Jerry Smile

Skip walked from his car and to the fence, only looking for a second at the spot on the tracks where Edwin James committed suicide. Bouncing his basketball, he recognized Scott and Jerry’s lanky frames already on the court.

"What took ya so long, Dickweed?" Scott smiled.

Jerry took one last draw and thumped his cigarette against the fence, grinning his Jerry smile, his eyes squinted to the point of invisibility.

"I had to help the old man in the chicken house--again." Skip ducked through the hole in the fence and continued dribbling across the blacktop.

"Whew!" Jerry laughed, "I can still smell the chicken shit, Man."

Scott snickered.

Skip frowned--but not menacingly. He hated working on his family’s farm but wasn’t quite old enough (or brave enough) to do anything about it.

"Damn, I took a shower, Dude. Must be that peach fuzz on your upper lip."

Scott giggled.

"Screw you, Mister Egg Man." Jerry playfully snarled.

"Screw with me." Skip bounced the ball between his legs.

Scott hee-hawed and struggled to speak, "You guys wanna kiss and make up, so we can play some ball?"

"Yo momma said, she caught you playin ball in the tub this mornin." The Jerry grin.

A moment of silence--then, the sound of Skip striving to hold back his laughter.

Scott finally found his ammo.

"Did she tell ya, it was Yo momma’s balls I was playin with?"

Skip couldn’t hold it back any longer: he roared, losing his dribble in the process.

"Let’s play, guys." Skip managed at last, "I gotta get up in the mornin and make sure the feeder works."

"Okay, Chicken Man." Jerry reached down and snatched the ball with his long hands, dribbled twice, and shot from the top of the key. The ball swished through without even a kiss to the rim. At that moment, there was a deafening blare.

"Aw!" Scott cried out, "In at the buzzer."

The horn sounded again, louder.

That’s the last sound Edwin James ever heard, Skip thought to himself.

"Three!!" shouted Jerry, with both hands raised in the air.

A distant rumbling sound was growing louder. Skip felt a slight tremor from beneath his canvas hi-tops.

Skip recovered the ball and dashed towards the lane: Scott and Jerry hustled to cut him off. The three teenagers crashed together just as Skip launched a running jumpshot.

The horn sounded again--farther away now--the rumble faded.

Jerry’s elbow caught Skip in the left eye, and Scott slapped the ball away from the goal. It skipped across the black top, out of bounds, and clanged against the fence. Skip landed off balance and stumbled to the ground.

"Rejection!" Scott smirked, then ran to fetch the ball.

"How ‘bout a fuckin foul?" Skip hunched on the base line rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand.

"No harm, no foul." The Jerry smile.

"I think havin your eye poked out qualifies as motherfuckin harm." Skip dropped his hand but kept his eye shut tight.

"I don’t see no blood." Scott smiled.

Skip labored to his feet and opened his eye. It was watering and painful, but he could see.

"I guess I gotchya on that’un." admitted Jerry. Upside down Jerry smile. "Sorry, Dude. You okay?"

"Yeah." Skip blinked and wiped away a tear.

"Take the ball then, Fag Boy." Scott bounce passed to Skip.

"Come get some more, Cowboy." Jerry squinted, beckoning with both hands.

Skip dribbled with his left hand. "I’ll be dishin out this time, Girlie Boy. Let’s see if you can take it."