Gary Phillips - The Jook

1999

It was hot as an Alabama outhouse when I got off the plane from Barcelona. LAX was busy like the mug as I stood in line for customs. Time was, people would have been sweating me to sign something cute for their granny, or some boob-job chick would have been asking me to write my number on the top side of the tit poking out of her halter. Now all I got was them sideways looks, that frown that said, "You look like you used to be somebody."

"What was your business in Barcelona, Mr. Raines?"

The bureaucratic dude gave me the once-over like I was any other square. 'Cept white boys were always a little curious about brothers who traveled overseas, thinking we were all hooked up with Farrakhan on a trip to pick up the bombs in Iraq or some shit.

"I was playing ball with the Dragons. You know, NFL Europe League." I said it as if he, or any other of the hundreds of people running around, had actually taken the time to watch one of the games. Hardly.

He looked at my passport again, which he'd placed on top of his computer terminal. "Zelmont Raines." There it was in his watery blues. A few seconds ticked by, then he said, "You used to play for the Falcons."

He didn't finish it. Didn't go on about the Super Bowl where I blew off two defenders and caught the game-winning pass while doing a spin in mid-air. The Atlanta Falcons had only been to the Super Bowl twice since the club was founded. The first time they'd been skinned by Denver. They were on their way to losing a second time against the Jets but for me.

Yet here I was coming back from Spain, after playing six games in a league even the guys at Fox who broadcast us didn't watch. The games had been moved later into the summer to try and catch the excitement that always built up for the NFL pre-seasonthe real NFL, I mean. But still no one tuned us in.

''Yeah,'' was all I could give it.

He tapped my passport against his cocked thumb. If it had been a slower time of day, he might have gone on. Asking me about all them stories of girls in Day-Glo vinyl mini-skirts with no underpants leaping off my roof into a pool full of whipped cream and caf au lait. And, if the conversing went on long enough, it always wound around to how I pissed it all away like a sailor on a three-day drunk.

Instead, he just asked his routine questions. "Have a good day, Mr. Raines," he said, handing me my passport. I nodded at him as I picked up my equipment bag. The one that was the signature brand I'd endorsed in my last year in the league. I went down to baggage claim and waited another hour before I got the rest of my gear.

Time was there'd be a limo waiting for me, Courvoisier on a rack in the back, and maybe some mama with pouty red lips warming up the leather seat. Now, standing outside in the steaming night air, I had my choice of which airport van to catch. I flashed on rolling by the pad of my girl, Davida Orlean, but nixed it 'cause I was beat and wanted some solitude.

I got in a shuttle driven by some Middle Eastern dude with a dead tooth. First he tooled a faretwo firm sorority babesto Westchester. I made eye contact with one of 'em, but her friend cock blocked. What you gonna do? Then he took this old girl smelling minty over to the Roosevelt on Hollywood Boulevard. 'Course I had to help her ass out of the ride. Finally, he got me to my crib in the Hollywood Hills.

"That'll be $25, sir." He was gazing at the pad, trying to figure out who I was. "You work in the music business?"

"Head ringer, baby." I was inclined not to tip, but wanted to show I was still the man.

The cat didn't look at the Jackson and Lincoln and a couple of Washingtons as he hefted my bags out of the back of the van. "I see you in the papers, right?"

"Not so much now, man."

"Oh yes," he said, shaking a finger at me. "You've been in movies too, I know."

"TV. Sports commentary." I was in a few flicks. B efforts where I was fifth billed or more likely a cameo. Build-up roles, my agent well, the agent I had then called 'em. Even shot a show for the WB. Me and this Asian actor were supposed to be trouble shooters. I was the burned-out alcoholic ex-cop and he was the idealistic software designer. The setup was that even though we disliked each other, we naturally have to work together to solve the case. We did three episodes. The WB aired two and canceled us. Didn't even get enough ratings on a network that keeps shows ranking in the 70s.

"Take it slow, champ." I picked up my stuff and made my way up the slope of the walkway past the iron gargoyles planted on either side of the dried lawn. One had a twelve-inch tongue poking out of its evilly smiling snout. The other had claws and wings raised like it was swooping down on a fat, juicy cow. I loved those beasts. Called them Dandy and Candy. Don't know why, just liked the way it sounded.

Inside, the mail had been stacked on the coffee table by Adrianna, the cleaning lady I used to pay her to come twice a week without thinking about it, but not these days. I was pretty sure there weren't no offers or a letter from the 49ers requesting my services. Later for the pile.

I poured some V.S.O.P from the bar, punched in 92.3 The Beat on the stereo, and laid on the couch. As a Ras Kas number bumped from my JVCs, I stared at my mantle of honor over the fireplace. It was lined with trophies from Pop Warner on through the pros. One of my girlfriends said she thought I was being juvenile. Said I ought to have put them in the study, a back room, or something. Shit. Any motherfuckah who comes into my house has gotta go with the flow. I ain't never asked nobody to light candles in front of them statues. But those are things I've earned, makes something solid of what I've done.

Anyway, that girl always acted like she had her nose up. Correcting my use she'd say improper use of words in public. The mantle of trophies is still here, and she's long gone.

I shifted and felt a twinge in my fibula. My upper leg had been throbbing something fierce since halfway through the long flight from Barcelona. I'd gotten up to stretch it so many times, people must have thought I had some sorry-ass bladder infection. It was like grinding gears in the upper part of my leg just to slip off my docksiders.

The phone rang and I had a good idea who it was. The machine picked up the call on the third ring. "I know you left Spain on Friday, Zelmont. I bet you layin' up there now with some blonde heifer when you should be sending some money down here for your son. I know you must have been making more than $100,000 for each game you played. You better do right or I might have to mention it to Daddy. Call me." The machine clicked off, then the red light started blinking, taunting me.

I took a long sip. Who'd have figured some big-legged 19-year-old high school dropout sports groupie would have a bourzee lawyer for a father? Let alone that I would be the pathetic motherfuckah among a platoon of cats who banged her and I only did her twice who had the DNA that matched the baby's? It had been four years of steady bullshit from Terri. I felt sorry for the little kid she's supposed to be raising.

A Dragons game was on Fox Sports West, but it wasn't like I had any reason to watch them fools. The brandy and jet lag crept up on me and I dozed off, not dreaming of a goddamn thing.

The next day I was running after Kelrue Cummings on 56th Street, just east of Avalon. I'd been driving around for a while looking for him that morning. I tackled his fat ass and shoved his overlarge ears and head into a cyclone fence above one of those little signs wired to the links advertising braiding.