White Iverson and I shoot hoops in the back of our high school where we met way before White Iverson became White Iverson and grew relatively rich and famous, because that’s what we are, best friends for life.
I tell him, Iverson wants his cornrows back, man, the real Iverson, and White Iverson turns to me with this glare in his eyes that just about says What the hell it’s supposed to mean, homie, and I joke he better up his game soon, at least to the level of his rhymes.
White Iverson doesn’t say anything back for a while and spins the ball on his fingertip and then dribbles it once, twice, three times, and then around his back and between his legs, and takes a step-back and shoots from the three-point line, but it falls short. I remain silent to let the bouncing of the ball make a point of its own as it trails off toward the meshed fences with an ever-slowing echo, which reminds me of the chorus in one of my favorite White Iverson songs.
White Iverson says, Yeah, man, whatever, and starts walking toward the other side of the court while shaking his head and patting the back pockets of his dark denim jacket for what I assume my day-old spliff. Despite the friction, I’m proud of being White Iverson’s friend, his best friend in fact, it’s the highest level of stature one can dream of in our hood if you’re not as famous and talented as the likes of White Iverson, and I intend to keep it that way.
Look, man, I say, jogging after him, I didn’t mean no disrespect, so are we cool or what?
White Iverson doesn’t say anything for a while, just nods away licking the rolling paper in his hands with the tip of his tongue, the sound of each lick magnified in the glassy silence of the night. He then lights the spliff with the zippo I gave him back in third grade and I feel a certain sense of joy upon seeing him use it still.
Yo, he says after a moment, then blows the smoke through his nostrils, we gotta do something about Dude-K, man, then looks me in the eye to add, Better now than never.
Dude-K is this half-Turkish dude from the hood who talks and walks like those white kids we went to school with, and who also happens to be White Iverson’s brother-in-law. I ask White Iverson, What about him? and he shrugs and says, Nah, man, s’all good. It’s just I hear his mouth chirpin a lot lately, you feel me? and I nod as if I know what he’s talking about.
We let the words sink in for a while and glance at everything on the court except each other until I reach over for a puff and ask him what he’s got in mind.
I don’t know, man, he says, then opens his arms wide, stop asking me these weird-ass questions. Ain’t you supposed to my homie, my best homie in fact, so why don’t you go ahead and be the one who gets me those answers for a change?
I nod as I look down at my feet and take another puff because I know deep down that he’s right, I’m indeed his homie, his best homie in fact, and I know it should really mean something.
Look, I say, give me a couple days before I ask around and see what I can do, and White Iverson barely registers my words but then gives me this friendly pat on the back and says, Here you go, homie. Now we’re talking.
I hand the roll over and run to the other end of the court. I pick up the ball from the ground and dribble along the three-point line and when I reach the top of the arc, I release my shot and it’s in. I pray White Iverson saw it all happen but I don’t turn around to check it, for it’s probably like the uncoolest thing a homie can do around here. I think back on what I’ve just told him, the half-promise I half-gave, and what I can do to actually keep it. Though I’m not swimming with options here, I don’t let it on and decide to keep my head cool for once, because that’s what it’s all about at the end of the day, I mean all this pretending—otherwise how a tasteless, talentless motherfucker like White Iverson could move up through the ranks of the game, the ranks of the world, while I’m stuck here, pulling all the strings for him, making all those buckets fall flying in for god knows how long.
All of a sudden, I feel overwhelmed by White Iverson’s presence, by his gaze if you know what I mean, as if my thoughts somehow materialized and found their way through his ears so now he can read my mind. This feeling is gaining its weight on me, enveloping me, and I can’t turn around to see if I’m making it all up. The more time passes by, the more unbearable the silence between us becomes, so I look up at the stars because that’s the only direction to look. Like the first night I met White Iverson, there are no clouds in the sky and it’s getting increasingly warmer out, though it’s still early November.
I’m startled by a touch on my shoulder, and when I turn to look, I see White Iverson smiling at me, which strangely creeps and relaxes me at once. He jogs toward the basket and picks up the now-lifeless ball from the line. He points to the sky and says, Check it out, homie. It’s the Belt of Orion. Now how about that?
I, too, smile and look up and think What a White Iverson thing to say, for I know for a fact that White Iverson doesn’t know shit about constellations in the same way he doesn’t know shit about me or music or basketball or friendships for that matter—but I keep it all to myself, like always.
Let’s shoot it, I say, standing on defense before him. You versus me.