Shots
The flagrant foul called was less about a basketball court violation than Referee Thompson’s mother, Doris, admitted to Evergreen Hospice that day. Neither team knew this, of course. A mist of sweat shook from Charlie Ferguson (charged with the foul) as he protested in earnest, pent-up from an afternoon in detention. Charlie’s father shouted expletives from the bleachers— ones he’d heard during his employee performance review. The visiting coach laughed, watching his center—Manny Torres—take free throws; he recalled being tossed from a similar game in high school. Shoes squeaked atop polished wood. Manny dabbed a plump lip, checking for blood, knowing his pops smacked much harder: an easy two buckets. The ball launched toward the rim. Referee Thompson bit his whistle; Charlie steadied to box out; Charlie’s father seethed as the visiting coach contained a chuckle. And Manny Torres grinned, taking in the sight of another splendid swish. As the crowd cheered a final buzzer, Doris—bedridden and sore in Pico Rivera—dreamed of days long past, her boy’s first steps, then struggled to recall her only baby’s beautiful name. There would be no more rebounds.
Crossing
They stop whenever I hold up my sign. Better than any megaphone or pistol. Right in their tracks. Before the crosswalk. In the rain. At dusk. Whenever I damn well feel like it. Helping others—youngsters and old folks. Cigar in my lips, puffing away as if I’m on an exotic beach, or a red carpet. A power broker. That’s my duty. Volunteer work breeds authority. Thirty-six years delivering mail never got me this kind of respect. Just bursitis. Hip surgery twice. But now I’m retired. Pension cushion. Social security. Ain’t all gravy, though. Saw Tina get run over by a gardener’s truck last fall. She made the best tamales. I’d lend her my fold-out chair during long winter days; she gave me a Saint Christopher last Xmas. We both believed in the future—these kids, to and from school—ignoring what newspapers said about Watts. Statistics never tell the whole tale. We had hope. Still do. But even this sign couldn’t save her. Her death wasn’t for nothing—she pushed a mother and her three eager students out of the way. An angel, in my book. Maybe I’ll get there too, if I can be so lucky. For now, I’ll keep puffing my cigar, commanding these drivers to halt. Someone’s got to look out for our future. I do it for Tina, too.
Nolan Knight is the author of The Gorgon of Los Feliz, Gallows Dome, The Neon Lights Are Veins, and Beneath the Black Palms. He is a fourth-generation Angeleno and former staff writer for Los Angeles’ Biggest Music Publication, the L.A. Record. His short fiction has been featured in various publications including Akashic Books, Thuglit, Shotgun Honey, Starlite Pulp, and Action, Spectacle. His work has been met with praise by luminaries such as Barry Gifford, James Sallis, Allison Anders, and Lydia Lunch.