All About Lulu (32 page)

This time Ross rolled off a Doug pick on the baseline, and a crisp feed from Will the Thrill completed the patented Miller pick-and-roll. All of a sudden we were tied—a fact that was not lost on the other guys, who began to bicker amongst themselves.

“C’mon, Tiny, you gotta stuff that weak shit!”

“That’s
your
man, Smooth! I got Captain America to deal with!”

Ross checked it to Tiny, and with a quick
fi
rst step rumbled right past him into the lane for a scoop shot that bounced around the rim and fell in. Seven–six Millers.

“Shit,” said the little guy. “This ain’t happening.”

I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but all of that sweating, ass-slapping, high-
fi
ving camaraderie felt damn good to me. I felt connected, as though I were speaking Saint Bernard at long last. I felt like a Miller. I felt like an American. I was engaging the world with my appetite for victory, body
fi
rst, charging through the buffet of life like my brethren, with my chin stuck out, grabbing
fi
stfuls of meat.

We were outmatched to the man; they were quicker, more adept in almost every way, better shooters, better passers, better ball handlers, but we were connected, we were Millers. As corny as it sounds, I wished Big Bill were there to see us, or Lulu, or my mother. I wished they were all there to see it.

“Let’s see what you got, Poindexter,” the little guy said, facing me off at the in line.

I looked him up and down, all four foot six of him, waiting to produce the de
fi
nitive comeback to Poindexter. I couldn’t bench press 290, I couldn’t eat four game hens in a single sitting—technically, I couldn’t even play basketball. But I could spin comebacks.

“Whatchutalkinabout?” I said.

The little guy let his guard down. “Say what?”

I drove right past him into the open lane, and I’m telling you, I was grace incarnate. The ball was cooperating; it felt tiny in my clutches. There was nothing between me and the basket. I could already see the ball nestling into the net, already hear the chain singing, already feel the sting of Doug’s high
fi
ve in my
fi
ngers when I lifted off like Air Jordan from the top of the key. Eight–six Millers, I could already see it in lights.

Suddenly, a shadow descended. The earth rocked. The sky opened up, and I saw stars. I heard a voice from above, and even in my dis-oriented state, I was pretty sure it wasn’t the voice of God.

“Not in my house,” the voice said.

Apparently they tied it at sevens. I heard the chain ringing.

“You good to go?” Tiny wanted to know.

“Yeah,” I said.

He offered me a fat hand up.

“Shake it off,” said Doug.

I was face-to-face at the in line with the little guy again.

“Okay, Ricky Schroder,” he said. “This is lights-out time.”

He threw a crossover, and I bit. Ross and Doug collapsed on him in the paint, but he managed to kick the ball out to Tiny on the baseline. Tiny rose like a brick shithouse on butter
fl
y wings and nestled the ball home. Eight–seven them.

My bell was still ringing. I shook off the cobwebs and faced up with the little guy again. I still felt in my bones that we had them.

“You ready to throw the towel in yet, Donnie Wahlberg?”

I smiled.

Nine times out of ten, victory happens quietly, just like defeat.

More often than not, momentum shifts in some unremarkable way.

It’s not always a turnover, a fumble, a botched coverage. Sometimes it’s just a little face-up jumper from
fi
fteen feet, without so much as a hand in the face, like the one the little guy hit while I was trying to think of a clever comeback for Donnie Wahlberg.

“My bad,” I said.

“Pick it up,” said Ross.

I had every intention of picking it up. In fact, I was right in his face this time, like a mirror image, toe-to-toe, twitch for twitch, head fake for head fake. He couldn’t see the light of day to pass or dribble.

Then he threw that damn crossover again and I bit, and he
fl
ew by me like a bat out of hell and dished it to Big Smooth for a layup, and all of a sudden it was game time.

“My bad,” I said.

“Pick it up,” said Ross.

Ross intercepted the inbound pass, and cleared it to Doug for an open J.

Nothing but net.

Eight–ten, and we had the rock.

“Win by two?” said Doug.

“That’s right,” said Smooth.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself there, General Schwarzkopf,” said the little guy.

“Is that a mosquito I hear?” said Ross.

We were in our element. We still had a chance.

I’m not usually competitive. This wasn’t personal. But somehow there was a lot riding on this game. Not pride exactly, not redemption, none of the usual spoils of victory. Something strange and unexpected was at stake in this pickup game—forgiveness, maybe, or acceptance.

For a split second, the world was my idea. It was as though I willed Doug to cut across the baseline and into the open lane, where my pass was already waiting for him.

High
fi
ves all around.

“Ten–nine,” I said.

“Nine–ten,” said the little guy.

Don’t ever assume the conformity of the future with the past.

But if you see the same window open twice, there’s no reason you shouldn’t go through it again. Doug broke baseline and met my pass in almost the identical spot.

Tens.

If the window opens three times, you might want to rethink things. I should have. Big Smooth closed the lane and picked off my inbound pass. Without breaking stride, he cleared it, swung around, and
fi
red a bullet to Tiny in the low post. Ten–eleven.

“Point,” said the little guy.

Just about everything short of a natural catastrophe comes down to a decision if you unravel it to the source. In a perfect world, you weigh the odds, consider the scenarios, try and
fi
gure the probabilities, and make an informed choice. Like whether or not to slacken up on the perimeter and guard against the penetration by a guy who’s way quicker than you, has a wicked crossover, and is one for seven from the
fi
eld. Sometimes the right decisions are the wrong ones. I gave him the open look from twenty feet.

The minute he let it go, I knew he nailed it. The chain sang like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

“Don’t nobody call Daryl’s bluff,” said the little guy. “Daryl sting you like a scorpion.”

But the loss didn’t really sting after all. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The stakes weren’t as high as I thought. Despite the spoils of victory, maybe sometimes we gain more by losing. If you believe that, then I’ve got news for you: You’re an even bigger loser than me.

“Good game,” said Tiny.

We shook hands all around, even the little guy and me.

“Good game,” he said.

“Good game.”

Then the Millers took our ball and went home. Well, almost home. We went to Sizzler.

Let me tell you about the $6.99 all-you-can-eat buffet, the one they were running at the Sizzler on Highland in June of 1991. For sheer breadth and gastronomic complexity, it was no match for The Captain’s Table, but it was tough to beat the Hollywood Sizzler for atmosphere: the platinum-blonde hookers and blue-haired waitresses, the toothless crazies. These are the things I think of when I think of Hollywood. Not Brad Pitt. Not Army Archerd. Not Mann’s Chinese Theater. I think of a guy in a
fi
lthy coat stuf
fi
ng a lamb chop in his pocket, some sixty-year-old hooker with six-inch heels hoisting her ancient fun bags up in the re
fl
ection of the window, some guy with a bad rug and a checkered coat and a broken sewing machine by his feet. In short, when I think of Hollywood, I think of the Sizzler on Highland.

But even the Hollywood Sizzler had never seen anything the likes of my twin brothers lumbering in after a hard-fought battle. Had the management seen them coming, I’m certain they would have shut their doors and run for the hills, or at the very least, slapped an asterisk after “all-you-can-eat” and called the legal team.

The host looked uneasy right from the start when he learned we wouldn’t be needing menus. He didn’t pay me any notice, but he sized up the twins over his shoulder as he escorted us to the booth, and he looked nervous. As we were rounding up our trays and plat-ters, I saw him whispering earnestly with a few of the kitchen staff.

His brow was deeply furrowed. He kept checking his watch. He must have been trained to pro
fi
le for such things. Maybe he was mulling over protocol for buffet disasters.

The twins hit like the atom bomb. They decimated the buffet. Sir-loin tips and T-bone and skirt steak and jumbo shrimp, and baked potatoes and coleslaw, and three different kinds of corn. Big fat doughy rolls, and little skinny short ribs, farfalle with grilled zucchini, and meatballs the size of casaba melons. The twins were a two-headed hydra eating everything in their path. The beleaguered busboy couldn’t keep up. The cook staff was frantic. Somebody called the manager at home. By the time the second round was over, there was only smoldering rubble—a smattering of grease, a lone shriveled baked potato.

There was a brief gurgling interlude, during which the harried cook staff ran about madly restocking the steam tables and bread bar.

“My ass opens like a trapdoor every time I eat here,” Ross said.

“It’s like there’s a bypass right past my intesti—”

“Okay, I get it,” I said. “Go.”

Ross lumbered off toward the bathroom, patting his six-pack.

“So, basically,” I said to Doug. “It’s not that I don’t have opportunities, I just haven’t really met anyone.”

“Do you get laid at all?”

“Some,” I lied.

He cocked a brow.

“Well, okay, once,” I conceded.

“Once?”

“Yeah, once, so what? It’s not a numbers game. At least it was fucking amazing.”

“Who with?”

“Just a girl from school.”

“Just a girl from school? And it was fucking amazing? C’mon, who with?”

“Nobody.”

“Do I know her?”

I began to blush.

“What?” he said. “I know her? C’mon, who is it?”

“It’s nobody!”

“C’mon!”

Then I saw the realization creep into his face, and he almost looked a little frightened by it, but I never felt that he was judging me, and I’ve got to say that I love him for that.

“Whoa,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s
…
whoa, that’s a trip.”

I always thought “that’s a trip” was letting me off easy, and I guess that speaks to my own guilt more than anything else. But then, how could Doug know the unnatural depths of my longing, or guess at the torture I caused Lulu? The simple fact that she was my stepsister was nothing beside that. Still, I can’t tell you my profound gratitude and relief at having confessed my knobby old secret and not suffered for it. It made me want to shout it to the world.

“So, what about you?” I said, spearing a cold new potato. “It’s not like you’ve ever had a girlfriend. What’s your excuse?”

Doug burped, but not like he used to burp; he didn’t broadcast it, he just let it die on his lips and blew it out the side of his mouth.

“I’m gay,” he said.

I dropped my new potato. For a second I thought he was joking.

But after a long hard look in his silver eyes, I knew that he wasn’t.

And when
he
knew that
I
knew that he wasn’t joking, he smiled.

“
You?
” I said.

“Yup.”

How was it possible that people eluded my expectations without fail? Ross I would’ve believed, I’d had suspicions all along, but Doug?

Never.

“And Ross too?”

Doug waved it off. “Nah. He’s not gay. Believe me, I’d know. Ross is just
…
free-spirited. A little insecure.”

Ross soon returned, a con
fi
rmed heterosexual, patting his belly and smiling.

“Wow,” he said, plopping down in the booth. “Can anyone say
mudslide
? Lordy. You guys ready to load up again?” When nobody answered, Ross knew something was wrong. “What’s up?”

Doug and I exchanged blank looks.

“Not much,” I said. “Doug’s gay and I had sex with Lulu.”

Ross looked at us both in disbelief. We looked back at him, eager for acceptance. He began to shake his head.

“Duh,” he said
fi
nally. “Was I born yesterday, or something?”

“You knew?” said Doug.

“How could you know?” I demanded.

“I’m not fucking stupid,” he said.

Doug was suddenly tense. It didn’t occur to me that it was a very different thing for him to divulge his secret to me than it was to divulge it to Ross. I see now that by blurting it out like that, I stole something from him, but I can’t say what.

“Does Dad know?” said Doug.

“Hell no. He’s clueless.”

“What about me? Does he know about Lu?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. It’s not that big of a deal, right? It’s not like it’s incest or anything. She may as well be anybody, as far as that goes.”

“Does Willow know about me?” Doug wanted to know.

“Doug, the cable guy knows, okay? You weren’t fooling anyone with all that homophobic bullshit. Well, apparently you were fooling
somebody
.” He looked at me like I was a knucklehead. I never had a twin look at me that way before. “I mean, c’mon, Doug,” he pursued. “That kinda stuff is just as obvious as walking around in a feather boa and humming show tunes.”

Poor Doug must have felt pretty transparent. I know, because Ross turned his gaze on me, and I felt like a
fi
shbowl.

“And what about you?” he said. “Following Lulu around like a puppy dog, worshipping the ground she walked on. All your little talks, and spats, and lovers’ quarrels. I don’t know why you guys couldn’t just
fi
gure that stuff out. You might have had something good.”

At what point did my nineteen-year-old brother surpass me in wisdom? He, who so recently, it seemed, had been padding around in diapers gnawing on frozen corn dogs, whose hair had measured a staggering twenty-one inches in height his junior year. He, who had not studied philosophy but real estate, and women’s footwear. At what point in time did he
fi
ll that gigantic melon of his with wisdom and insight?

“So, are you guys ready to load up again, or what?” he wanted to know.

Doug and I looked at each other.

“Yeah, I guess,” I said.

“Yeah, sure,” said Doug.

And that was the last anyone said on either subject. Everyone had bigger things on their plates.