When I Was the Greatest (20 page)

“And where was Mom?” I tried to hold in a smile.

“Where she always is. Work.”

To wake up to John asleep in our house must've been like Christmas for Jazz. She didn't tell me this, but I know she ran and jumped on him, and kissed his face, and played tickle monster, and hugged him like she hugged me earlier, but ten times tighter. I wish I had seen it.

“That bruise is nasty, Ali.” Jazz reached up but kept herself from touching it at the last second. “And let me see that hand y'all were talking about last night.”

I lifted it. Then I lifted the other one so that she could compare.

Her mouth dropped.

“Yeah, pretty gross, right?”

Jazz got a foul look on her face and turned away. I'm sure she regretted asking to see it.

“I did fix you a plate, by the way. Don't want you to get jealous,” she joked, clearly trying to take her mind away from my giant hand. “It's in the microwave.”

On the counter, right by the microwave, lay a sheet of torn-out notebook paper. In black marker was written:

PUNISHMENT! You are NOT allowed to leave the house, except to go get your hand looked at by Malloy. I know you're supposed to work for him today, but I HAVE ALREADY SPOKEN TO HIM. YOU CAN ONLY STAY THERE FOR 30 MINUTES, FOR HIM TO FINISH YOUR HAND, THEN COME STRAIGHT BACK HOME! I AM NOT PLAYING WITH YOU, ALI. In the house I need you to give the bathroom some love, as well as the kitchen, living room, and your bedroom. DUST, SWEEP, MOP, AND CLEAN EVERYTHING! AGAIN, I AM NOT PLAYING WITH YOU. DO NOT TEST ME, ALI.

And then, after all that, it said, “I love you, son,” and was signed, “Your mother.”

I couldn't even be upset about it because I knew it was coming. And it actually wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. I took the food out of the microwave and scarfed it down using my left hand, which was weird, but my right hand couldn't even hold a fork. Then I downed two aspirin with orange juice, gave Jazz a kiss on the cheek, and headed out to Malloy's.

13

It's funny to think about how fast things change. A day ago I was regular Ali, throwing jabs in the shower and shadowboxing my own reflection in my mother's mirror. Most people around here didn't even know about me training at Malloy's for years, punching the bag, and learning how to snap my jab and move my feet. And even though over time I got pretty good, I still wasn't brave enough to ever really fight anyone. Just didn't think it was in me. But after MoMo's party I was sure half the hood thought I was some gladiator. Shoot, I kinda thought so too! And now I had to march down to Malloy's house with my giant hand and tell him what happened.

When I got there, I knocked on the door, but it was open, so the first knock opened it more.

“Malloy? You in there?”

“Yeah, I'm in here,” his voice, sluggish and scratchy, came from inside. I could smell the cigarettes and musky liquor breath from outside.

“Well, well, well, my man Muhammad Ali is in the house! Heard you taking jokers down for the count!” he said, but not smiling or laughing, or showing any signs of it being a joke.

I leaned against the wall, deflated. Part of me wanted him to know how bad I, Allen Brooks, whooped those dudes, but another part of me was embarrassed about the whole thing.

“Even if your mother hadn't told me, I would've found out,” he explained. “This is Decatur Street, son. Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. The streets talk anyway, but they talk even louder to me,” he said like a big shot. The Newport dangled from his lip, the ash ready to fall onto his leg. Luckily, those old-school jeans are too thick to burn, I thought.

I stood there, mute.

“So you gonna tell me about it? Or you just came to talk about girls?” Malloy said, still with no smile.

I smirked.

“I mean, ain't much to tell,” I started. “I was at a party that I had to go to, but shouldn't have been at, and these guys start jumping Needles. So, I did what I had to do.”

Malloy dabbed the cigarette out on the bare table. Then he tapped the Newport box for another.

“I see,” he said, striking a match. “And where was his big, bad brother?”

I frowned. Just the thought of Noodles and what he did, or rather what he didn't do, made the skin on my face heavy. A frown was all I could show.

“He just stood there, scared, watching it all go down.”

Malloy took a long long long drag on the cigarette, turning
half of it instantly to ash. He held it in for a moment, then blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

“Is that right?” he said. I hate when old people say that. Because they usually only say it because it's better than saying, duhhh, or I told you so. For Malloy, it was more like, duh. He never really talked too much about Noodles. He knew who he was, everyone did, and he knew he was my closest friend, which is why I think he kept whatever he felt about Noodles to himself. I appreciated that. But the one thing he had said was that I could never bring Noodles to his house to learn to box. He'd said, Noodles wasn't the kind of kid he wanted to teach something like boxing. Too much anger.

“Yeah. He just stood there.” I felt kinda sick saying that—weird, like I was ratting Noodles out.

Malloy shook his head. “Well, let me tell you something.” He crushed the cigarette under his fingers and started wheeling across the room. There was a little box on the other side. It looked like a plastic toolbox, but it was full of boxing stuff—tape, gauze, Vaseline, scissors. He took the gauze and the tape out, then wheeled over to me.

“Hand out,” he said. I stretched my arm so he could see my hand. He took his thumb and pressed it gently along the knuckles. Fireworks went off up my arm.

“Hairline. Nothing too crazy. I'll wrap it. It'll heal itself.” Malloy started unraveling the gauze. He put one end of it on the top of my hand, and pressed his finger down to hold the end in place until he wrapped the gauze around enough times to trap it down. I could tell he had done this tons of times.

“Let me tell you, son, punching bags don't punch back. But sometimes, when you take them for granted, and you get cocky, you can really hurt yourself when you punch one.” Malloy wrapped the gauze in between my fingers and around my hand tightly. “Now, with them brothers, Needles and Noodles, who you think the punching bag is?”

I knew there was a point to this story, so I figured I'd better play along to get to it.

I thought for a second. Malloy started wrapping tape around the white cloth.

“Uh, I guess Needles?”

“Exactly. But who ends up hurt for taking Needles, the punching bag, for granted?”

“Noodles,” I said confidently. Though I knew the answer, it wasn't exactly a lightbulb moment where I understood automatically what Malloy was talking about. I never did. At least not right away.

I let it sink in while Malloy ripped the white tape with his teeth.

“That'll do it,” he said. “Next time, close your fist tight. You know that. Try to squeeze water out a rock. Got me?”

I nodded my head and resisted rolling my eyes.

“Now, do us both a favor, and go on home. Your mother told me thirty minutes, and we just hit thirty-two. So you gotta roll, 'cause Doris worse than a bomb in Vietnam, or a stiff jab from Ali. And by Ali, I mean you, my man.” Malloy smiled just enough to let me know he was proud of me for facing my fear and fighting, even though it was a jacked-up
situation. He wheeled backward to his table and grabbed his bottle and cup. He coughed mean and violent, and spit something thick into an old handkerchief he had tucked in his shirt pocket. Then he pulled twenty dollars, which would've been my pay for the day had I worked, from the same pocket. He held it up like he was going to give it to me anyway. As soon as I took a step toward him to grab it, he slipped it back in his shirt pocket, shook his head, and cracked a joke.

“You ain't work today, so if you want this, you gotta come fight for it, and this time in the ring, tough guy.” He smiled and reached for his cigarettes. He just never let up.

I shook my head and let myself out.

14

The punching bag don't punch back. But you can hurt yourself when you punch one, if you take it for granted. Needles is the punching bag. Noodles is the puncher. But you can hurt yourself when you punch one. If you take it for granted. Needles is the punching bag. Noodles is the puncher. Needles, punching bag. Noodles, puncher.

I strolled down Decatur, back toward my house, thinking about what Malloy said. I walked at a medium pace. Not too fast. I had to spend the rest of the day inside, so there was no point in rushing back to my apartment prison. But not too slow, either. Doris was known for having spies on the block, clocking my every move whenever I was on punishment. If it looked like I was stalling, the neighbors would snitch, and she'd jump down my throat and tack on another week for lollygagging.

When I got to Needles and Noodles's house, I glanced over at the stoop. No one was there, which was rare. One of them was always sitting out there. But on this day the
stoop had no stoopers. Or as my mother called us sometimes, stoopids.

I looked up at their window, the one in the kitchen. One of those cheap plastic white fans sat on the sill, spinning, circulating hot air from outside, inside, and from inside back out. I wondered what they were doing in there. Was Needles okay? Was Noodles looking after him, making sure the swelling was going down, and keeping that sprained wrist stable? I hoped so. Was he reading Needles comics, maybe? Were they talking? Had Noodles said he was sorry for being a punk and letting his brother take a beating? Maybe I should just go check on Needles to make sure everything was cool, I thought. But I really didn't want to see Noodles. At all. So, I kept on walking.

Once I got back in the house, Jazz was sitting right where I'd left her, sunken deep into the couch. Her legs were tucked under her, which always seemed like the most uncomfortable position to me. The TV was on, but now she was busy flipping through magazines and cutting out old photos, working on her scrapbook.

Eric, you are NOT the father!