Red White and Black

Chapter Twelve - Part A

Markus

The sun was sinking in the west in a blaze of color but Markus scarcely noticed. He stood in the driveway, a basketball in his hand but no desire to do anything with it. It was a strange feeling, for basketball had dominated his life for years. He had worked and sweated through countless hours in the gym, running drills and lifting weights, pitting himself against the older and bigger players, whatever it took to improve. In his own driveway, he worked on his shot in every imaginable form of weather, playing in the rain and the blazing heat. He played when it was too dark to clearly see the basket and in the winter even shoveled snow to create a spot to play.

He looked up at the rim, exactly ten feet above the concrete surface, and it felt a million miles away. He knew if he tried to take a shot he would never have enough strength to launch the ball far enough to come close. It seemed he had lost a major part of his life, something that had been with him through thick and thin, something that had always promised him a way to a better future.

He couldn't tolerate thinking about his future now. He was officially a failure, destined for obscurity and sentenced to a life with a spatula in his hand, or if he was lucky, he might advance to a shovel. Either way, it was a far cry from the roaring cheer rising up in the stands as his name was announced, or from dodging reporters hounding him about his spectacular play, or from hordes of adoring women seeking to cozy up to the next NBA all-star. Gone were the possibilities his name would ever enter the record books for most assists or field goals. The fans would never know his name.

But the customers would. If they even bothered, they could read "Markus" on the cheap plastic tag pinned to his uniform while they ordered a sack of sliders and a Coke. They would wait for their food unaware of the potential greatness standing before them, just another faceless black man performing another thankless and ignominious job. If they were observant and had paid any attention to the local high school sporting scene, they might be bold enough to ask, "Hey, didn't you used to be Markus Williams, the basketball player?"

Markus thought about that for a moment. How would he answer that question? If he answered "yes", then he'd have to hear, "Well, what happened to you anyway? I thought you were going to be a star." He knew there was no way he would be able to deal with that situation.

On the other hand, if he answered "no", he'd sever the fragile connection to the only success he would ever experience in his ruined life. That possibility somehow seemed even worse than the first.

The ball slipped from his hand and bounced across the driveway, rolling through a gap in the hedge and disappearing on the neighbor's property. Markus didn't pay attention and didn't really care and as far as he was concerned it might as well be the last time he ever touched one. He walked inside the house, into the kitchen where Aunt Sadie worked in a flurry of activity. She bustled to and fro with the intensity of a worker bee, her efforts emitting a waft of glorious scents that normally would have had him salivating like Pavlov's dog. The still functioning part of his brain registered that it wasn't pie day but it was obvious she was whipping up some kind of special treat. He plodded by her, unable to work up even the slightest enthusiasm for food, no matter how delectable.

"Hey, Lil'M," called Aunt Sadie. He stopped in his tracks as though receiving commands from a remote control. "You smell that? That's a chocolate cake I just pulled out of the oven. I was down at the grocery this morning and walked by that bakery they got in there. They got this display of cakes and I got to thinkin' we ain't had a good chocolate cake since the cows come home and I ought to get busy and bake one. So it's gonna cool here for awhile and we'll cut into it later on. How's that sound?"

"That sounds real good, Aunt Sadie." He didn't turn around.

She was silent for a moment, watching him with a concerned look on her face. "Well, alright, then. You go get cleaned up and I'll let you know when it's ready."

Markus lurched forward out of the kitchen and down the hall. He pushed open the bathroom door and groped about for the light switch. The room filled with light and the mirror over the sink with his reflection. He leaned forward examining his face in detail, noting every pore and every blemish. He looked down and realized his toothbrush had somehow made its way into his hand, so he brushed his teeth carefully, then flossed and rinsed.

He backed away from the mirror, up against the opposite wall, feeling the cool, smooth surface of the ceramic tiles. He was able to see more of his reflection and he slipped off his t-shirt, tossing it to the hamper in the corner. His dark skin gleamed in contrast to the stark white of the tiled walls and he turned side to side, able to see his back and neck. He noticed a tiny bump on his shoulder and mover closer to the mirror for inspection. Just a mosquito bite.

Without realizing it, the toothbrush was in his hand again. So he brushed with careful diligence, maintaining even oval strokes and making sure he reached way back to his molars. After rinsing, he examined his teeth in the mirror. They were flawless, a sparkling white gleam any toothpaste commercial would love to show.

He opened the medicine cabinet and surveyed the rows of bottles and ointments, realizing some had maintained a diligent presence behind the glass door since he was a child. It had been years since he had needed Bactine, yet there sat a partially rolled tube patiently waiting to be put to use when another scrape or cut occurred. A bottle of dark glass containing something called Cod Liver Oil conjured up distant and vague memories of upset stomachs and hovering over the toilet bowl. Right next to the box of Band-Aids stood an ancient bottle of chewable vitamins for children awaiting the next child to be fooled into thinking they would actually taste yummy.

He reached for a bottle of more recent vintage and rotated it to see the label. It was an amber colored plastic container with a white lid he recognized as painkillers. He closed his hand around it remembering when Aunt Sadie had broken her arm last winter, slipping on the sidewalk outside church. The doctor had given her the pills and told her to take them for pain, but she only took a couple, claiming she'd rather live with the pain than get all "loopy."

Markus shut the glass door and came face to face with his reflection once again. His black face stared at him out of the mirror. No smiles. No frowns. Just another face. He reached over and flipped the switch, extinguishing both the light and his reflection.

Clutching the bottle of pills, he shuffled to his room and shut the door behind him. The last rays of the setting sun shone through the window providing just enough light to illuminate the bed and the small table next to it. He sat on the bed staring at the bottle but not actually focusing on it or the writing on the side. Minutes passed and the room darkened to the point where he reached over and switched on the reading lamp beside his bed.

Pain pills. If one or two could make you loopy, what would the entire bottle do? He pushed down and twisted to remove the lid, pouring the contents into his palm. There must have been fifteen or sixteen of the round tablets clustered in his hand just waiting to do their job. One to make you loopy or the whole gang to end your problems. It would truly be a team effort on their part. A residue of dust from the tablets coated his skin and he wet a finger to give the team a taste. Bitter, what a shame.

He picked out one, popped it into his mouth and chewed it, knowing from experience he had a hard time swallowing pills. The taste was awful and he wondered if he would be able to work his way through the entire contents of the bottle before they kicked in. Had it occurred to him, a glass of water would have been nice. It would have made this whole process go a little smoother.