spent a week in traction and missed half the season. Guido twisted his knee and missed opening day. No fan of initiations but wowed by how Dez handled it, Tom nonetheless feared, things would only escalate from there, not end. No one was inclined to accept that sort of behavior from freshmen.
Serious injuries sustained while ‘fucking around’ sent coaches through the roof. They made it clear—no more monkey business allowed. That massive beat down established Dez as a force to be reckoned with and from then on players looked to him for leadership. He toned down the physical extremes, cut the trash-talk in practice and saved his violence for opposing teams. QB1 Jeff Clark (Clarky) and Dez had great chemistry. They led Div. III in most passing categories. On Defense, Dez dominated the line, drew double teams and eventually forced the opposition into predictable schemes like—run the other way from wherever he lined up. Knox had its best football season ever, until… second to last game, needing one win to secure a spot in the playoffs, tragedy struck. Sarkhan fell on Desmond’s leg in a pile-up and tore multiple knee ligaments. When he couldn’t put any weight on it, Dez freaked out and started yelling, even before he got off the field, “He did it on purpose! Motherfucker! You did it on purpose! I’m a fuck’n kill you, motherfucker!” Over and over again, had to be restrained by multiple players, even though he could barely stand. The game was delayed. Tom was summoned and got Dez calmed down, coaxed him onto a golf cart and drove him to the gym to get dressed for transport by ambulance but he went off again in the locker room and broke his hand, caving in a metal locker, a whole series of them. Tom again calmed him down and rode along to the hospital but they had to wait a long time to operate, as Daniel and Rachel insisted on flying their surgeon down on a private plane. They gave Dez something for the pain and he conked out, so Tom left and caught a cab back to the gym, not knowing why, exactly. Once back there, after dark, walking down the main hall, still unsure what he was doing… Tom saw Harley in his office watching game film—the play where Dez got hurt… forwards and backwards, over and over. Tom watched too, through the door, before knocking, Harley not knowing he was there.
“Oh, hey Bones,” he said, motioned him in and patted a chair, indicated he should sit, still had on his coaching outfit, “Watch and tell me what you see here. Just between us, okay?” He closed the door. Tom nodded and watched it a few times forward and back, “I don’t see anything looks intentional,” it pained Tom to say this because he knew for sure Dez believed it was and… Tom wouldn’t put it past Sarkhan. That’s just the kind of guy he is.
“Yeah, I don’t see anything indicates intent. What should we do about it? Between you and me?”
“What?” Tom did not understand, thought the film showed Sarkhan didn’t do it on purpose or was at best indeterminate. He loved to throw himself on the pile like that… but then, so did Dez.
“Desmond can’t be attacking teammates. You heard him yelling? That’s unacceptable. The hazing incident… in the basement? He destroyed a locker… broke his hand. Is it someone’s face next time? Rudy Tomjonavich? I love the kid but he’s got to rein it in.”
“Uh…” Tom didn’t know what to say. Sarkhan was a major dick, “he just got hurt,” this seemed obvious and Tom too would be crazy upset… to get injured like that, on purpose or not.
“Yes, true, I understand that… but things went too far. We can’t tolerate it. discipline breaks down quick without accountability—everyone loses. There’s no I in team. You can’t just vent your frustrations however you wish.”
Tom felt he was talking about the previous year’s basketball team, which had nothing to do with Dez and his knee. Harley stood a moment, in classic pose, barely audible click of thumbnail on front tooth, as he contemplated, “He’ll need… hmm… to apologize to the whole team and Sarkhan individually. I’ll talk with Joe about it. Don’t you think? At least? We can’t wink at outbursts like this,” he paused on a close up shot of Dez, mouth wide, screaming at Sarkhan.
“I guess,” was all Tom said and later regretted not lobbying harder on Desmond’s behalf. Knew in his gut it was a big mistake to punish him. But they did… had him meet with all the captains and coaches. Thus was Tom not surprised to come home one day and find Dez packing up his stuff, “What it is, Dez? Go’n somewhere?” Tom asked as he entered their dorm room.
“Those assholes! Want me to apologize to him! That’s fuck’n bullshit! To Sarkhan… in front of the whole fuck’n team… You kid’n me? That some fucked up shit, bro! They trip’n, they think I’m a do that! Mother fucker oughta be ‘pologize’n to me!”
Tom liked rooming with Dez, was excited about their basketball prospects and felt bad that he hadn’t protested to Harley when he had the chance, “They’re out to lunch… C’mon Dez, finish the term at least? Quit football… the hell with them. Harley would probably be happy. He doesn’t want you hurt. You’ll be hoop’n again soon. We’ll be good, I think, better’n last year.”
He shook his head, an exaggerated no, “Not happen’n, bro. But in better news… it’s yo’ lucky day, TB!” He called Tom ‘TB’ instead of Bones, said Bones wasn’t right and predicted he’d lead the charge to change it. Already a little loopy on pain pills, Dez left off packing, sprawled out on the now bare mattress, elevated his knee and lit a joint, a risky thing to do in the dorms. Tom put a towel at the bottom of the door and turned his fan out, as Dez started rambling, “I’m a tell you a story, TB, ‘bout some Gold Coast primetime, pimped out penthouse, fairytale crib. Chi-town, big city, Midwest hip. Looziana orphan, live’n in the clouds, Baby… shapeshift’n by… so close you can taste ‘em… the old man used to say when they’s pink, pretend they taste like cotton candy. Moon shadows march’n stately by, all ripple’n in the lake outside… view all lake and sky, perfect split if you look just right, bottom pane—lake, top pane—sky. Subtle shades of blue, green and gray, sky or lake. Skyline bright and a million shades of light… fog so thick at times and white, like you live’n on Olympus… shimmer’n swirls of mist… sheets of rain you stand out in, sting your head. Catch giant snowflakes on your tongue. We built a snow fort once, snowmen… and the wind? Man… howl’n Windy City wind! Sometimes sound’n like the blues, bear’n down… paradise, m’ man! A mom and dad, as I was conditioned to think of them then, love’n family, forest on the terrace, thick old school greenhouse glass, always sweat’n long rivulets. We kept snakes, exotic plants, pigeons and bunnies, until I didn’t take care of them—classic! Anywhere you want to go in the city or stay the day at home, watch butterflies migrate past, study their path, fly to where they’re going or came from… museums. You could never exhaust that place or want to leave it… as a kid. But dark 19 comes quick and next thing you know… Success, success, success, success… does it matter? I been shattered. My brain’s been battered… you can guess the rest.”
Dez told Tom his story of banishment, described in vivid detail the lift, his room, terraces in all directions, conservatory, birds, neighborhoods and beaches, the DePaul weight room and gym, how magical it all was to him as a kid, blessed and content until the day he realized they meant to kick him out and somehow that fact flipped the script from blessing to torment, from love to anger and resentment. As a ‘project’—his ultimate success hinged on getting kicked out of the place he loved best… because it isn’t owned by him? He couldn’t get his head around it, much less his heart, “I did way more live’n there in one day… than they ever will. How do you do that to an orphan… shit, to any kid? Praise home and unbreakable bonds, family magic and traditions, safe and secure nurture’n environment—your home… then jerk it away like some tablecloth trick?” Someone knocked on the door, just then, and Tom opened it. A chauffer in black suit, white shirt with skinny gold tie and shiny shoes, came in and spoke quietly with Dez, who obviously knew him, picked up and carried his bags out to a long white limousine, parked on the street below.
“My chariot awaits. Gold Coast crew… they may be slow but they show! TB… it’s been real and fun but it hasn’t been real fun!” Tom helped him find his crutches. The limo man came back and handed Dez an album, still wrapped in plastic, said, “I will wait for you on the steps, sir. When you’re ready.”
“This… is for you,” Dez handed the album to Tom, “Y’all need to funkify this establishment. Be good m’ friend and don’t think twice it’s alright… cuz it ain’t!” They hugged, dapped and hugged again. Dez mounted his crutches and looked back as if to say something else, but didn’t. Tom too, dumbstruck, just nodded as he left… watched from his window, them get into the limo and pull away. Only then did he think—I don’t even know where he’s going…
He looked at the album—Sugarhill Gang, Rapper’s Delight. Listened to it several times that night. Like nothing he’d heard before—one song, twenty-some minutes long, funny lyrics. They played it over the loudspeaker that year for warm-ups, at every home game, reminded Tom of Dez. After the initial announcement that he’d left school and subsequent flurry of short takes on the topic, no one spoke of him or seemed to care where he went and once the basketball season started, Tom, engrossed, thought about him less and less. Sometime around the start of spring term, he got a letter from Dez. Included was a newspaper clipping from a game Dez played at Nichols State (in Thibodaux, Louisiana), saying how he came off the bench, just back from rehab and in the last game of the year, scored 30 points, grabbed ten rebounds and blocked 5 shots, was a near unstoppable force on the court. The article expounded at length upon next year’s promise, with Dez at full strength and four starters returning. On Holiday Inn letterhead he handwrote:
TB m’man,
I returneth home to Thibodaux (ha-ha!) strange place, strange name. Accepted full-ride to Nichols State, they giveth when I calleth coach that day and sayeth I was done with Knox’s bullshit. Wondered how it would affecteth me being back here---The South, I mean, birthplace, and all. Jury still out… ain’t seen nobody looks like me at the Piggly Wiggly’s but I’m starting to soundeth like them! Not really, fighting against it, can barely understand shit. They have Piggly Wiggly’s! Sat on the porch swing at St. Lucy’s where I was abandoned! Almost broke it... Full-ride gives some independence from the Gold Coast phonies, who although not at all supportive of my choices, nonetheless ponied up a private jet and sent their man from Chicago to drive me from Knox to the airport (you believe that shit?) flew me straight here from Galesburg International! Afraid if I went home I’d never leave, I guess. So I’m never going back! Good team, good guys for the most part (no hazing, no Sarkhans!) Coaches… ah, well… hope springs eternal? What it take to be a coach? How went the season? Never see any Knox scores. Got a computer (piece of shit). Wow! Dig that Sugarhill Gang? Be some freaky-deak shit! Y’all wouldn’t believe what they listen to down here… and say. Come visit, transfer! You could start here.
l8r g8r,
Dez
Tom did not write back (to anyone ever, unless forced to by his mother) and did not hear from or of Dez again, although he checked Nichols State box scores all the next year, thought maybe he changed his name and perhaps Levine—the best player not there the year before (in the clipping he sent) was him. But Levine wasn’t really good enough to be him and eventually Tom stopped checking. Then one day, some thirty years later, he got a text from Teri—huge black guy here? says your friend from Knox? Desmond? ‘Here’ being Tom’s mom’s house in Portland, where Teri and her offspring also lived and Justin the foster kid.
wtf? Tom texted back and immediately regretted it as Teri responded with a barrage of texts—get over here! mom doesn’t know what to do! he won’t stop talking! seems off… or on something! wtf Tom? where are you? He got there five minutes later, “Tom!” She met him at the door, “Or is it, TB?” Tom brushed her aside and went to the kitchen, where sat Dez, at the table, looking at his phone, drinking coffee, way bigger than he used to be, so big in fact the room felt small and Tom had a sense that it tipped towards Dez, which he knew was nonsense. Still he felt vertiginous and the kitchen, claustrophobic.
Dez looked up from his phone, “TB!” Stood and sent his chair flying and almost the table too, coffee spilled. He crossed the space in truncated steps, as if stiff and not quite ready to stand, bear-hugged Tom, displacing his mom and Teri in the process. His smell overwhelmed them all for a moment, not bad but potent. Tom didn’t wear deodorant but did bathe regular, thanks to his new girlfriend who insisted on it. Smelled like Dez hadn’t for awhile, “Tom Brown!” He held him out at arm’s length and Tom noted his giant hands and still great strength, “You look’n good m’ friend! Fit as a fiddle!”
“Nice to meet you Desmond,” Tom’s mom said from the doorway, where she stood arm in arm with Teri, “We’ve got to go clean bathrooms. Make your selves at home. Tom, get him some coffee and cake,” she pointed to a cake box on the counter, “Teri brought it home. It’s tasty. Needs to be eaten,” they bowed out and Teri flapped her hand, behind Dez, like a yapping dog.
He turned without letting go of Tom’s arms, “Oh yeah, you two too… nice a meet you… thanks for coffee… and cake… more is the last thing I need… your hospitality! Appreciated…” kept on saying things like that, even after they were gone, stopped only when Tom moved to free his arms, “Oh! Sorry TB. Hold’n on for dear life, brah.”
Tom didn’t know what that meant but it sounded a little desperate, “Let’s go to the basement,” he whispered. Knew Teri would listen if they talked in the kitchen but as he opened the little door to the basement, had doubts Dez would fit. It was a bending twist even for Tom, the immediate right angle turn, with no head room, onto steep narrow steps.
Sensing his hesitation, “I got this man,” Dez said, waved him on and waited until he got to the bottom, took off his parka, hung it on a chair, then bent and squeezed sideways through the small door and descended, wall to wall, with his head cocked to one side. Tom’s old room, still set as it had been when he lived there, while recovering from a hurt back. No sheets on the too small bed, bare bookcases and empty dresser, chairs stacked on the table, freshly painted floor—all reminded Tom how far he’d come from the lame daze, smoking pot in Mom’s basement, wondering if he would ever again be a viable human subject. He took two chairs off the table and set them face to face, as Harley always had at Knox, back in the day, before a heart to heart.
Dez picked up on this. A big smile flashed and he laughed, “Love it m’man! Nice touch! How is the old dog? You seen him? Harley? Much?”
Tom sat and motioned Dez should do the same, “Not for a long time. I use to, when we lived in Indianapolis…”
“That where you from?” Dez pulled the chair a little back and sat.
“No, Crawfordsville…”
“Oh yeah! Crawlbackwardsville! You call it, I ‘member!” He laughed the way he had when Tom first told him that. Tom too felt a strange elation, like something in life come back around, still chasing its original tail. Tom had only called it Crawlbackwardsville that once. As a rule, he hated expressions like that—the dusty relics of a dour outlook, remnants of bygone times, rhetorical bravado. Things old people say in dim lit bars, too early in the day, like the town is to blame for their lame lives, summed up in such clichés—It’s five o’clock somewhere…
“Small town just west of…”
“Brah! That’s what I said when I got to Thibs… Thibodaux, when I first went in, saw the sign ‘n thought—15K, same as Crawlbackwardsville,” he laughed again, “Small town… but we packed ‘em in, brah—filled a gym, bigger than the town!”
“How’d it go? You graduate? Play four years?”
“Nah… don’t get me started TB! I’m warn’n you, brah! Always had the gift a gab, you know that… or curse perhaps, too smart for my own good. Couldn’t take it, man. Like jump’n through hoops I already been through. None a them boys go’n anywhere, brah. They’s all like gonna transfer a LSU, get they stats up, they grades, get some press exposure, get drafted, see how great they really is… pathetic, brah. I got a job in Denmark, player/coach, a club team in Copenhagen, nice city and… the ladies? Good times be had by all! M’ boy—K.C., use a play at Nichols State, aksed if I be interested? Some’ gave him my name. I’m all like—Hell yeah! Get the fuck out this shit hole! Bugs, brah! Roaches be in your bed. They got tutors, go with you to classes ‘n shit. I’m like… ball’n, no school, get’n paid a hoop? Danish women and pastry? What’s not to like? Show me where I sign? I can coach good as any I seen do it. Oh but din’t shit hit the fan, brah! Coach blew a gasket, ruined all his plans, so pissed, brah! Tried a have K.C. banned from campus, called him, “a shithead snake in the grass,” gave me the whole ‘lose’n your eligibility’ speech, like I’s lose’n my virginity and not respect’n my potential… and then Daniel and… you ‘member? Mom and Dad? Rachel? They fuck’n flipped! Said if I left Nichols, I had a pay back what they lost at Knox, were not supporting my decision and if I came home I hafta pay rent and utilities. Fuck’n millionaires, brah! Said I never complete things, alienate everybody and… sorry, TB… go’n on… garbage heap a sad stories. Told you… don’t get me started,” he rubbed his head with one hand, vigorously, then grabbed and twisted it, to crack his neck.
“No… go on. Always wondered what happened… where you went? Our time was brief, yet memorable. I thought of you a lot. How you took down Sarkhan. Every time I heard Rappers Delight. We played it for warm-ups… every year. You were like, uh… bigger than life… bigger than Knox, for sure. Sorry I never wrote back… never wrote anybody, hate even texts,” Tom sensed great unease in Dez.
“Yeah and I’m bigger’n me, now, too,” he patted his belly, “have’n some health issues… I’m not usually this big. Shit got away… but I’m a make a comeback. That sink work? Got a glass?” He fished a pill dispenser from his pants pocket, opened W and emptied the contents into a giant hand, “Wait… it Wednesday? Or Tuesday?” He put them back in W and opened T… “Empty… it’s Wednesday,” opened W and dumped them out again.
What are you taking?”
“Oh, vitamins, minerals, phytoplankton, dehydrated bull semen, you know—usual stuff.”
Tom laughed and sat back down, “So… you played in Denmark? Knee healed up okay?”
“Aw TB, that fuck’n knee! Such an idiot… I just wanna play and they wants me a play and they ain’t that good, so even on one leg, I’m get’n off, every game. I shorted the rehab, you know? Passed problems on down the line—strength imbalance, fucked up my back, sprained an ankle first time ever, big as a balloon, all purple, you know? Rushed back to play at the end and hurt a knee again. We saw plenty a that shit, huh? Organized joint destruction… One year there and I be done hoop’n, man. Barely walk in the morn’n… not go’n through that again. Try’n a get them lazy asses to practice. Fuckers smoke’n cigs in the locker room, brah. I quit, walked out on the contract, pissed off the Gold Coast again, not to mention the Danskers. Bruised, battered and depressed, I went back to Chicago and first thing in the door? “Hi Mom, hi Dad…” they got like a contract on the counter, says if I stay more’n two days I have to sign it, commit to a lease, pay insurance, take money management classes. Fuck you! I tore it up in their fuck’n face and left, broke a antique vase on the way out, only been back once since. They got rid a all my shit… from when I’s a kid… unbelievable! Never even aksed if I want it? Even the belt and blanket they found me on that swing with, “Gave it to Goodwill,” Rachel said, “you should have put a note on, if you wanted it kept.” I din’t even know where the fuck it was, man.”
“Daniel’s dead?”
“Now he is, yeah… finally. Wasn’t then… I saw him… almost… cancer. Rachel calls me out the blue, don’t even know how she got the number, “You must come visit,” says he’s not well and wants to see me. Okay… I figure he wants to make amends. We din’t talk but once a year, maybe… never pleasant, never stopped harp’n on what I shoulda done. Maybe he’s die’n? I think, hit a soft spot, bus like 36 hours, remember all the good times we had. Was in Phoenix at the time and don’t fly, get there, haven’t slept… he’s in bed, propped up, can’t walk, barely talks, cancer all over and they’re both like, We gonna beat this… they’s a new drug… in line for a liver transplant… experimental trial… go’n a Europe for treatment… refused hospice, that’d be admit’n defeat. Rachel done it all, “We are white light’n this! No doubters, please!” She shot back when I said, “You in denial.” Only left her fuck’n computer to tend him and prepare things, slept in a chair by his bed, looked sick, crazy skinny, black circles under her eyes, chewed her lip, eye twitched and shit, and she wouldn’t even call a rabbi. He din’t want one. Felt sorry for her, for both of ‘em. Place smelled like disinfectant. Obsessed… she tortured herself, brah, research’n disease and the immune system, recent studies, read everything, brewed teas, ground up seedpods, burned immune enhancing incense, raw foods, sprouted. No coffee or alcohol in the house. Something new every day came—essential oil diffusers, air purifiers, oxidizers, ionizers, dried mushrooms and crushed up bones for broth… fuck’n nuts, brah! Stayed two days and left, couldn’t take it. She made me wear a fuck’n mask! All he wanted a talk about was what trips they’re gonna take when he gets over it. Shit went on another six months! Neither a them even aksed how I was? Can’t imagine what he looked like at the end, ugh! All shriveled up… Din’t go the funeral, was gonna but… ugh, had an anxiety attack. Thought it was a heart attack! She cut me off then, “Scandalous… we wash our hands of you!” Left a message, “we…” like he was still alive. I got a letter from the lawyer say’n I’s out the will and my trust dissolved, had x number of days to appeal. I din’t give a shit… now I mighta done different… fight for it.”
Tom felt big unfamiliar feelings. Most who met Dez, back in the day, felt they were in the presence of greatness, little doubt he’d be famous at something, so far superior did he seem. As a high school kid he’d have been LeBron James if there was an internet or Shabbaz Muhammad. Unfulfilled potential—what a ridiculous concept but if there was such a thing? His was immense. Tom heard the basement door slam and Justin hop down, skipping steps, then jumping the last however many… and falling on his face, “Motherfucker!” He yelled out.
Sounded like he was in pain so Tom went out to see, “You okay J?”
“Argh! Broke my fuck’n phone! Goddammit! I hate those fuck’n steps!” He rubbed his knees.
“Justin? You okay, Honey?” Tom’s mom yelled down.
“Yes! Broke my phone! Stupid steps!”
“Sorry about that… maybe… slow down a little? Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you guys here for dinner? Vegetarian lasagna. Teri’s cooking, wants to know.”
“I’ll ask Dez.”
“We’ll eat about six. You’re both welcome. Let me know soon, please? So we have enough.”
Who? Justin mouthed silently and pointed towards Tom’s door. Teri told him someone really big, smelly and weird, was with Tom in the basement.
Tom imagined her in the kitchen, ear to a glass on the floor or head stuck down a window well outside, trying to hear, “Come on, meet my old friend, Desmond Kahn,” Tom grabbed his arm and pulled Justin, who resisted and dragged his feet, into the room, “Justin Thomas—Desmond Kahn,” Dez stood and held out a hand.
“Whoa! ‘sup, brah?” They dapped and Justin turned to Tom, “Jesus! He’s a big ‘un!”
Dez laughed and Justin left right away to tend his phone. Seated again, Tom noticed Dez’s hands were shaking and his eye twitched, “You want to stay for dinner? Vegetarian lasagna made by my sister. Nothing to write home about, believe me. Or we could go out? Chicago Pizza’s close.”
“Uh…sure, that a be great. I ain’t ate but yo’ mom’s cake. Lasagna, I mean… not go’n out.”
Tom went, told his mom, came back and asked, “Where you stay’n? How long you around for?”
“Uh… not sure yet. Came in a town this morn’n… Amtrak, from LA. Hey, I’m ‘member’n how you be bust’n on your sister all a time. She don’t seem so bad. Thought she’d have on a black hat and ride a broom, way you talked about ‘er. She’s hot… for an old mom.”
“Master of first impressions, believe me, don’t be fooled. What’re you do’n in LA?”
“Uh… woman… I know… kinda been with over the years. She cuts hair there and in New York City. We try’n hook up whenever… kinda had a leave fast though. Things got weird… she gets freaky and not in no good way.”
Tom sensed struggle, maybe heartache and did not press, “You got stuff, a bag?”
“Nah, just what I got on. Most a my stuff’s in a Mississippi garage. Not that there’s much. My guitar’s ‘bout all I want.”
“What’s go’n on Dez? Why are you here?”
“Aw, TB...” he leaned forward, looked at his hands, “Uh… I needs a place a chill for a spell. Gotta sort some shit out. I know it wasn’t much but… that time, believe it or not, at Knox? Was the last I ‘member feel’n good ‘bout things or at all optimistic—19-fuck’n-79… like the future was golden… then—Ronald Reagan… I dunno, last few years been rough and I gotta get some shit figured out, look at my opts. I won’t be long, few days, week… if that works out?”
Tom’s heart pounded hard, “Hmm, well… that won’t fly where I live. We have a very full house. Just got back on my own two feet really, was live’n here,” he gestured round the basement, “Hurt my back. I’ll ask if you can stay here… but it would help if you could pay some. Mom works hard and cares for Justin and Teri’s kids.”
“I hear you, brah. I hear you. I know work’n people… how life is. Don’t have much money but I can work. I’m handy. Maybe fix some stuff? What you do? Your mom got some, she wants done? This an old house… I can seal up, clean out gutters, fix broke stuff?”
Tom had done all that and more, while living there, was caught up on all her lists, “Maybe… don’t worry about it. I can get you work. There’s a lot go’n on right now… in Portland.”
“What’s you do’n?” He put his hands behind his head and stretched. Tom scooted back to make room for his legs to extend. “I work for a contractor. Lot of building going on… we’re super busy. I’m not like established… but the guy I live with can hook you up, people always call him for stuff… don’t worry about that now. Want a shower before dinner? I’ll get you some towels. You can shower down here. There’s a bathroom across the hall. Fresh towels already in there I think. I’ll check.”
“Thanks TB, ‘preciate it, man. You do’n this brother a solid… you won’t regret.”
Tom hoped that was true but at that moment, feared the opposite.