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Down in the Dirt (v125) (the Sep./Oct. 2014 Issue)




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Document The Shooter in Light Blue

Chris Milam

    The ball is as comfortable in his long fingers as a brush is to an artist, a pen to a writer. He had the grace of movement commonly found in a ballerina, albeit one dressed in a light-blue maintenance uniform. I watched as he flicked his wrist and the ball drifted thru the air with perfect backspin on its way to the bottom of the net, its typical landing spot. His arm remained extended out in front of him, hand bent straight down. The follow-through of a shooter.
    During break time, my coworkers would play basketball or, at the least, try and one-up each other. Lowell couldn’t dribble nor shoot but he was a menace on defense, he got in your face and stayed there, smothering you. Robbie was the floor general. He would fling passes around his back, dribble between his legs with a fair amount of precision. He was the table setter, controlling the flow, making life easier for the shooters. Rory was a behemoth, a space eater. He would stand in the lane with a smirk on his face, daring anyone to drive his way. If you chose that course, a sharp elbow would make you rethink that decision in the future. The talent assembled on this concrete court wouldn’t exactly win a title at the local YMCA but the guys played with a measurable amount of passion. Then there was Latroy Banks. He scored 14 points before I chewed up my second sandwich. The kid could play.
    I’ve worked at Gaylord Corporation for three years. I started working here at eighteen but after grinding out shift after shift, my mental age is pushing forty. It’s easy to become cynical and disillusioned when your career choice doesn’t align itself with your dreams. Like most kids, I wanted to be a baseball player or a rock star when I was young and naive. Hitting a game winning home run in the bottom of the ninth at Fenway Park or belting out a power ballad at Wembley stadium, my adoring fans hanging on every clichéd lyric. But I couldn’t hit a slider and I have the voice of a banshee so that wasn’t in the cards. But I had an esteemed high school diploma, so this factory was where I watched my aspirations begin to write their own epitaph.
    Being analytical or computer savvy wasn’t a prerequisite for my job, I just banded skids for a living. I would unspool the metal banding material and loop it around the cardboard covered skid of parts. Crank it tight and cinch it with a metal clip. Three bands per skid, properly strangling the precious cargo. I repeated this process over and over, 10 hours a day. There was never a crowd applauding my efforts, just the silence and drudgery of lost time.
    Most of the guys that worked here were solid people. The kind of guys that would give you a ride to work if your alternator abruptly died and wouldn’t charge you gas money. Or they would come over on the weekend and help you repair your car, a knuckle-busting fist-bump as payment. Simp!e men with kind hearts. Rory, Lowell and Robbie were my closest friends at work. We occasionally hit a bar after to work to suck down some draft beer and knock some balls across the felt or we would hit the lanes and bowl an embarrassing score. Sometimes we would put together a poker night, not a profitable endeavor for me. I had a tendency to talk too rapidly when I was sitting on a monster hand. They fleeced me with ease.
    The guys slapped the moniker Boneyard on me due to my slight build. I just called them by their names because I could never think of something clever or cool to pin on them. They always asked me to play some hoops at break time but I never accepted, I was more of a watcher than a player. I liked to tell myself that I was the sensitive and scholarly type, that their blue-collar game was beneath me. But, no, I desperately wanted to play but I wasn’t a shooter, or a dribbler or a defensive mastermind. Unlike Latroy, this kid couldn’t play.
    The factory floor was all various shades of pale. Not borne from bigotry in the front office or something sinister. It’s just that the town we lived in, Lancaster, was predominately white. When Latroy walked in the door six months ago the employees took notice but nothing was ever said. Latroys gentle spirit disarmed you before you could even begin to form a negative thought in your mind. He laughed at our jokes and tossed in a few of his own. The kid could work a room.
    His uniform was the first thing you noticed about him. He tucked his shirt deep into his pants, the shirt buttons lined up perfectly with the zipper on his work pants. A black belt, tan steel-toed boots and a bleached white undershirt completing his ensemble. Rumor has it that he irons his uniform every night before bed but, as of now, that is unconfirmed. He just looked put-together, he looked crisp and professional, he cared about his appearance. Most of us had mustard stains or missing buttons or pants that were frayed at the bottom but not Latroy, he was the factory fashionista.
    He was also engaging. He wasn’t a loquacious man but he listened intently as you told him a personal story, his eyes fixed on yours, absorbing every word and emotion. He might offer a piece of advice or remain silent, he knew when to speak or just listen but he always put a light hand on your shoulder before he walked away. We all liked him, most of us gravitated towards him and his courteous vibe.
    Another thing that made him stand out to a certain degree were the books he always read at the shorter breaks, when there wasn’t time for a game of hoops. While the rest of us hot-boxed a Marlboro or made amateurish jokes, Latroy had his nose in a book. Donald Ray Pollock, John D McDonald, Oscar Wilde, James Baldwin, there wasn’t a discernible pattern to his reading habits but he loved to feed his mind while the rest of us silently wished we more like him before we stubbed out our cigarettes and shuffled back inside the plant.
    A conversation I overheard one time between Latroy and Rory addressed a question that always lingered in my mind.
    “Why are you here, man? You don’t fit in here. You’re smarter than most of us, you’re more athletic, more self-aware. I just don’t get why you’re here, shouldn’t you be in college or something?”
    “Poverty is why I’m here. My mother needs me to work because my dad chose to indulge his demons and he never came back home, it’s that simple. College can wait a couple of years, my family needs my income, it was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”
    He was really no different from us, you do what’s necessary to survive, you do things for your family. We could all relate.
    One thing about banding skids for a living was that you had plenty of time to contemplate your life. I thought about my loneliness a lot on those long days. I knew I wasn’t a catch, I was average looking, I had an average intelligence and an average apartment. My ambition was less than average. I didn’t know how to proceed in the dating world when I lacked the confidence that seemed necessary to find love. I’ve yet to have sex, something the guys will never know. But as I looped the metal around those skids, I kept seeing Latroys handsome face. Love, lust, infatuation, I don’t know exactly what I was feeling but I knew that he made my heart scream, my skin tingle. He was rooted in my thoughts when I watched adult entertainment, he was anchored in my bones when I drifted off to sleep at night. He was there in my coffee cup in the morning, beckoning me. He shadowed me everywhere I went, visible but untouchable. I was falling hard for the shooter in the light-blue uniform.
    One major drawback of having feelings for another man was that I couldn’t discuss it with the guys. I’m not convinced they would react negatively or terminate our friendship but I’m not willing to risk it. Part of me thinks that if I revealed myself, there would be a palpable undercurrent of disgust or disapproval in the back of their minds. They would accept me but then dismiss me in hushed tones or shun me with their body language and a dark glint in their eyes. Or maybe I just felt ashamed that I didn’t lust after the secretaries or the cute bartenders like they did. I didn’t gawk at a woman’s ass when she sauntered by. I didn’t care about breasts or long legs.
    I would love to get feedback from Rory or Lowell or any of the other guys about Latroy. You think I have a shot? Do you think he’s attractive? Should I ask him out? Is he out of my league? Does he ever talk about me? These are questions men ask their friends about women, not other men. I was on an island, there was no coworker to divulge my secret to, no friend to guide me. I was alone in my confused state.
    Courage is a funny thing. It ebbs and flows, gains steam then dissipates. Linked together with your insecurities and a fear of rejection it creates a conundrum. We want to know the answer, we want or must find a resolution to a basic yet poignant question: Do you like me? Or any other manifestation of a similar refrain: Do you desire me? Does your heart slam against its bone prison when I walk by? Do you find me attractive? Do you miss me when I’m not around? The answer to these questions have the ability to build or destroy. To slay or heal. To strengthen or cripple. But we must know the answer, we have to make ourselves vulnerable to the casual dismissal or approval of a person whose attention we seek. In the end, courage takes hold and you plunge forward, it’s the only course.
    Earlier this morning Latroy was repairing a hydraulic leak on one of our forklifts in the shipping area. My area. My head swiveled from the skids in front of me to his well-muscled forearms. From the banding machine to the mocha skin on his nicely sculpted face. Anxiety was leaking out of my pores, my lungs were heaving desperate breaths. My mind was clicking its way through various fantasies. My courage led to footsteps in his direction.
    “Hey, Latroy.” He glanced up at me with those alluring and curious eyes of his, melting me where I stood. “Sorry to bother you, but I want to ask you something.”
    “Fire away, Boneyard. I’m all ears.”
    My courage was looking for the nearest exit.
    “Look, don’t take this the wrong way or anything. And I certainly don’t want to offend you but...look, I just want to know... would you be interested in having dinner with me or a drink sometime?”
    My eyes landed on anything that wasn’t Latroy. I have never felt as pathetic and small as I did in that moment. I wished I had stayed over there banding my skids. It was a safer place than waiting on a reply from the man who controlled my fate.
    When I finally looked at him, he was staring at me. Seeing my weaknesses, my averageness. He analyzed and processed my question with a deliberate slowness.
    “I’ve got a girlfriend, man. I’m sorry, Logan.” He said with his ever-present smile. He softly touched my shoulder, grabbed his wrench and went back to fixing the leak.
    As I sit outside at the concrete court, sipping on my RC cola, I watch Robbie skip a pass to Latroy who is stationed at the top of the key.
    Earlier, It would’ve been nice if Latroy had cupped my face in his slender hands and agreed to have dinner with me. Or just punched me in the jaw and called me a freak or something, show some form of emotion. He let me down easy, though and I suppose that was for the best. I was crushed and reeling but still functioning.
    He catches the ball and rises into the air like a ballerina. His right elbow tucked close to his body when he flicks his wrist and compels the ball to rotate and float in a gorgeous arc towards the bottom of the worn-out net. I watched the man who would never be mine with a practiced awe. I knew that this was going to be my last day at the factory. Fear of exposure, tired of banding skids and the sting of rejection made it the easiest decision I’ve ever made in my life. It was time to move on and find whatever I’m looking for. Find myself.
    As I head back inside the plant, I turned around and saw Latroy drain another long jumper. I smiled to myself. The kid could play.



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