Midafternoon on a chilly November Saturday, it was this close to being strike three, finito to the low probability fantasy of a somewhat addled brain, when a young guy rode his undersized bike into the playground at Locust and York streets in Towanda, tossed his backpack to the ground, and proceeded to swing like a child.
I was parked nearby, reading a book, having shot some hoops earlier but not particularly anxious to depart. On noticing the guy but uncertain whether it was the fellow from a few weeks back, I and my ubiquitous basketball headed to the court without looking in his direction.
Before taking a shot, he was at the chain link fence separating the playground from the court, asking, “hey, remember me?”
“Football receiver, headed to the Army,” was my unhesitating reply.
“That’s right,” and he was immediately climbing the fence to get to the court to take some shots and talk, at a pace somewhat faster than was true during our prior interaction, and with greater content.
He had failed the Army’s drug test and was in the area for two main reasons: now that the military did not seem like an imminent option, it looked like his job options were construction and auto mechanic, which were better pursued in the Towanda area than in the small town where he hailed from, over two hours away.
Secondly, his non-practicing Mormon girlfriend was nearby, hopefully working on her lengthy list of overdue homework assignments, non-completion meaning non-graduation from high school.
I gave him a modest tutorial on how to shoot as he, like many football players or wrestlers, tended to think that aggressive two-handed form is the way to go, leaving backboards shaking as the ball arrives with way too much force. Having said that, It is worth noting a low-probability shot that he did make: back to the basket from halfcourt, a heave bounced in. Follow-ups were airballs.
When he was contacted by a friend working at a nearby Dunkin Donuts, he asked if I would watch his backpack for a few minutes. I said of course and asked if he could get a cup of coffee for me. I had a bunch of bills in my pocket and quickly described them, accurately, as all ones. He commented, “we’ve all been there.”
He was gone only a short time and beaming with pride on his return: he had absorbed a minor crash with his bike without spilling a drop of coffee.
Vaping as we talked, I found myself wondering whether that was a no-no on Taylor’s list of personal characteristics pertinent to those he might pursue. Then I recalled that, unless something has changed, Taylor’s long-time companion Jerry is a smoker.
Given his multiple references to marijuana and alcohol, vaping could be described as almost an innocent activity, but neutral me thought it detracted from his appearance/persona. Arrested three times with minimal penalties, he is looking forward to having his record expunged on turning the magic age. Whether habits change with the turning of a calendar page is debatable. And genes are a factor as well: his father was drunk when he died in an auto accident. It is unclear whether Dad was driving one of his monster cars, both of which ultimately met their own demise. His son would love to have a monster car of his own, the price tag of which equates to years of gainful employment.
As he prepared to leave and return to his girlfriend, he asked for my phone number, which I gave him without a second thought. When I arrived back at my apartment, 135 miles later, he had already texted me with his number. In my response, I asked why he wanted my number.
“Just in case you ever wanted to play basketball or anything again, you could just let me know.”
I replied: “Got it. Will do.”
**
Through sheer happenstance, he has made the acquaintance at the playground of a fellow twice his age, maybe significantly more as the latter’s hat hides a useful clue. Normally not a terribly introspective guy, and reluctant to be too curious, he does wonder: is the person a military or job recruiter, a mentor seeking to connect him to a relevant organization, a lost soul looking for company, or – is he going to attempt to groom him, priestlike, to participate in unholy rituals?
How many sessions of shooting hoops, of perhaps sharing pizza, of downing a legal beverage will ensue and ultimately provide an answer to the above question. How long to get to know someone: is it numerical: years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes? Maybe the measurement is better done in terms of word count, broken down into those with meaning and those which are simply collections of letters tossed into the air. Quite likely, there is no metric.
So now, the invite is 48 hours old without a reply. Why should I even pause for a second to think that something is amiss when such a delayed communication is not unusual in my world. The answer is a hope, that his prior rapid response was the norm, that it wasn’t an accident. The deep dark thought of my alleged brain is that he, perhaps helped by those he talks with—like a Mormon girlfriend for example, is thinking maybe there is a Taylor situation at work in this interaction. Maybe he is easily influenced, not to positive action, but to negative inaction.
Once I took the time to explain to a teammate why I had made a certain decision on the basketball court. His response was succinct: “you’re overthinking it.” Does that go with living solo, of believing that “for the man without a homeland, writing is where he lives.” Should I drop the proverbial pen and instead seek medication, pornography, alcohol, or purchased sex to combat an undefined, but probably minimal level of depression?
Maybe he is in jail or sleeping off some heavy drinking or zoned out after ingesting illegal substances. And fighting with a girlfriend is known to scramble one’s head on occasion. One more chance to be given, a minor violation of the do not chase rule.
Another two days without response. No need to play the fool. Finito (I think). Every time I hear of dedicated social workers or counselors toughing it out through multiple disappointments and ultimately changing an individual’s life I wonder — what is the definition of chasing?