Ride Around Shining

To my parents

I know that in writing the following pages I am divulging the great secret of my life, the secret which for some years I have guarded far more carefully than any of my earthly possessions; and it is a curious study to me to analyze the motives which prompt me to do it
.

—JAMES WELDON JOHNSON,
                         

The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man
      

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One

1

2

3

4

Part Two

5

6

Part Three

7

8

9

10

11

12

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Back a few years
, when you could still deny that LeBron James was the greatest player of our generation, I worked for a baller named Calyph West. He's no more than a footnote now, an already bygone figure in the true new religion of American men, the world of sports, but professional basketball is, to me anyway, the grandest distraction of them all, and know him when, why yes I did.

Remember that year, that great aberration of a year, when it seemed like all Portland was on the come-up? Before the injuries came and took us at the knees, before our city peaked and crested into caricature, when we were still young and dangerous and somehow won the West? The Heat came to town preordained to win in five or six games. It seems a half-forgotten time already, but it was the beginning of the Three Kings in Miami, so LeBron didn't have a center or a point yet, and Oden was healthy then, so it went five all right, and against all we clinched at home 4–1 after some half-anonymous man with hops and beautiful shoes denied LeBron at the rim with six seconds to go after Gerald Wallace fouled out. Yeah, that was Calyph.

That night before the trophy presentation, some national sideline guy cornered him and became the first to ask the question that'll dog him like an old sitcom actor's catchphrase into his nursing-home days: “How'd you get that high?”

Us locals knew better. “No higher'n usual,” he said, tugging the flat brim of his new hat askew. It wasn't a boast. Plenty of rookies can get their elbow over the rim, but the real anomaly of Calyph's ups was their persistence, even with the brace, even after the surgery. I think we all loved him a little more for his refusal to claim the moment had brought anything special out of him.

But then, that moment never meant to him what we'd have it mean. To us, it was his promise fulfilled on the highest stage, in the crucial moment, against the best player on the planet. To him it was just a token fulfillment of what time and chance and microfracture surgery had kept from him, an extremely choice but nonetheless fleeting abatement of his hunger to matter in the games that mattered most. He was not a star; he was not ever a star. When he retired, the despair of lost promise hung about him. That there yet remained fifty long years of life with which to dissipate it could not be with any surety called good fortune. What happened to him? Among other things, I happened.

In the summer before the come-up days
, when it was still all new, three tufts of smoke hung in the high air over Calyph's place, where the party was. They were pink and slightly scrawny, and looked equally like spent fireworks and signals of distress. They looked like excess, they looked like trouble, they looked like boasting and simple information. He'd just agreed on his first contract extension, and though the team wasn't bound to it yet, Calyph must have felt he had a new $32 million behind his desire to entertain. Here the party at, his smoke seemed to say. Down here, swag be phenomenal.

I could see the pink blooms from the main road, through the trees. I imagined that beneath them young men were walking between Calyph's outdoor court and his rose garden in bright suits as dapper and occasionally horrifying as the ones they'd worn on draft night, mingling with U of O guys up for the summer and our city's pittance of rappers in coral-pink topcoats and ice cream shoes, while Antonia sat high above behind a shut window like an inscrutable damsel waiting to be rescued from a distress no one could name. I'd just begun with the Wests, so I didn't know yet what I wanted more, to be down with him or up with her, and I sped toward the house in no hurry to discover it, hoping only for another day of model servitude that would worm me a little deeper into their mutual life.

I'd been watching Wimbledon when Antonia's message came, to come get her out of there. I sent back right off that it was my one day of freedom. I didn't capitalize so I'd come off angry, but of course I was pleased. All that summer I was thinking of her, and trying to spend my days off very classy. Until the weather turns, it's a good time of year for doing it up just so. You can wear a lot of nice linens that time of year. You can drink peach and pineapple juice with all your meals. In the late dusk you can walk down to Jamison Square amid gleaming new buildings with the names of old royalty, like you're on your way somewhere. It changes when the rains come, and by fall I would be sick of aspirational living and wistfulness and the simple emotions of summer. By then I'd be waiting for the wet to make the city swell with its sad, potent energy, and rot it with black moss.

Though I would come to do many things for the Wests, my official title was chauffeur. I was given an overgenerous weekly salary and the charge of an entry-level Jaguar, which I liked all the more for not being my own. I liked having to keep it mint, and I was honored and a little confused that Calyph let me garage it at my own place. Nothing in my upbringing suggested I'd enjoy a Jag a day in my life. When I was young I wasn't rich enough to have one or poor enough to want one, not with the purity of the kids who really came up from behind the scrubgrass, who could enjoy the symbol of four wheels in the driveway gleaming out harsh American success without irony. I came from the great white middle-middles, and we could enjoy nothing but our sensible lack of gaudiness, supermarket steak, and football on the weekends. This is a terrible fate, and I think I envied something about every other class of American. This envy took more than a quarter century to manifest itself, though, as from an early age I was pretty preoccupied with my own unremarkable intelligence. I more or less raised myself, with the help of a few teachers, and I quickly fixated on the shared vision of my future we created together in their cramped offices, wherein I was raised from my depressing station to theirs through the miracle of public education. When I used to hear about cars and parties, I'd tune it out with the singular focus of a young man with a wrong idea about himself. I assumed I'd arrive at the fruits of my self-denying, perpetual-student, can't-afford-it-anyway lifestyle in some kind of secondhand Corolla that smelled like acid-free paper and the absence of lust. I'd done a lot of English, and American Studies, but it was only when I discarded all that for different studies that this story begins.

I took the surface streets, because I'd been back just five weeks after two years away, and the city still glowed with the living nostalgia of homecoming—and because I wanted to make Antonia wait. Already I looked forward to rescuing her from something everyone else felt lucky to be at, picking her up out beyond the edge of the city and holding the door for her indolently, telling her no ma'am, it was no trouble at all, in the sweet, put-on voice I used to keep up the appearance of concealed bitterness. “I guess you had to come a ways,” she'd say, and I'd let a sullen look flit across my face before I assured her it was not so very far. It seemed best to nurse an imaginary grudge, to mask the gratitude I felt that they'd opened their lives to me so readily.

About seven miles south of downtown Portland, along the west bank of the Willamette, lies the Dunthorpe neighborhood. It's small and forested, and doesn't look like a neighborhood at all. Even if you find your way among the subtle hostility of sudden turns and dead ends to the properties with a river view, there isn't much to make you anticipate the homes of athletes and other young and limited gods. Most of the team lived fifteen minutes away in West Linn, just down the 205 from the practice facility, where you didn't need pink smoke to get your city friends through the politely discouraging landscape of a neighborhood designed for exceptionally chalky white people. Calyph lived next to the McCalls and the guy who invented Linux.

I pulled the car into the drive, descending from the road amid trees so tall and serene they made me want to know their names. The first sign I wasn't in a national forest was the open security gate. Just beyond it, the line of monstrous cars began. There weren't any Hummers—they couldn't be parked downtown anymore without being defaced—but there were plenty of steroidal trucks and enough black Escalades for a prince's motorcade. As the drive neared the house, the paving shifted from oil-dark blacktop to bright white gravel. The tires made a rush of white noise, a sound both antiquated and timeless. As I turned into the circle, I could almost see the ghostly grooves of carriage wheels. A woman in a vintage-store dress was sitting on the steps.

I pulled the car up alongside her, but as I slowed I saw it wasn't Antonia. She too was small and frowning, and white, but she was a northern girl, with skin like skim milk and a tattoo of a fox head on her calf. Her eyes were very blue. She was holding a cigarette in a strangely protective grip, her wrist cocked so the cherry pointed back at her. We were maybe six feet apart. The window was down between us, and we looked at one another a moment in accidental intimacy. She seemed to be waiting for a pickup, and part of me wondered if she'd just get in the car. I remember taking in the look of her mouth—her canines were slightly sharp—and feeling a strange, instinctual dislike of her, a feeling of threat, combined with the sense that if she did get in I'd accept it and drive off without a word. She'd tell me where she wanted to go and I'd ignore her, waiting for my nerves to tell me what I'd do next. All that summer I'd been having moments like that. I'd become mysterious to myself, open to everything.

She lifted the cigarette and the moment passed.

I remembered myself and felt my hand go up to my tie. “I thought you were someone,” I said.

She shrugged her bare, inward shoulders. “You aren't—”

“What?” I asked.

“Someone called someone for me. A cab, I thought. But maybe it's you?”

“I'm for someone else,” I said. I shut off the car and came around. “I'm for someone else,” I said again and went up the steps and into the house.

Voices came from the patio in back, but the house seemed deserted. The living room was open and bright, and very beige. There were china vases and fat yellow candles and a lot of ottomans. I'd always imagined the room had been brought together with the overbearing help of an interior decorator, hurriedly chosen by Calyph's mother during his rookie season, before Antonia could veto anything. The room managed to be neither baller nor particularly livable, and I felt sure all the party guests could agree to be a little sad that some middle-aged white lady had got her way there. It'd become a known secret that Calyph wanted to buy a new place with some of his extension money, something closer to the center of the city. I'd been taking him around to see places with his mother and brother Talib, with strict orders that this operation was to be kept from Antonia, whose restlessness it was designed to appease. Still, he meant to keep this place, too, and here and there a new personality was starting to show. On one wall there was a blown-up photo of two men sitting on the stoop of a ruined Ninth Ward house, its contents tallied on the wall in red spray. A suit of armor stood in a far corner like it was ready to storm over all this fussy business.