Angels In The Desert (Excerpt)

THE BOOK OF TEACHINGS

A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his lord. It is enough for the disciple that he be as his teacher, and the servant as his lord. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebub, how much more them of his household! Fear them not therefore: for there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known. What I tell you in the Darkness, speak ye in the light; and what ye hear in the ear, proclaim upon the housetops.
- The Gospel Of Matthew

Prologue

We’re born being selfish.

As babies, we whine for attention and scream for milk-filled plastic bottles heated on gas stoves. Then, we whine again until the vibrations of our vocal cords push tears out of our eyes.

Why do we do this? Our insatiable need for MORE . . .

Attention!

As adults, we snuggle, hug, comfort, smirk, smile, and do what it takes to stop the whining. Over the years, we have evolved to absorb every sound imaginable: the heart POUNDING SOUNDS of Miami bass music, the vomits of Cadillac Fleetwood exhausts without mufflers, the blaring of amplified electric guitars, and the worst sound EVER.

The Menthol-lyptus screams of fans, not just regular fans, we’re talking about Atlanta Braves fans.

As their voices combined in Fulton County Stadium, it evolved into this high-pitched shrill that rode the wind and settled in your ears, puncturing your attention, and pushing you off-balance.

They called it cheering, we called it selfish because the fans never heard the scream. It was more than the sum of their voices, it was ALIVE because it never settled back on those whom it left. And though its lifetime was measured in seconds, it lived long enough to be hated.

Over the years, the scream evolved and we discovered how to avoid permanent hearing damage. Rather than fight the scream, we sent it to less sensitive areas of our eardrums, so it could die in silence. But this ancient Atlanta technique never worked with a child, it was impossible.

We discovered the constant whining of a baby was tuned by God for one reason — to paralyze everything in hearing range. But thanks to that same God, some of us grew and matured.

Still, others retained their whining because they loved the attention.

Where some matured into adulthood, others grew in their selfishness.

Whether we matured or not, we found common ground in our spiritual nature. From dust we came and to dust we returned, but God gave us one problem.

Despite our differences, like dust and history, selfishness repeated itself.

We’re born being selfish and we die being selfish.

We don’t whine, we don’t pout, and we don’t cry.

Though adults cringe from the whining sounds of kids, it’s the resonant silence of death that hurts the most. It bellows between memories and heartache, between love and hate, and somehow, it invades our privacies.

We hold our minds for protection, but it slithers between the creases of our thoughts and speaks beyond the range of our eardrums, it talks to our souls.

That’s why people cry at funerals — pain has numbed their physical senses and their souls speak, but with no mouths, the muffled sounds squeeze between their eyes.

Like they say, eyes are windows to the soul.

And with this training, I retained my hearing until I became a senior at Southside Comprehensive High School in Atlanta, Georgia.

Then, a new sound came along, the grown folks called it passion, I called it fun.

Then, everybody changed.

The more I worked, the more people expected me to be the best. But being the best or being number one wasn’t good enough, what mattered was mastering something.

Only through mastery was justice served and through masters wisdom breathed.

From the mouths of masters to the ears of students, that’s how ancient societies prospered.

Then it hit me — master — but master what?

Levi Banks

Come on, you think Jesus loves me?

If Jesus loves me, why didn’t he kill all fathers?

Fathers are part human, all demon.

If I prayed for his death, could I be redeemed?

The only thing worse than living with a father was dying and spending hell with him. There must be some way, maybe they’d make a law so my father could be adopted?

I’d do anything to get away from him, this man who ruled my life.

The world loved what he did, I hated who he was.

Pastor.

Tyrant.

Dictator.

Nazi.

Demon.

There was one thing common among them.

They required servants.

And being a servant meant admitting you had a master.

Not me, not now.

The only thing they’d get out of me was what they dished out.

That’s right — War!

Most wars were fought with weapons, between two sides, not this one.

My father ruled our household with two ancient weapons: his Voice and his Bible.

Between those two, I preferred his voice.

With the Bible, I wasn’t fighting him, I was fighting too many folks; Prophets, Jews, Disciples, Proverbs, Psalms, and the other Tribes of Israel.

How could one man make a difference?

No man could win that.

No man.

And that includes Jesus.

Thank God I didn’t have to deal with my father tonight, I was going to play some basketball and get my mind off Satan’s Chief lieutenant. As I laced up my new Nike basketball shoes, the door opened, and it was HIM.

Maybe if I tiptoed out the back door, his flaming nostrils wouldn’t smell the humans in his vicinity.

“Who gave you this Satanic Bible?” He turned off the television.

Why can’t life be normal for one day?

I hated being the son of a carpenter, Jesus was lucky Joseph worked shorter hours than my father.

Levi.

That’s what everyone called him.

Day in, day out, he pushed the Bible so much in my face that God’s word BECAME true.

It was food for the soul, just not mine.

So I sat on the bed for worship service.

“I took out the trash, washed the dishes. I’m going to the gym, be back by nine.”

“Answer the question first.”

“Can this wait until I get back?”

“I’m not gone ask you again.” As his biceps closed in on my faith, I grabbed my basketball for leverage and his hulking frame lumbered closer.

“It’s not a Satanic Bible.”

“Either it’s Jesus’s Bible or it’s the Devil’s.”

I picked up the book, it felt good in my hands.

Better than the Bibles he gave me.

Was feeling good about something wrong?

“It’s Message to The Black Man by Elijah Muhammad, I got it from the Muslim temple down on Ashby and Martin Luther King.”

“Those heathens, they worship death. They’re leading you to hell, why can’t you see that?”

Levi didn’t get it, never knew why.

Elijah’s message made sense to me, the white man is the devil.

I always thought the devil was this spooky spirit ruling the earth, tempting me to do evil.

Now I know better.

And since I know better, I do better.

“I’m trying to understand,” I said as his cheap oak-colored eyes demanded my attention.

Thank God, I still had ten minutes left to make it to the Dunbar gym in Mechanicsville.

“You not grown, what you know about Jesus? Without him, you won’t make it in this world.”

“Elijah Muhammad and Malcolm X said-”

“Muslims hate Jesus! They going to hell, well Malcolm’s already there. You wanna burn, fine. Not under my roof,” he said and the pages hurried and flipped before his right thumb, fresh with spit, left a dark spot on the gold-trimmed pages.

Nothing wanted Levi’s wrath, not even Bible pages.

Every day, this was my world.

Levi said Jesus died for my sins.

Elijah Muhammad said the Black man was God.

It seemed religion wasn’t about God, but about sides.

It meant the true practitioner of God’s word chose sides from necessity; Islam or Christianity, Judaism or Buddhism, Hinduism or Atheism.

When asked to explain, they blamed God.

They’re lying.

They don’t care about the end, only the means to God.

For me, religion wasn’t a way of life, it was a speech of life.

That’s why I left the church when I was nine years old. I was uncomfortable because the deacons didn’t answer my questions.

You know the questions, the kind every kid has in church.

They ignored me, why?

Because being ignorant wasn’t Christian.

For instance, were angels people that went to heaven already?

When Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden of Eden, where did the other people in the Bible come from?

As I asked these questions, the deacons’ thick black fingers rubbed through their cremated charcoal-gray beards, the question scraping their Christianized minds. Service after service, the questions fractured their biblical castes and their answers were the same.

“It’s not for us to know God’s ways,” they said and that wasn’t enough.

My soul needed chicken and mashed potatoes, not ice cream.

The cold reality of Christianity was like ice cream and over time, people got the same benefits.

If you ate ice cream too fast, you got a brain-freeze.

If you ate the good word too fast, it froze the soul.

Wait a few seconds, you stop the headaches incurred from ice cream, but Levi’s religion was different.

Over two thousand years had passed and the brain-freeze of Strawberry Baptist ice cream still lingered in the world.

There’s no cure and no diagnosis.

Levi’s stuck with an eternal brain-frozen tumor.

He’s avalanched into Christianity forever.

“Read this passage and stop looking at the clock, forget about going to the gym tonight.”

“I did everything you told me to,” I said as he shoved the soft leather Bible into my nose, pressed airtight against my face. The words were so big I blinked several times to see them clearly.

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction. Hear the instruction of thy father.”

“Yes sir, I understand.”

Why couldn’t I be normal?

Take out the trash, do homework, wash dishes, clean up, go to school.

I’m telling you, being the son of a carpenter was low budget.

Though Levi built houses during the day, he built churches at night.

He sliced life into two things — Jesus and the Bible. He spent most of his time arguing on the phone about Jesus. Sometimes, he went through three cordless phones on a good day and his arguments ended with a flushing toilet.

When it got real bad, he took a box of his books and went down to use the public phone at the Amoco gas station on Georgia Avenue.

Every night, his Bible tumor made him walk through our house, sniffing for pagan books. His brown suede house shoes, former work boots retired from carpentry, slugged over the brown wooden floors. Like a high-end ghost cheating on his taxes for enlightenment, he haunted our house; the gospel his scream, the Bibles his chains.

“Pay attention, stay focused.”

“Yes sir.”

“This is the word of Jesus, follow Jesus or die in hell,” he said as his eyes changed. His pupils widened and his biblical beard took over my bedroom.

I thought about his books and there was something strange about them. All the authors, every one, was a white man. Then, a revelation came to me, “this isn’t the word of God.”

“Don’t blaspheme in this house.”

“That’s the truth Levi.”

“What you know about truth? Quote me one passage from the Bible, one, and you can go in the Army,” he said and folded his arms, his Nazarene Army of beard hairs pushed me into the wall.

If I didn’t stand up to his beard, I would become him. Trust me, that’s not an option, but I needed to go hoop.

Lying now was justified.

“I don’t know.”

“Book smarts ain’t got nothing to do with Bible smarts.”

“The church and Jesus ain’t the same thing — “

“The church is the bridesmaid, Jesus is the groom. Don’t you get it, you can’t walk out on Jesus? Your soul’s at stake, life’s the battle, not death. Death is punishment. You fight, but fight with back-up. Is there any back-up bigger than Jesus?”

“God.”

“Same thing, answer the question.”

“I’m going in the Army, I already decided.”

“Your brother’s out in the streets, now you going in the Army to get killed.”

“I will be fine.”

“If you gone fight, fight for God.”

“I left the church.”

“Jesus is waiting for you to come back.”

“What’s wrong with the Army?”

“You go in, you’re by yourself.”

“You cutting me loose for making my own decision?”

“You started this, Jesus finished it,” he said and from unseen hands, Bibles landed on my bed. The King James, The Revised Edition, New Standard, and a few others.

He thumbed through his Bibles and tossed me a fresh-squeezed Bible, its soft-leathered case covered with chicken-greased fingerprints. Now that he gave me this Bible, it wasn’t just a Bible.

It was MY Bible.

Forevermore.

“I want to be in the Old Guard, the people that flip the rifles.”

“Why fight for the white man? Only a stupid Black man follows white people after slavery.”

What’s he talking about?

Look at his Bibles and his books, they were books by white folks. He didn’t see it, he loved white people in all languages, “It’s only three years, at least I’ll go to school.”

“You wanna die in a war because you hate Jesus?”

Here we go, Jesus this. Jesus that. The only folks worse than Levi were Jehovah’s Witnesses. They not only pissed you off and sent you home, they followed you home and stayed for dinner.

“I ain’t going to war.”

“This book will save your life one day,” he said and his hands seized all the Bibles and put them under his arms, in his pants, in his pockets, somewhere. As he walked away, white lies contorted his frame. The Bibles handicapped him, he was lost between black reality and white lies. I grabbed the remote and turned on the television. At least, I’d watch Jordan kill the Pistons.

“You can go to the gym now.”

“It’s too late, I’m going to watch Jordan.”

Then he took the Bible out of his mouth. “Basketball’s your golden calf, study to show thyself approved,” he said and pointed at the TV, his steepled finger witnessed against ABC Sports. He swept news into a pile of secular trash and flushed it out of his life.

These were two known side-effects of his brain tumor.

“Turn off that TV.”

“It’s just the game.”

“Turn off the TV!”

“Shooooot Levi, you already made me miss the gym.”

He paused . . . Dropped the Bibles, unloosened his belt, snatched it out of his pants, and wrapped it around his right fist.

Then, he locked the door and faced me.

“We’re going to find out what you believe now.”

Southside

Being a senior at Southside Comprehensive High School made this condition worse, but for the wrong reasons. It wasn’t because we had the newest school in East Atlanta, or because we were in walking distance of Grant Park and the Zoo, or because our school roster read like the Atlanta Police roster for war.

Most people at Southside were from the hood.

And I mean DA HOOD.

All you need to know is that Southside is the home of Zone 3.

The more I fought and worked, it wasn’t that people hated, they did the opposite — they expected.

I learned being number one wasn’t good enough, only mastering something mattered.

Only through mastery was justice served and through masters, wisdom breathed. From the mouths of masters to the ears of students, societies prospered.

And that’s when the word hit me, master.

But master what?

My eardrums grew to love one sound — the sounds of my hands slapping an over-the-hill rifle. I had to be the best, but being the best meant beating the master. And there was only one master at Southside High School’s ROTC department.

Sergeant Burrell.

When he walked in my 2nd period class, my eyes zoomed in on his rulered spine, the way his back never bent, the way war straightened his life. When he spoke to other cadets, he faced them. But when he spoke to me, he turned to his side.

I still don’t know why.

You didn’t want to see him in the hallway because his eyes scanned your posture and your books. He revered everything straight: our direction to class, joining the Army, and our grades. He loved straight A’s, but he loved drilling with rifles more than living.

He grabbed a rifle, put it on his shoulder, and his back rulered. You could’ve used his back as a straight edge to draw a straight line. And if the line wasn’t straight, it was your mistake.

He was never wrong.

He was the MASTER.

He walked to the front of our class and his gray beard stood at attention. He turned to the side and as his eyes scanned the room, they stopped on me. “Follow me Banks.” He said and gave me a rifle. Then, I followed him to the middle of the class.

“Class, listen up. Watch how the master performs 15-count manual. Banks is here for those of you in the back of the class.” Then we stood back-to-back and I felt his shoulder blades, then suddenly, his back rulered and I felt nothing.

I leaned back and bumped into him.

How does an old man like Sergeant Burrell make his spine straighten because he picked up a rifle?

“Banks, begin 15-count manual NOW!” He said and my eyes lit with excitement as I drilled with him and our hands slapped our rifles at the same time.

It was the sweetest music I’d heard.

Count by count, we performed the manual. My hands slapped with his — pop pop pop pop. Then I realized why he never faced me, why he looked from the side. As I drilled, I noticed the goggled eyes of younger cadets to my right, but I still saw the envied looks of the older cadets to my left.

This was why Sergeant Burrell and deer looked from the side — to see more of the world.

Where Michael Jordan flew through the air, my rifle flipped.

Where Mike hung in the air, my rifle twirled.

Whatever Mike did, my rifle did better because it WAS better.

When Mike got tired, his thin-whipped arms and long-dangling fingers rested on his red Chicago Bulls shorts. My rifle tired, but she never bent. She remained straight throughout our relationship, almost as straight as Sergeant Burrell’s spine.

That’s when I knew — I was in love with drilling.

I stood at attention with Sergeant Burrell, back-to-back with the master, and this was what my mother told me love did.

It made you forget reality.

I won’t admit this again, so I’ll tell you.

This was THAT first kiss.

“At ease Banks. When you learn how to drill like Banks and me, you’ll be the master. Until then cadets, go stand in formation,” he said and they rushed outside.

“Banks, let’s talk right quick,” he said and perched his right hand on my shoulder, his angled shoulders blocking my view to the other cadets. I wasn’t sure, but when I looked, I was convinced. His fingers were rulered too. “There’s no magic, no secrets, no practice. There is only perfection.”

“Got it Sergeant Burrell.”

He turned to his right and yelled at the cadets outside. He was looking at them straight, “keep it down out there, you want the whole platoon to give me 20?”

Instead of facing me, his aged-brown pupils eyed me from the side and they wandered down at my hands. Then he spoke to me in a calm voice. “Get used to callouses, it’s part of the job. Men got rough hands, females got soft bodies. Civilians don’t understand. Drilling is a new love, it’s love at first touch,” he said and I peered at my right palm.

My callouses were emotional wounds of an old, over-the-hill rifle.

My rifle.

“Now make sure you’re at practice today on time. We’re working on a new routine,” he said and the rest of my day was a blur.

I was in class, but not in class, know what I mean?

When I got to practice, the new cadet stood alone in the corner, his lingering glances asking for guidance. So I got my rifle, rolled it down my back, and flipped it.

His eyes followed the rifle and I watched him from the side.

The other members watched and said nothing, but their eyes followed too.

They accepted I was better, but I wasn’t better, I just practiced more.

While they made love with their mouths, I made love to my rifle.

But I understood their reasoning, the girls at Southside were beautiful shades of chocolate and we took them for granted, like all guys in high school.

When we played Douglass High School in football at Cheney Stadium, we went crazy over their girls. But they shook their heads and said, “man, y’all STRAIGHT tripping. Southside girls are the bomb shawdy!”

That’s when things changed.

We don’t why or who, but someone told all Southside girls to grow up.

I call it the “Riding Boots” phase.

Every girl at Southside got her hair fixed, shoulder length, wore a bright-colored thick knit sweater, usually a turtle neck, a fresh blue denim skirt from Gap or Rich’s, and a pair of soft leather riding boots, that kind of soft leather where if you look long enough, you saw how many classes she walked to that day.

Some cracks were longer than others, some settled between longer cracks, and the more you looked, you saw more than where she walked.

You saw her personality, her smile, and even her figure.

A girl’s hips fitted her skirt like those creases fitted her boots.

The best attraction became the fad — a pair of fresh riding boots with no creases. Like a virgin, it meant this girl had found herself and was ready.

And of course, we were ready to take any girl into womanhood.

So while the fellas spit out New Edition lines to uncreased riding boots, I creased the callouses on my hands with my rifle.

She loved being in my hands, on my shoulders, behind my back, in the air, anywhere except the floor.

I promised her I would never drop her.

EVER.

Then, Sergeant Burrell walked down the hall, his shoulders crouching between the bricks, forcing more space. “That’s it Banks, speed up, speed up!” He said and my lover took over.

She spun in my hand, and spun, and spun, and spun.

There was nothing more important than this.

I did a move and my hand slipped-

POW!

She fell to the floor or did I drop her, can’t say.

My heartbeat pushed me off-balance and my lover inched away from me with every step I took backward.

Between her clangs on the floor, I heard her shouting.

You’re going to leave me.

You’re not worthy.

I held my ears, but she got louder.

YOU’RE GOING TO LEAVE ME.

“So what if I left, it’s my life,” I said to myself and looked at the other cadets.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Then Sergeant Burrell picked her up. She seemed comfortable in his hands, too comfortable.

“Calm down Banks, it’s okay. Everyone drops their rifle, better now than in front of civilians,” he said and his words rattled off in the distance.

My eyes rested on my lover, how his grip tightened and checked the barrel, how he held her and made sure she was okay.

He was taking my woman.

Because I was a nice guy, waiting for the right time, he got her attention.

And he didn’t use New Edition lines and she wasn’t wearing uncreased riding boots.

He swept her off her feet and off the floor.

He gave me the rifle and she felt strange, foreign, like a pair of new basketball shoes.

She hadn’t been broken in, or had she chosen another?

As the new cadets pranced to formation in mint-condition black and white Diadora tennis shoes, I looked at my rifle and wanted to leave.

I was sick of practice.

I hated being in love.

I wanted out.

“You’re too young to quit Banks, if you quit now you’ll never beat me, NEVER!” who cared, my heart was on the floor. He told me a story, I didn’t want to hear another one, about how he made the Old Guard.

He spoke with a drill Sergeant’s authority, a general’s vision, and a father’s honesty.

I hugged my rifle on her butt and flipped her. I did the routine again. “That’s it Banks, faster, faster, if you want to be a master,” he pushed me, edged me on, and suddenly, she loved me again.

It’s sad, a good grip on a girl can change her mind.

This time I was perfect.

He smiled, nodded his head, and walked away. A few feet before he disappeared around the corner, his neck rulered and his eyes watched me from the side.

Then, the new cadet tapped me on the shoulder. “That’s the sharpest I’ve ever seen, including Sergeant Burrell,” he said and I paused.

Was he right, was I good enough to join the Army?

Was I better than Sergeant Burrell?

Was I the MASTER now?

“Excuse me cadet, what did you say?”

“Nothing sir, nothing.”

“I think I heard what you said clearly. Banks, you think you ready for the master?”

“I’m okay sir, fine-”

“New guy, give me your rifle,” he said and the lobby tightened as he took the new cadet’s rifle, put it on his shoulder, and POP!

His back rulered.

As he smiled, he looked at me from the front.

“Show me what you got Banks.”

Post Team

Levi talked about the valley of the shadow of death, faith in God, and war. I only signed up for three years, why was he worried? He argued with ALL his energy, but I had MORE energy.

When he finished, I was still going.

One of the perks of being young.

After realizing he couldn’t change my mind, Levi stepped back and let me make my own decisions.

He stopped fighting me from going and prepared me to go.

Can you believe, I found respect in the remote corners of a demon’s mildewed heart?

What I envisioned of the world was not how the world was, had been, or ever will be. I went through basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, and then I went to communications school (AIT) at Fort Gordon, Georgia. 
I hoped for a great assignment, but when I opened my orders, it read KOREA.

Unbelievably, I made it through, and it wasn’t that bad.

I quickly discovered my first truth in the military; there’s white folks, there’s black folks, and there’s more white folks. They didn’t care who I was; they required one thing, an obeying soldier.

Why did Sergeant Burrell lie to me?

I sat on my bunk one night, looking at my hands and thinking about my first love.

Where was Jesus now?

I rubbed lotion in my hands and softened the scars.

I wanted to strike out, fight, and hurt something or someone. I rubbed my hands against my forehead, hoping to scrape the physical and mental memories away.

It was going to be a long time before I got over my first love.

Since I had to wait until I was back in the States to join the Old Guard, I focused on another dream.

I played ball for two unit teams in Korea and found peace in a new weapon, a spherical rubber object called a basketball.

I played throughout high school and I loved the game, but now it was my rebound girl, my second chance at love.

Before I played, I ensured I looked good because looking’s half the battle on the court.

I bought several hand-made basketball uniforms from the little shops outside Camp Stanley in Korea, a few miles from the DMZ. I showed them a photo, they took my measurements, and made an authentic uniform.

I bought several: Chicago Bulls (Michael Jordan, of course), Detroit Pistons, North Carolina, and the Atlanta Hawks (for my boy Dominique Wilkins).

Armed with the right-to-play-by-looks, I played at Camp Stanley, Seoul, and up north at TDC, which is also a few miles from the DMZ. After playing ball, I discovered the concept of tradition; things we do because we’ve always done them or we’re told to do them.

My tradition wasn’t extravagant, it was convenient.

After playing, I went into the village and gobbled down a good bowl of Raamen Noodles. They made them several ways: cheese Raamen, Hot Dog Raamen, and Chicken cheese Raamen. In the states, we were forced to buy these noodles from the grocery store, but they tasted so much better in Korea.

Like they say, there’s nothing like the original.

In late 1989, I was given orders to go to Fort Riley, Kansas. My only knowledge of Kansas was The Wizard of Oz. On the bus en route, I saw tumbleweeds lined across an enormous field, I couldn’t believe they were real.

I believed they made them for the western movies!

At Fort Riley, I was harassed constantly about my beard. It got so bad, I needed a shaving profile (a piece of paper that lets me wear a beard in the military).

It was a blessing and a curse.

It was an antagonistic call for capital punishment.

This abuse opened my eyes about what experience meant — proof that only fools believed in God.

9:30 a.m.

“What up!” Smitty said from behind me. I looked at him and he was comic relief. When the world was heavy with problems, he made me laugh and wipe the weight from my shoulders.

As a soldier, he was first-class.

As a friend, he was invaluable to life.

I had to answer because if he started dancing, I couldn’t work and with my luck, that’s when Sergeant Reed would walk in. “Not today man, not today!”

“You’re not playing ball?” He said and gave me the look, the kind buddies give when it’s time to bow down to peer pressure.

“Man, lunch is the only time I’m free to do it.”

“We play first of the fifth today, we can’t lose. We gotta get our team together, do this for your boy,” he said with the enthusiasm that consumed me when I talked about playing ball.

Basketball was more than entertainment, it was more than recreation, and it was more than exercise.

It was my way of life and my connection to God.

I was only in the Army to support my spiritual habit.

When he realized I was thinking no, he danced and I burst out in loud bellows of rhythmic laughter.

When I caught my breath, I answered, “I’ll be there, just give me the ball.”

“That’s my boy,” he said and left, “see you in two hours.”

11:42 a.m.

“What up Banks!” Smitty screamed from across the gym as I entered. He was under the basket shooting lay-ups. I held my hands up and he threw the ball.

I caught the ball in my left hand, dribbled to my right hand, and bounced it hard on the floor. The ball thudded on the hardwood and bounced toward the basket.

At that moment, our opponents walked in and stopped. They watched the ball, Smitty was watching me.

“You think you got it going on, don’t you?” He said and I smiled. That Smitty was a trip, he could turn a funeral into a birthday party.

The ball reached its elevation and descended back to the hardwood. Everyone was mesmerized. I guess Darwin experienced the same thing hundreds of years ago. It moved slowly, only moving because I wished it.

When it swished through the nets, the chokehold of anticipation lifted and there was movement.

It didn’t matter if it was luck and I’d never do it again, all that mattered was our opponents saw it and I’d use that to our advantage.

“So you’re ready to hoop?” Smitty said and grabbed the ball. He approached me, eyes closed, dribbling the ball.

“Don’t make me play with my eyes closed. You know I can do it, since I taught you everything you know,” he said, his hands swinging in the air for the ball as it rolled off his foot. He opened his eyes and laughed, the crazy kind of laugh he gave when he knew he was tripping.

Smitty had a great game, knocking down five jumpers already. He ran around the court, blowing his shooting hand, like it was on fire.

I thought about Smitty and the way he danced and laughed.

That damn Smitty, what could you say?

“You tripping off Smitty, ain’t you Banks? I know, that boy is a fool!” Celestine said and danced like Smitty. It wasn’t close, but it was enough; even Mixon laughed.

Celestine was hooping today too, was his wife and baby girl in the bleachers that inspiring? I was doing pretty well; got a few rebounds, blocked two shots, and made three assists.

After thirty minutes, the game was tied at 11 and we were going to 12.

A teammate told me to come on his side, so I could go one on one; the guys loved to see me dribble.

I got the ball and dribbled behind my back several times, thinking the defender was trying to MASTER me. As he reached, I drove to the basket — the key to my freedom.

Two defenders attempted to steal the ball and I’d let no one take it from me. I jumped to make a lay-up, they jumped, tried to block my shot, and all I needed to do was get my profile over their arms.

I shot the ball, assured if it got it high enough, I would not longer deal with being a Slave.

As I landed, I heard someone screaming, “That’s game you suckers!”

Ain’t that something, a game showed me my future. I was not a slave.

Not Levi’s.

Not Gingrich’s.

And definitely not God’s.

As hoopers say, the ball doesn’t lie, and I believed in its truth as strongly as biblical prophecy.

After the game, I realized it was time.

I was ready.

And in six hours, the trials would begin.

6:05 p.m.
Got my kicks, my ball, Gatorade. I closed my gym bag and eyed the flyer on the glass door.

Post Team Try-Outs today.

As I opened the door and entered the gym, small pockets of freezing air danced around my earlobes. As my body adjusted to the air conditioning, the bright lights beamed down and blinded me.

I heard balls bouncing, but all I saw was orange and soft specks of light brown. When my eyes adjusted, the orange blurs were lines and the light brown specks were bleachers.

Several guys talked with each other and down to the far end was one guy shooting alone.

I decided to go shoot with him cause he was serious about the game.

The way I was about the Old Guard.

Or at least used to be since that dream was over.

As I laced my shoes and rebounded the ball for him, his eyes glanced at me as he continued his drill.

Catch the ball, three quick dribbles, and then a quick jump shot.

Thwack!

The nets popped as his shot hit the bottom of the net.

I caught the ball, threw it back to him, and like a well-conditioned rifle, he fired again.

Thwack!

For about five minutes, he continued his drill and he didn’t miss.

I forgot about him missing and studied his footwork and how he made a slight pause just before he shot the ball.

Thwack!

The other guys were joking around, some of them were taping their ankles, and a few were in the bleachers doing our favorite past-time.

Arguing.

“Dominique was horrible, he don’t play D. All he did was dunk.”

“MJ is the man.”

“Whatever, Ron Harper got the same game as MJ.”

“What about Bird, he was the best!”

“He couldn’t jump!”

Thwack!

And as I passed him the ball, he took five dribbles, eyed me, and walked to the bleachers. I followed and as the last guy sat down, the coach stood in front of us.

He held a ball under his right arm the same way I held my rifle. As he paced and talked about how the try-outs would go, the drill-guy eyed all the players and smirked.

“Ok, here’s the rundown. All centers and forwards, go to the other side of the floor. My assistant coach is working with you. For all you guards, it’s a tough thing. I only got one position. Follow me.”

He bounced the ball hard against the lacquered wooden floor, walked to the basket, and stopped at the free-throw line. Then, he moved out of the way and the drill-guy stepped in and shot the ball.

Thwack!

“This is my starting guard people, he’s been the starting point guard for the last five years. An E-5 in line for his E-6. You wanna play on this team, you got to go through him.”

The coach blew his whistle and the drill-guy rushed off to the right, full-speed, and stopped on a dime.

SQUEEK!

The soft hum of the air-conditioning blew overhead.

The coach blew his whistle again.

The drill-guy ran as the coach threw him the ball.

He caught the ball and he did his slight pause and jumped in the air.

Thwack!

“Huddle up guys!”

As we huddled around the coach, the drill-guy stood across from me and locked his eyes on me.

“We’re gonna pair up now. Oh, it seems my starting guard has his partner, what’s your name son?”

“Banks sir.”

“Not sir, coach.”

“Check that coach.”

“Oh God, another one from the hill. You got your hands full with this guy,” he said and blew the whistle. I paired up with the drill-guy and the coach walked over to us and blew his whistle again. “People, we’re gonna watch Banks to let you know what you’re up against. Banks, don’t let him shoot from this spot,” he said and pointed.

The whistle squealed and the drill-guy started.

One dribble.

Two dribbles.

Three dribbles.

He stepped and stopped.

No, not now.

Don’t jump.

Wait, wait.

There it was, the slight pause.

Now!

We jumped together and when I saw the ball, I swung hard with my right hand and tried knocking it loose.

I tapped it softly and as we landed, the ball went straight up in the air.

Oohs and aahs came from the bleachers.

“Great block Banks, don’t know how my starting guard’s going to take that.”

The drill-guy grabbed the ball and looked at the coach. “Coach, let me school him right quick.”

The coach stepped back and raised his hand, “you ready Banks, it’s now or never.”

“Check coach!”

Squeel!

The drill-guy eyed me, faked a few times, and paused.

Before I could move, he blew past me!

SQUEEK!

As I tried to recover, he was in the air already.

Thwack!

He looked at the coach and then he eyed me.

“Welcome to Fort Riley rookie.”

Shaving Profile

Inside the TMC (medical clinic), my boots clicked and clacked. The tile floor was immaculately waxed, the windows were flawless, even the garbage can was new.

I stepped again — CLICK!

Again — CLACK!

For some reason, I looked out the window at the gray gates of the motorpool. Its thin, bony wiring criss-crossed in an x formation along the fence. And what was a fence?

A gate, a passageway, a barrier not to keep offenders out, but to keep us under commander Lieutenant Colonel Gingrich’s watchful, omniscient eyes.

Sad, I was still with Levi.

I left one demon lieutenant for another.

But this one was white, which was truly demonic. He was not omniscient in the sense of God, but his power extended down the chain of command. If one of his flunkies saw you, it was Gingrich watching.

We not only fought Gingrich, but his influence.

And the end was always the same.

We lost.

Or maybe the x’s along the fence symbolized DO NOT ENTER or DO NOT DISTURB?

Suddenly, a white maintenance van, streaks of blue and green paint blotted in spots, sped by and I took off my soft cap.

“What’s going on?” I shouted around the corner and smiled when Clemons, dressed only in his brown t- shirt, responded. The PA was gone, I could listen to music, and enjoy this time away from the motorpool prison.

“You and the drill thing man, it’s just some guys twirling rifles man, what’s the big deal?”

“Big deal? That’s why I’m here,” I said as Clemons prepped the medical table for me. He ensured everything was ready and then motioned for me to sit down. His smile, professionally speaking, camouflaged his more disturbing qualities. They were considered disturbing because within the Army, a black man faced two levels of prejudice; what was expected of us and what was not accepted from us. They were never spoken, but they were enforced in this cradled world.

The world of this man’s Army.

Then Clemons took a cotton swab, dipped it in alcohol, and wiped my keloids. “I’m glad you got that temporary profile, they get harder the more you shave and soon, these injections may not work,” he strained injecting the next one.

“With a beard, they don’t look as bad. When is my boy Ford going to holler at me?”

“Bobby Fisher’s always thinking about chess even when he’s not playing, seriously, he probably went down on main post with the PA.”

“What’s up with the music?” I said and felt the kenolog working inside the keloids, causing them to itch.

“The PA don’t allow music during the day, stop tripping,” he said and when I thought about it — they had played music BEFORE he arrived.

“It’s hard without music. I’m sick of being locked in the motorpool like some animal, I feel caged in. They should make leashes standard issue.”

“It’s like two hundred and three musketeers,” Clemons said and we laughed, but he didn’t laugh long. His glasses gave him that “I have a right to be serious” look. “Heard you be in Leonard Gym balling?”

“Of course, that’s what I did back in Atlanta. Hooping’s one of my things.”

“How was trying out for the post team?”

“Can you be in the Old Guard and play ball for the post team?”

“Why don’t you get off the Old Guard Banks, it’s not that serious. Take my advice man.”

“What good is that?” I said and several of the keloids were itching, whew whee!

Dang, the skin kept calling and calling me.

ITCH ITCH!

ITCH ITCH!

“It’ll get you away from Gingrich.”

“I’ve heard, but I got a good chance with the Old Guard, been working on my skills since high school.”

“You got a better chance making the post team.”

“Come on shawdy, you serious? Give me a rifle, I’ll show you what I got,” I said and closed my eyes, focusing away from the itching.

The Got Damn itching!

“Simmer down Banks, I know how bad they itch, but that’s a good sign, means the kenolog is still working. As I was saying, there’s some racist people in this man’s army.”

“There you go Clemons, calm down with the angry black man speeches. Drilling has nothing to do with color.”

“When they say this man’s army, which man you think they talking about?”

“Never thought about it,” I said as I realized how little I knew about life, about the Army, about me. But one thing was certain, the Old Guard was my dream.

Why would I give up my dream cause Gingrich didn’t agree with me?

“Watch your back, never know who’s against you.”

“Ain’t you tired of following him?” I said and my stomach growled several times.

“Come on bruh, we all hate Gingrich, but what you gonna do? Fight him, argue, and lose your rank and money. He ain’t worth that. Move on with your life man and one day, this will be all behind us.” Clemons said and paused.

I wondered what stopped him from talking and when he wiped my face, I knew. A keloid was bleeding from the injection. “You been down in Junction City yet?”

He pressed on the keloid for a few seconds and motioned to me to hold the cotton swab in place, maintaining pressure to stop the bleeding.

“There’s nothing to do but hoop and go to the arcade. I went to Topeka a few times and one time to Manhattan.”

“Manhattan, what you doing down there?”

“I went with Daly.”

“Daly let you go with him, I can’t believe that. You’re not the right color. Now, let’s get back to the try-outs.” Then, my stomach growled and dinner sounded better, at least tonight.

This was a bad day, itching and hunger.

“Who told you?”

“Come on man, that’s all anybody’s talked about, especially Barnes. You know he thinks he’s THE MAN,” he said as I threw the cotton swab in the garbage can. He glared at my keloid to make sure it wasn’t bleeding.

“Da MAN?”

“By the way, the MAN is Colonel Gingrich,” Clemons said and finished. He stepped back and I sat up with new enlightenment about my condition.

Was it possible my problems came from racism and not from my face?

“The post team, I try not to think about it, don’t wanna jinx it,” I fixed my sleeves and put on my soft cap.

“It’s about time you finally listened to me,” he said and pointed at the clock.

“Things work out for the best and would you please go down and get those scrubbing pads I told you about, they’ll pull a lot of this hair out of your keloids. Before you ask, Buf-Puf pads,” he said.

“Thanks for the injections and the Proverbs, I’ll holler at you later,” I fixed my sleeves, put on my soft cap, and paused. “Quick question Clemons, do you ever think I could be clean-shaven?”

“Maybe, but you’re gonna have to go to the hospital and see a dermatologist, a specialist. He’ll know how to handle your case cause getting these injections is great for fixing the keloids already there, but to stop others is another battle.”

“So, how do I make it happen?”

“The long way, fill out a form and I’ll give it to the PA and he’ll take forever to send it to the hospital. Short way, tell Sergeant Reed to send you to sick call, fill out the paperwork at hospital, and ask to be seen.”

“Cool, but seriously Clemons, you think I can make the team?”

“Yeah man, from what Celestine been telling me, I know you’ll make it. But stop with the Old Guard thing man, it’s a waste of time. Right now, your priority is getting a permanent shaving profile man, do you really want your face to be messed up for the rest of your life?”

“Never thought about it like that, thanks again Clemons,” I said and left, my stomach growling for attention. I forgot about the wind and readjusted my cap when I got outside.

The red brick buildings stood in uniform space, their windows like tiny eyes watching me.

As I turned the corner to the motorpool, I looked back and those tiny eyes were still watching.