When I Was the Greatest (11 page)

“Seems like all you do is give him hell for no reason, and he just takes it!”

“You don't know nothing, Ali! You don't know what me and Needles got going on! You don't know what it's like to
have a brother with a syndrome! Jazz ain't got no syndrome! So, who are you? Who are you to sit here and tell me how to deal with my brother?”

Noodles was now standing up. And so was I. His chest was all puffed up like he was seconds away from throwing himself at me. Let him.

“Yeah, you right, Noodles. I don't know what it's like to have a brother with a syndrome, but you the only person around here who treats Needles different. You ever notice that? You the only one! The rest of the hood treats him like he don't have a syndrome at all. You the one who keeps treating him like he got some kind of handicap or something! Maybe you got the problem!”

“Oh yeah? Maybe I got a problem? Maybe I do! Maybe I got a problem with you not minding your business! And maybe we should solve this problem right now, Ali! What you think? You wanna solve it?”

Noodles was in my face now. His hands clenched tight. I still wasn't scared because I could look in his eyes and see he wasn't trying to fight me. My mother always said the eyes say a lot, and his eyes weren't saying nothing about fighting. They were saying something totally different. Something sad. He looked like he was about to cry. I could tell I had hit a soft spot, but I couldn't figure out how to cool the situation without seeming like I was backing down from a fight. I needed Noodles to know that I meant business as much as he did, and that he couldn't intimidate me with all his yapping. But I did not want to fight him in my mother's kitchen. I mean,
he's my friend, plus Doris would be pissed. I was hoping Jazz would magically appear from the back with a funny joke, but she was staying at a friend's house. Then I hoped Mom would come home from her first job early. Anything to get him to back up off me without me having to tell him to.

We stood there chest to chest for a second, Noodles egging me on, telling me to do something and solve the problem. Then the door clicked. It clicked again. Someone was trying to get in. It clicked again, and then it opened. Noodles backed up as a man stumbled awkwardly into the apartment.

I looked closely to see who it was, one hand close enough to the kitchen knives to pull one easily, just in case. Then I recognized him.

“Dad?” I said.

The man, my father, finally got his balance and straightened up.

“Ali, wassup, man,” he said.

I walked over to him and gave him five and a half hug. Then suddenly he jumped back and threw a quick tap to the ribs, as a test to see if I was any quicker with my hands. I was slow on the block, and he tagged me. It stung a little, but I played it off.

“Too slow, son!” He laughed and palmed the top of my head, wiggling it around. I hated when he did that.

My dad, John, is a regular-looking dude. By that, I mean, there really wasn't anything special about the way he looked. If a cop ever asked me to describe him, it would be hard because there have to be a million men who look just like
him. He's dark skinned, brown eyes, low haircut, full beard, earrings in both ears, no tattoos, average height, average weight, average dude. He was dressed in black jeans, a black button-up shirt, and black boots. Everything clean. Not bad for a booster, but nothing special.

“What you doing here?” I asked, confused. Not that I wasn't happy to see him. He just usually gave a heads up just because he didn't really like to stop by without knowing whether or not Doris was home. He usually sent some kind of warning to me. A text message or something.

“Man, I was around here doing some business, so I figured I'd pop in. Your mother ain't here, is she?” he asked, peeking around.

“Naw, she ain't here.”

“Jazz?”

“Nope. She ain't here either.”

“Oh. Okay.” I could tell he was bummed about not catching Jazz home. She was definitely a daddy's girl, and he was definitely a daughter's dad. He looked over at Noodles. “Wassup, boy,” he said, slapping Noodles in the chest playfully.

Noodles pretended like it didn't sting. “Wassup, John.”

It had slipped my mind that Noodles and I were seconds away from ripping each other's heads off before John came busting in. John had no idea that he was right on time.

“Not much. Ain't seen you in a minute, Noodles. Getting grown, ain't ya?”

“Trying to.”

“How's your brother?”

“Good. Sitting outside on the stoop.”

“I thought that was him. Wasn't sure.”

Probably because he was knitting.

“Yeah.”

Then there was sort of an awkwardness that started filling up the space between us all, and I could tell that John knew something was up. But before he asked why we were acting weird, something else important dawned on me.

“Dad,” I started while pulling out a chair at the table, “I'm glad you came by, actually. I need a favor. Well, we need a favor.”

The one thing I know about John is that he's a good guy. And he'll do anything to prove that to his kids. He always tells me and Jazz to call him if we need anything, but we never call, only because we never really need anything. Mom pretty much takes care of everything, and what she doesn't, Jazz and I take care of ourselves. But I needed him now.

“Okay, wassup?” he said, smiling. It was like he was excited to even be asked.

“Well, we need clothes. And I know what you do for money, so I figured you might have some.”

I didn't know how else to say it. I looked at Noodles. I could tell he wasn't expecting me to say that, but he caught on and fell in line quick.

“Clothes?”

“Yep, clothes,” I said. Noodles nodded his head in agreement, finally taking a seat next to me. Friends again.

“What kind of clothes?” John was now sitting on the arm of the couch, something that Doris would have his head for if she caught him. He looked comfortable. Like he lived here.

“I don't know, the best kind?” I said.

John laughed. Hard. I mean, keeled over and slapped his knee laughing. I wasn't sure if I actually said something funny, or if he just found Noodles and me asking for nice clothes so outrageous that laughter was the only possible response.

“The best kind? The best kind? I see,” he said, brushing his beard down with the palm of his hand. “So let's just air it out, Ali. Where you going?” Parents always know. Even parents who only halfway parent.

“A party.” Figured I might as well just cut to the chase.

“Where?”

“You know MoMo?” I knew he knew MoMo. He probably remembered when MoMo was born.

John smiled. “Your mother know?”

I didn't say anything.

“Your mother know, Ali?” John asked again. It's funny. He was just enough of a father for it to matter. He wasn't really there, but he also wasn't a deadbeat. Sometimes it got confusing.

“No,” I answered honestly. I knew Noodles couldn't believe I was telling my father the truth, when I could have easily just said that Doris knew. It's not like John would've checked because John and Doris don't really talk. At least not much. But I don't lie too well. So I didn't lie. Plus, John's a pretty cool guy.

My dad smiled again. “So you sneaking?” I could tell by the way he asked that he was surprised. He knew I wasn't really the sneaky type. That was more his deal. I couldn't tell if he was concerned or proud.

I looked at the floor. “Yeah, but it's kind of a big deal, man. We got invited, and nobody gets invited to these parties.”

“Nobody y'all's age,” he shot back. He got up from the couch and walked over to where we were sitting. “But I remember what it was like being fifteen. I do. So here's what we'll do. We'll trade.”

Huh? “What for what?”

“Clothes for a couple of text messages.”

“What you mean?”

“I mean, I'll give you the clothes. But your scrawny ass gotta text me when you get there, and when you make it back home. What time the party start?”

“Eight.”

“Aight, so that means you need to be back by eleven. Got it?” He held out his fist.

I almost did a back flip. And I can't even do a back flip, but I almost did one. I was trying to contain the excitement and be cool, and I could tell Noodles was trying just as hard.

“Got it,” I said, giving him a pound. “Thanks, man.”

“Yeah, thanks, John,” Noodles added. “Really appreciate it.”

“What you thanking me for?” he asked Noodles.

“Oh,” I started, “the clothes are for Noodles, too.”

“Aha,” he said, startled but still cool with it.

“And Needles.”

“Needles too! You trying to break me,” he barked. “My own son. Hustling a hustler. Whoever taught you that should be shot!”

He held two fingers to his head and pretended to blow himself away.

7

You know in the movies when the slicksters open up their trench coats and they got gold watches and chains hanging inside? Well, my dad's trench coat was the trunk of his car. It was an old cherry-red Plymouth. It's the same car he used to take my mother on dates in. I know because she always tells me. She said it was a piece of junk back then too, but it was better than the train. Now he didn't have no pretty woman in the passenger seat anymore, but he was still driving it around like he was king of the world, with a kingdom's worth of rags inside.

He popped the trunk. Three suitcases. Each one labeled a different number. One, two, and three. Number one was the biggest.

“Aight, boys. Gotta make this quick before the cops roll up or your mother gets home,” John said. Neither of us had to say that the cops would've been ten times better than Doris. “Get close,” he said.

He unzipped number one. It was like having a glimpse
into a rich man's closet. Like a glow was coming from all kinds of silk and suede, and funny names that none of us could pronounce, so we knew it was expensive stuff. Noodles reached in and swiped a pretty nice shirt. Gucci. I dug around and found a sharp button-up that was Polo. I handed it to Needles. Then I found myself another shirt, made by one of the fancy brands. I didn't know what it was, but John said it was a good look. Then we grabbed a few pairs of crisp jeans. They were like cardboard. Stiff, raw denim. Probably three hundred bucks in the store.

Then he unzipped number two. Shoes.

“Sorry, guys, sold most of these already,” John said. “Give me sizes.”

“I'm a ten,” I said.

John pulled out a smooth pair of Jordans. Perfect.

“I'm nine and a half,” Noodles said.

“What about you, Needles? What size you wear?” John asked.

“Eleven, please,” Needles said politely.

John checked the sizes on all of the shoes. He found an eleven for Needles. A pair of boots. Pretty nice ones too. But he couldn't find any nine and a halfs for Noodles.

“All I got left is these in a nine.” He held up a pair of Nikes I had never seen before. They looked good to me.

Noodles looked upset.

“They pretty sweet, though,” Needles said encouragingly.

“Yeah, dude, they gonna be just a little small, but they'll look good with that shirt. Besides, they better than nothing,” I said.

Noodles finally agreed. I mean, it's not like he had a choice.

Then John opened number three. It was stuffed with sunglasses, watches, chains, belts, and all that. We each grabbed a belt but left the jewelry alone. We wanted to be fly but not draw too much attention. A chain of ice cubes didn't seem like a good idea. But the belts really pulled the outfits together.

“Y'all good?” John asked, zipping the bags back up and pulling down the trunk.

“Yeah, we good, man, thanks.”

John walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. He moved some things around and threw a blanket into the backseat. When he tossed the blanket, it knocked over a plastic cup that was in the cup holder, which I noticed had a toothbrush in it. A blanket? A toothbrush? What? Wait. Why would he . . . Oh. Ohhh. This could only mean one thing—my dad was living in his car.