Basketball on the Moon

 By Valentin Isaac Abducens


The beer clacked onto the hood with a dull thump like a piece of plastic dropped on a wooden floor.  Clayton’s piss stream sounded like a bucket of water poured down the drain. 

-Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he sighed. 

The sprinkles of rain slid like daggers through the foggy headlights in the cold dry air.  Ben’s black Hawkeye stocking hat sat symmetrical across his forehead, and his Carhart jacket billowed behind him as the cardboard ripped and clunked when he opened the 12 pack to pull out a Busch Light.  The can opened like a gunshot and he took a swig.   Clayton had on a red fleece jacket rippling in the wind and a baseball cap with the Chicago Bears wide orange ‘C’ spread across and elevated on the front.  He zipped up his pants, took off his hat and wiped his forehead as he came back to the hood of the car.  The crunch of the gravel under his foot echoing over the newly plowed bean field like a lover’s serenade.  During the day from this vantage point on a slight rise in the hill, you could see a farm house behind bare trees with just buds at the tips – or tiny reddish maple flowers brazenly burgeoning at the tips of the limbs.  In the full leaves of summer, the house was masked and hidden from the humid road.  But now, in the brisk blowing spring air – with thunder claps and streaks of lightening welcoming the end of winter, they could see the windows lighted in a couple rooms in the house. 

-Listen, all I say is, so we go to Mars man – how high should they put the fuckin hoop.

-Dude, you gotta keep it at 10 feet.

-Are you fucking kidding me – the gravity is totally different. 

-I know man, but you can’t change the frickin dimensions of the game.  Everyone would be playing in the same gravity.  Let’s say in a 100 years there’s a team in the NBA on Mars, then everyone will have to play in that place. 

-Yeah, but what about the team on Mars – their stats are going to be totally out of whack.  It’ll be worse than Coors Field.

-What is the gravity of Mars?  I thought it was the same as earth.

Ben whipped out his phone, a large android with a folding leather wallet case for his driver’s license and bankcards, and googled Mars gravity.

-3.711 m/s2

-Okay.

Ben put his phone away.

-Dude, said Clayton, what the fuck does that mean?

They both laughed, as Ben pulled his phone back out and looked up the Earth’s gravity.

-All right – the earth is 9.807 m/s2.  Check this out  - the moon is  1.62 m/s2.

-Oh yeah, you’d also have to have a team on the moon, call them the ‘Armstrongs’ or something. 

-Wait, hold on – the earth’s gravity divided by Mars is 2.64. 

-Dude, the hoop would have to be 26 feet high.  I don’t know how long or wide the court is, but you’d have to make it 2.64 longer and wider.  Wait a minute.  The free throw line would have to be like 40 feet away. 

-What is the NBA three point line. 

Ben googled it.

-23 feet, 9 inches.  So it would have to be like 60 feet away. 

-That’s hilarious – like shooting a 3 from the pitcher’s mound.

-A pitcher’s mound is 60 feet? 

-Yeah man.

-That’s weird, it seems closer than shooting a 3. 

-The ball would also have to be way heavier man. 

-Oh yeah, definitely.  So much more would happen when people are jumping up to dunk on Mars – I feel like even though it should be the same, the games would be way lower scoring. 

-Wait a minute – how high would the hoop be on the moon. 

-Looks like the gravity is about 6 times less.

-Hahahahah – a 60 foot hoop.

-No way Neil Armstrong or Buzz Aldrin could dunk – they were barely getting like a couple feet off the ground. 

-Well, I think all that shit they had on was pretty heavy.

-Dude, are you watching the Last Dance – did you see Michael Jordan his his fucking head on the backboard going up for a block in college.  He didn’t graze it – his full head hit it!!  Imagine someone like Michael Jordan on the moon – jumping 60 feet high and throwing it down. 

-They totally have to do it when we go to Mars.

-Fuck that, I want to see that shit on the moon.

On the word moon – a vicious thunderclap almost instantaneous after a burst of lightning killed his voice.

-Whoa, said Clayton, grabbing his hat as the wind picked up and a dust devil from the gravel road materialized like wicked spirit in the headlights and swirled past them.  Even in the dark, the sky was a swirling abyss, like the end of Raider’s of the Lost Ark.  But that’s why they were out. 

Clayton had to sneak out of the bulkhead of the basement of his parent’s farmhouse, ran through the hay field, catching cockleburs and scrapes before meeting Ben sitting by his parent’s rusty 2009 Chrysler LeBaron on the side of the field, careful not to drive too far down the mud ruts in the rain. 

Ben lived in town, and heard the tornado warming siren speak to him like Pan’s flute of the call of the wild.  His parents had it on the news, it was the only thing to watch, with no sports, and everyone quarantined because of the virus.  KCRG channel 9 lit up the counties with tornado warnings in red, and those with watches in yellow, and his county was firmly in red.  It looked like the wallpaper in some futuristic McDonald’s.  But just like last summer, it was too enticing to pass up.  The chase, the danger of a tornado roaring over the hell, and them jumping out of the car in the ditch, wondering if it will swing him up and toss him like a baseball off into a field miles a way.  He imagined crashing into a hayloft, or down into a pond, or even in squelched in the mud, pulling himself up and wandering around until some old farmer found him and said, Jesus, son, what the hell are you doin out in this shit.  Him explaining getting tossed by a tornado and the old man giving him the same look as a child seeing superman fly for the first time.  Oh hell yeah.

And unlike Clayton’s parents, his parents thought the coronavirus was ‘bullshit’ so when he asked to go hangout with friends, all his old man said was be careful, take shelter if you see anything, and make sure you’re back by midnight.  When his mom protested, dutifully, attempting a voice of reason but voting with his Dad against her party – his dad said, you’re supposed to keep an 18 year old boy cooped up the whole time – come on.  They didn’t see the harm in it, didn’t care if they got the virus because they didn’t think it mattered being in the early 40s, and definitely weren’t observing any shelter in place, that was for New York and the east coasters to worry about.  His grandfather, his mom’s dad, lived with them, and he came out of the garage at that time, the talk radio like the rumble of a semi over a bridge floating out into the kitchen.

-Oh hell, let him go out Kristin – this whole thing cooked up by the world to fuck us!  Even an alien observing us right now would know something is up, with our carbon emissions down all over the world.  It’s like a goddamn invitation for the invasion.  Don’t say I didn’t tell you that when we all get brain zapped so they can study us and mine our planet. 

-All right Dad, said Ben’s Mom

-Okay okay worse case scenario.  But at best we’re talkin about Italy, China, New York – criminals and communists trying to crash the economy to make their dirty money.  And look who else is making money off this, Jeff Bezos and Bill Gates – they’ll be microchipping our ass with this vaccine. I bet if you went into one of those hospitals, it’d be just as busy as usual, and you wouldn’t even know what’s going one with everyone wearing masks like Muslims, they’re laughing our ass off.  If I get sick from the corona, I give you my personal permission to donate all 30 dollars to my goddamn name to PETA! 

-Jack, you ain’t got 30 cents to your name, shouted one of his friends from the garage.

-It’s all fucking bullshit, bomb em to the Stone Age, and his Grandpa slammed the fridge shut, cracked a beer and walked back into the garage yelling – I only need 30 cents to buy a night with your old lady. 

-Dad, hold on a second, said Ben’s dad.

The first thing Clayton did was call the country roadhouse bar near their place when Ben said he was on the way.   They were running it like a 1920s speakeasy with people coming in the back and drinking in the basement.   And to keep up appearances, they were lax about who they served for beer on take out – it was a dream.  He ordered a 12 pack of Busch Light – they gouged him 20 bucks for it but didn’t care it was Clayton Breitbach and he was only 18 years old.  The cops had bigger things to worry about anyway. 

Ben and Clayton jumped back in the car and drove down the road the wheels on gravel like marbles.  The radio ripped new age rock - hard driving licks with howling singers.  But the next song was subdued, a voice withered out of the speaker like a piece of folded leather released.  The guitar winked at their eardrums.

-What the fuck is this shit?  Said Ben.

-John Prine, my dad likes him, I guess he just died from the virus.

-Goddamn, this is fucking terrible music.

That sat in silence until:

 

           

            From Muhammed Ali to teachin Bruce Lee

how to do karate

            She can lead a parade while putting on her shades

            in a Maserati

            She knows everybody

 

-What the fuck, that is awesome!  Ben said, his mind taking a U-turn.

They turned it up and started singing the chorus at the top of their lungs. 

-Dude, you gotta find him on spotify. 

Ben’s old car would link with an iphone through a USB jack, but there was no Bluetooth.  He had to plug and replug a few times, but it linked and they found a John Prine playlist, sipping their beers, as the thunder rolled. 

Soon afterwards they came across a familiar old burr oak with knotty branches spread like scarves in the wind.  A dirt turnabout went around the tree in the back.

-Ah man, the old tree, if this old bastard could tell stories.

-So many parties here.

When they turned around the back behind the true, two cars were parked in the area.

-Who the fuck is this?

-Don’t recognize the cars. 

-Hold on man, I got a mag light between the seats. 

Ben hoisted the metal mag light, more like a weapon than a flashlight, it was once blue, but the paint was worn and partly rusted.  They grabbed their beers and jumped out of the car, winding through one of the many paths in the hay field to the woods by the creek.  Ben heard something behind a white pines and shined the mag light under the branches, a few rain drops hit the flashlight.  A man and a woman, probably in their late 20s or early 30s, wearing cloth masks were naked.  The man was on top of her – with their bright eyes and masks and naked bodies and they resembled large possums or mutant hairless raccoons. 

-Just leave us alone, said the man through the mask with a muffled voice.

-No worries there, laughed Clayton.

They laughed again and ran quickly back to the car.  Their laughter was driven by one thing, the fact they couldn't wait to tell everyone about it.

-Definitely a pandemic tinder hookup, said Clayton.

-Oh yeah man.

Ben lit a cigarette once they were back in the car, shifted with it in his mouth, and rusty smoke sent tendrils around the upholstery, which breathed it in with experience.  The cool lights from the dash in the dark emanated a glow on their faces and gave the smoke an eerie demeanor. 

-What do you got there?

-Reds

-Hook me up.

Ben handed the pack over to Clayton, amazed at the beauty with which the smoke slid through his body after he took a drag.

-When did you pick these up?

-I actually bought them right before the shit went down – they might be a little stale.

Clayton could taste the slight tinge of tinfoil of an old smoke, but the pleasure squashed any nausea he was experiencing as the rush to his head lifted him up and levitated him over the fields.  The nausea came a little later, but the beer pushed that down quick like a rising balloon slapped down at a birthday party.

-Fucking right man, said Ben as he lit another cigarette.

They came up to the farmhouse and pulled over to piss.

-Dude, we back on Butterfield?

-Yeah, I think so.  Clayton screwed up his brain to try and remember the meanderings they took around the roads, a map seared into his brain, where to turn, where to go straight, so as to avoid any county or state roads.  The Dali sand swaths on the side of the car looked like a beach as the tide was going out.  The light brown from the wet road, which would kick up dust for a quarter mile behind a car on a dry day, just slithered caked mud down the side.  Clayton realized he had it all over his pants from leaning on the car while pissing, but that didn’t stop him from leaning.

After deciphering astrobasketball and the dust devil spirit, they saw an outside motion light turn on at the house down the hill, and heard an engine start.  Soon, a truck was rumbling down their lane towards them past a hay field.   It was coming fast.

-What the hell is this bastard up to?

-Probably just going to tell us to get out of here.

-Should we get in the car and get the fuck going?

-Naw, what’s he going to do?  Tell us he called the cops?  I don’t think he did that.

The truck stopped up next to them.  It was difficult to tell his age, but he was unkempt, his hair was ratty, tethered and gray in the still air.  Another flash of lightening revealed the mask he was wearing.  It was a blue bandana over his face, he looked like Jesse James’ ghost.

-Sorry to bother you boys, he said to Ben and Clayton, both leaning against the side of the car, one of them with a beer on the hood, and one with a beer on the top.  Clayton had his legs crossed, Ben’s arms were folded, both trying to convey the confidence of someone with a good hand of cards, someone who knew something the old man didn’t.  It was all show.  Bizarrely, it was the old man’s voice that shook with nerves.

They both wondered what could be the deal, but immediately realized that he wasn’t going to yell at them.  Ben unfolded his arms.

Another flash of lightening and they saw that he was holding some money out of the driver’s side window.

-You mind runnin into Dubuque for me – I know it’s a ways, but she turned real fast, we got nothin in the house and can’t go to the doctor.  It’d be appreciated, I’d make it worth your while, he said, begging, jabbing the money out of the car. 

Ben and Clayton didn’t move for while.

-Yeah, sure, said Clayton after a moment, what do you want us to get?  

The man’s old eyes brightened, the creases in the side of his eyes stretched like springs. 

-You don’t understand boys, I really appreciate it.

Clayton stepped forward to get the money.

-No!  Hold on, just stay back – I’ll throw it on the ground, you really ought not to get too close. 

The money fell down like leaves off a tree.

-You boys got a pen and paper?

Ben went into the glove box and grabbed the pen and manual for noting the mileage, and the old man gave them his grocery list.

They watched him drive up to a cattle gate and turn slowly down his lane to the house as they finished their smokes. 

-Well, looks like we can get some more beer and smokes, said Ben laughing.

-Dude, it’s going to take us over two hours to get there and back, what time do you gotta get home?

-I’m all right – they said midnight, let’s do it.

-Dude, don’t touch your face if his wife has the coronavirus.

-Yeah, I know, especially after I touched that money.

-We’ve had 5 beers man.

-Yeah, gotta make sure I don’t get pulled over. 

They took the road up to the state highway and drove tentatively under the speed limit most of the way. 

The lightening now just flitted on the horizon, skirting them like wild predators in the forest waiting for an opportune time.  Then the stars came out in full force, with Venus lighting up the sky to the West.  The milky way’s strip like a silver spray paint splattered over their heads.  They were on their last beers now, and stopped the car to have a smoke before getting on the highway, and look at the shockingly clear sky, as the rumble of the thunder said goodbye over Illinois.

Now with the quest and excitement welled in their throats, they started chain smoking the reds, the nicotine was the driver, but they told themselves it was to help Ben focus on staying in the lane not being too outrageously slow or fast in relation to the speed limit.

Out on the highway, the farmhouses dripped by on the right and the left and the taillights ahead, sparse like alien eyes, with the white headlights on the other side of the four lane twinkling intermittently like luminescent sea creatures in the deep ocean.

Few people would be on the highway on a Tuesday night at 10 pm, but at that moment in time it was fewer still, and the glow of Dubuque reached up into the sky static and constant, intermingling with the sporadic and chaotic flash from the thunderclouds on the other side of the Mississippi watering the farmland to the east.

As they pulled in to Walmart, the wide parking lot larger than the downtown of their town, the gray and blue like a plastics factory in an industrial zone.  The parking lot was near empty, and the field of cement a roller hockey rink for giants.  The John Prine song on spotify gutted out the lyrics:

 

Found a card in the pocket
Of my worn out overalls
From a girl in Cedar Rapids
Now residing in Idaho Falls

I wish you could have been there
When she opened up the door
And looked me in the face
Like she never did before
I felt about as welcome
As a Wal-Mart Superstore

 

-Holy shit, said Ben.

-Fucking weird, said Clayton.

They parked up in the first row, still a walk up to the store, listened to the end of the song, and then strolled up through the sliding glass, the stale air in the bright glow of halogen lights like the hospital ward where consumption is the cure.

Ben and Clayton found themselves meandering through the aisles aimlessly, birds of prey circling high before they their minds realized they were searching for prey. 

-Hold on, said Clayton stopping Ben, let’s split up – you go to the pharmacy and pick up the ibuprofen, he said make sure its ibuprofen because the Chinese make the acetaminophen.  I’ll go to the food aisles and get all the shit on this list.

-The Chinese?

-I don’t know man, just make sure its ibuprofen.

Ben was regretting his task as he entered the realm of the tiny little boxes, all holding drugs like jewelry.  The average age was 70, most were wearing masks and everyone seemed to be near death.  He meandered aimlessly, in a haze, unable to see clearly where to walk until he stumbled on a generic ibuprofen container and grabbed the first one. 

Clayton had more luck, easily throwing items in the carts by the broad freezer aisles, nearly empty at this time of night.  The glass cases like the window front of a million dollar lake house.  Clayton found the beer, and tossed in a 12 pack of Busch Light, thinking, no way they card me right now.

They met in the front of the store, and the blonde girl running the register was their age, with painted make up and thick curled cured hair.  She was thin, and tired.  She didn’t wear a mask, but some of the older cashiers did.  After she rang up the beer without questions, Ben asked her to grab him a pack of Marlboro’s, and her face brightened.  Clayton stood back, watching her work, with thin fingers and arms, sliding the goods through the red sensor – beep beep beep.

-Hey, party at Key West tonight she said.

-What’s that said Ben, raising his eyebrows under his stocking hat, his eyes shining, and giving her an interested look –a look to show his interest in her more than the party.

She smiled defiantly back at him.

-Anyway, if you’re interested, let me know. 

-I’m interested, said Ben.

-Dude, we can’t go, reminded Clayton.

Her curls had him in their grasp like tentacles, and then they slowly drifted away while he recalled why they were there, and where they had to go.

-Oh man, yeah, we’re on a quest.

-Sounds important, she laughed for their benefit.

-Yeah, we’re important as hell.  She laughed again.

-Catch you next time

-I’m here every Tues night, she said, the comment moving through her eyes and smacking her with desperation, she gathered herself, said ‘good luck on your quest,’ and pretended to look for the next customer, who wasn’t there.

On the way back, they took all the gravel they could in as straight of a shot as they could, but it still took them about an hour – they had time to drink four more beers apiece and were loaded like soldiers on leave by the time they drove up to the farmhouse.  Ben slowed to a stop at the lane, not thinking about driving the quarter mile down to a house he didn’t know.  It seemed like something forbidden, against the rules, and then he slowly crept forward and turned down the hill to the house, gathering speed as he reached the dirt circle where the old man’s truck was parked.  The truck was parked haphazardly in the dirt.  A mutt on a chain barked in the yard, before they got out of the car, and it surprisingly stopped and laid back down in the dirt, with one eye open.  Clayton eyed it suspiciously, but realized that it was probably too far to jump up and scare him even if it tried.  The old man was in the doorframe with the bandana mask – in the truck, he seemed weak and small, but standing in the screened porch, he looked large and broad shouldered in the bandana. 

-You boys can just leave everything down there on the ground, don’t come too close to the house, all right. 

They backed away from the house and opened up their trunk, taking out the grocery bags and putting them in the dirt at the bottom of the steps at the porch.  Ben took the change out of his pocket, and was about to put it in one of the grocery bags, looking up at the old man, to make sure he saw where he put it. 

-Oh no, don’t put that in there son.  You can keep the change.

-Seriously?

-Yeah, I can’t thank you enough boys, you didn’t have to help.

-You want us to call anyone or tell someone to come out here.

-No no, you can just keep the change, I appreciate it, but it’s best if no one comes near the house right now. 

As they backed into the car, the old man came down and started loaded the bags into the house.  He ambled from side to side, in baggy light blue faded jeans, taking two steps up on each step before going inside. 

Ben fired up the LeBaron and they were cracking beers before they reached the end of the lane.  Ben took a left down the road and at the first tractor turn in, pulled the car off the side of the road and shut if off and turned off the lights. 

-What’s up man?

-I gotta see what’s going on, said Ben.

The crept out of the car like cats stalking a squirrel on the other side of the bean field fence.  They could see the sprouts of the beans, careful to stay between the tight rows. 

-Hey, Clayton, you know when you get the ‘volunteers’, the a few stragglers of corn stickin in the bean field.

-Yeah, usually they go around and kill him or spray for it.

-Yeah, I guess they used to have to go around and cut him down, that’s what Grandpa says about Vietnam, said Ben, you didn’t volunteer like that corn because you were good as dead. 

They skulked like African warthogs in the savannah, hanging their heads down squelching through the dusty mud after the light rain.  It was only about 5 minutes up to the house, and their shoes and jeans were covered in dirt by the time they reached it.  They hunched low in the yard, the grass was brown, but they could feel it breathing, sprouting green in the spring, and the ground was hard.

They went towards a lighted window and sat down on either side of it against the cool foundation of the house, their shoulders on the siding.

-What now man, whispered Clayton.

-I gotta check it out, see what’s going on in there.

-All right, you peak first.

Ben turned and faced the house, his hands on the siding and slowly stood up, looking, a gecko climbing the side.  Then he leaned and peered into the yellow wash of light, with the aged wallpaper of the living room with sketches of old farm implements visible on the walls.  He looked for a long time – Clayton heard a feeble aching cough through the walls.

-Jesus, said Ben under his breath.

-What is it, asked Clayton. 

-Take a look.

Clayton turned around and did the same thing, slowly reaching his head up, his forehead above the windowsill and now his eyes bathed in the light.

He saw an old divan with 1980s mustard brown upholstery, it was facing him from the far wall in the room.  A TV flickered and flipped through the news, and then onto a movie.  The old man was changing the channel.  A frail woman, with hair matted with sweat, was gasping and twisting like fish out of water after you caught it.  Her languid face in pain, and her eyes a dull gray, reflected torpid thoughts.  A single white sheet laid over her, with a peach and lavender pattern.  Clayton forgot about the man, until almost seeing him for the first time, he noticed him perform the sign of the cross diligently, and take a glass of water to the woman, with pills in his hand.  She shook her head slowly to indicate no, and in obvious agony, turned to face the back of the couch, and like the fish in your hand, gasped slowly but didn’t move a muscle for a while.  Then the dog started barking vehemently, it sounded like a car alarm.  Ben had gone to another window to get a look, and turning the corner of the house was in eyesight of the old dog.  They sprang up like rabbits and ran through the beans as fast as they could, kicking up dust between the rows like greyhounds.  When they reached the car they both looked back at the house synchronously and saw the old man in the window.  No one moved for a minute, Ben, Clayton or the old man.  Then he turned away, and Ben turned the ignition and they drove home.