I go out to Forsythe to do some volleys on the three-wall racquetball court, only no one plays racquetball anymore and I'm there just hitting some when this geek of the classic modes comes up. "Hey! How you." He's wearing, get this: running shoes, with brown socks. Salvation Army grab bag. Flowered knee length shorts that should embarrass even the eight year olds that wear them, a t-shirt and a suit-type vest. A vest. It's only eighty-five degrees out.
He starts talking. "You come out here a lot?"
"I guess."
"You practicing to be a tennis professional?"
I'm already hating the situation. "No—just hitting."
"How long do you usually stay when you hit?"
"About an hour." Here, he looks at his watch and then at my car. It's the only one in the lot.
"I was wanting you to give me a ride, it's not too far. Might be right on your way. I'm not in a hurry."
"I don't really know which way I'm going after this, really."
"Yeah, I can understand that. No problem. I'll let you think about it."
But he doesn't leave. There's only the sound of the racket and the ball.
"How come you like tennis so much." My face is burning—this is getting out of hand. There are unspoken rules being broken everywhere. My volleys are going loose because my forearm is beginning to shake a little. Like when you're a kid on the playground and you know there's going to be some fighting, probably with you in it. It feels strange to remember that.
"Couldn't say. Just come out here to get things together."
"You feel like you need to put things together?"
"My game I mean—tennis." A pause. He's standing, lingering along the cinderblock wall, looking into the court. Then comes all this information, like I was actually asking him for it. He's twenty-seven and goes to the Mountain of Faith Church south of town, he was saved last year. His bike is broken, an accident of some sort. He asks if I'm saved.
There's nobody else around for what seems like miles and I'm wishing I wouldn't answer him, but I do. "No."
"Do you want to be?"
"No."
"Fair enough."
A siren, far off. Soon it fades.
He starts again. "What is it you do?"
"I go to college."
"Yeah, I'm thinking about going to college. If I can get the money That's the big problem right there." He waits, no comment from me, then he goes on—he's from a little town in Arkansas, has a sister there, et cetera. This continues and I keep on hitting, missing mostly because I'm trying to hold him in view to the side.
Finally he looks at his watch and says "I'll be back" and heads around the court off toward the restrooms where I can't see him. Other than the clothes, he's hard to describe, I'm thinking, they say for witnesses to get some key ID features, but in the light I can't even tell if his hair is black or just sandy-dark.
That's where my mistake occurred, not leaving then. I suppose I thought it would look obvious, that he'd be somewhere watching and waiting for me do do just that. Then, I don't know.
It didn't matter because he comes back in about two minutes. "Hey," he waves.
"Hey." Cars pass through the park, joggers on the levee, nobody stops. Never see a cop patrol when you might possibly need one, do you.
He stands at the same spot, occasionally wandering into my range to kick a sprout of grass in the concrete or chase a ball down for me. One time he cuts a little close going to pick up a candy wrapper and one of my returns pops him square on the left hip.
Oh no, I'm thinking, here it is at last, an eight-inch blade from under the vest. But all he does is jump back, a little nervous like it was intentional, then smiles and says "Whoa!" and cheerily tosses the ball back to me.
He's grown mostly quiet now, occasionally popping off some primitive opinion on world hunger or nuclear stockpiling. How he got those subjects I have no earthly idea.
He looks at his watch. "How long did you say you usually hit?"
"About an hour."
"It's been an hour and ten minutes already."
Now I get goosebumps. I try to hit, hoping my face isn't so hot it shows red. He's not talking at all now and he's standing in direct line between me and the car.
I hit and wait.
Appears then an act of great natural benevolence: the wind blowing a piece of crumpled note paper, over the grass in the direction of the rest rooms. He heads toward it, walking with both hands under opposite arm pits. I remember him walking that way.
I run to the car, leaving my racket, balls and canister. Inside I can't tell if the engine's started or not because of the blood beating on my eardrums, so I put it in reverse and the car moves. I look back once.
He watches, his mouth all but gaping in the rearview, as if it were the scene of some horrendous betrayal. The grass feels spongy beneath my tires cutting across the golf course to skip the stoplight. I keep the mirror turned down all the way to the dorm.
Another place I can't go back to.
