Ink & Interruptions

“Mom!” Jack felt his lungs expand as he waved at his mother who was sitting on a bench across the park. “Mom!” he yelled again. Still nothing. Her eyes remained downcast focused on her phone. She had been working on the same case all week. Jack didn’t understand what exactly she was doing, but he knew she was busy. She always was, but the last week had been especially bad. He caught her mumbling her notes to herself while she was making dinner yesterday, and on Tuesday, Jack had found her asleep at the dinner table slumped over her files when he had come downstairs for breakfast.

Jack groaned as he dropped his hands back to his side. She didn’t even look up. He wanted her to watch him leap from the top of the castle. He knew it was tall, and the landing would be on sand which would probably be a little harder than grass, but he had tested out his sand landing earlier this week on the swing set across the park. It was surrounded by sand too. Jack had made sure to swing as high as he could before he jumped from the seat. The sand had been a little rougher than landing on grass, but it was doable. He had also made sure that he was well above the height of the castle before jumping from the swing. He didn’t have anything to measure distances, but while he was swinging, he had stretched out his legs as far as he could, and his toes had reached past the peak of the castle’s tallest roof. He was sure that was measurement enough.

He had perfected his swing technique years ago and could propel himself to ultimate heights. His mom had even said as much once, but as the years passed, watching him swing had lost her interest. He knew she didn’t have time for much, so something as simple as swing sets would never be enough even if he had mastered some pretty neat seat flip dismounts. Last week he had managed to land a backwards flip out of the swing while his mother finished a conference call with her boss. He needed more. He knew he had to find something she had never seen before and that was when Jack had thought of the castle. That would be his grand event. The trick that got his mom’s attention. Jack looked at his mom; her head was still down, her fingers now moving aggressively over the bottom half of the phone.  He thought about yelling her name once more, but then decided that he would save it for when he was higher up; his voice would carry further from there anyway. Jack pushed up his pretend sleeves and headed for the top.

——

“Shut up! For the love of God, no one cares,” Jack hollered. Jack could only catch a glimpse of the group over his shoulder, but he could hear every single word just fine. At first, they were whispered disagreements, but when the last three minutes, it had turned into an argument that was starting to drown out the TV. Jack had had enough. He might have been more forgiving if the conversation had been important, but a book? They couldn’t be serious. Who cared about which movie adaptation had captured the essence of some bullshit character written a hundred years ago. Pointless garbage, he thought as his attention settled back on the TV that was positioned above the bottles of liquor lining the back wall of the bar.

Jack came to this bar every Friday night. It was an odd choice for him seeing as they didn’t really have the set-up required to easily meet his needs, but it was the closest one to his apartment and that made the cab fare cheaper, which meant more money for the beer he would need to get through this season. They sucked. He wished he didn’t have to say it. Honestly, he wished he didn’t have to watch it, but here it was—the biggest train wreck of a startup line that Jack had ever seen. Jack scoffed as the would-be star of the team sent another basketball flying into what could only be a portal to another dimension. Jack was certain there was no way that Jace Carter was actually aiming at the goal with a shot like that.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered as Carter chucked another ball towards the goal. Using one hand Jack scrubbed his face in frustration as he raised his empty bottle towards the bartender with the other. Clearly, he was going to need more. Carter’s form was wrong. He was pushing more with his arms than legs causing the balance to be completely off which resulted in well…the worst shooting guard Cedar University had ever put on the court. Finally, Jack thought as the coach pulled Carter off the court and sent in alternate Ryder Blackwell. Jack typically reserved no hope that Blackwell could salvage any game after Carter got his hands on the ball, but after six beers, his optimism was a little more generous.

The bartender began to walk Jack’s way, and in less than three minutes, Jack was halfway through his seventh beer, and the Knights had managed to miraculously secure a turnover and position Dante Rivers, their center, under the goal with minimal defense from the other team. Jack sucked in a breath as Rivers shot the ball. The basket swished the way God intended it to, and all of Jack’s world seemed a little brighter. The man sitting beside Jack had been watching the game almost as intensely as Jack had and as the ball moved through the net, he sprung to his feet and hollered “Hell yeah! It’s about time.”  Jack’s smile faded as he watched the man high five his other neighbor and then settle back into his chair. Jack pulled his gaze from the man and took another swig from his beer.

——

            Jack made it to the top platform quickly. It was late October, so he only had to dodge a few kids as he made his way up the ladder, through the tunnel, and across the swinging plank bridge to the tallest slide the park had to offer. Jack was panting. From here, he could see the swing set, the abandoned soccer fields, and his mother.

“Mom!” He yelled as he held his hands cupped around his mouth hoping to help his voice travel further. His mom shifted on the bench, and Jack froze. Jack’s hope flared, but as his mom stooped towards her jet black briefcase that rested at her feet, his breath came out in a huff. Just another file. He kept watching, hoping that with more time she would look up, she would look around, she would wonder where he was, what he had gotten up to, but as the seconds ticked by, Jack’s hope fizzled into frustration. As his anger rose, he tried to remind himself she was busy. She had to be busy. She had to work and keep working if they wanted the life they had. What was it she always said to him? “You’ve got to earn every dollar you spend.”

Jack was on the City Sparks Youth Basketball team. Cedar Sparks was the biggest junior basketball league in their city. Last year, his mom had worked hard to secure a position on the team that handled a case involving one of the league’s board members. Jack remembered that he had barely spoken to his mother while she was on that case, but three months later, and Jack was on the team. After a month of practice, Jack knew where he belonged—the court.

Every time he laced up his sneakers and stepped onto the wood floor of the local rec center, Jack swore he felt lighter. He especially loved the games. Every second the ball was in Jack’s hands, felt like the best second he had ever lived. Jack swore the ball gave him power. Chills would run down his body as the announcer called “center Jack Calloway secures the pass” or “Calloway catches it in the paint—can he muscle his way to the basket?” He could, but the best part was that his mom would hear his name and look up. She did every time. Every single time the ball hit Jack’s hands, he was seen. He had her attention, and every basket was rewarded with a few seconds where her phone was forgotten, and it was only him.

Right now, he was the team’s second-string center, and almost every player on the second string managed to play at least one out of the four quarters, but Jack wanted more. The coach said he was showing a lot of promise at the end of their game two weeks ago, and last week, Jack had heard their starting center tell the power forward in the locker room that he had finally made his middle school team. Jack was giddy because that meant that next season would be his. He could barely contain the news when his mom walked up to him at the end of practice. If the rumors were true, Jack would be guaranteed a first-class ticket to a position on Cedarbrook University’s basketball team if he could manage to make it onto City Sparks’ starting lineup, and this was his moment. His mom had sagged with relief when they had got in the car to go home and Jack had announced the news. Jack could barely sit still himself. He would be City Spark’s new number thirteen, and all four quarters would be his. Thirty-two minutes of being important, of being seen.

Jack shook his head. None of that mattered now. This was his moment right now. This was where he showed his mom that he had power without a basketball in his hands. He pressed his back against the wood railing of the structure and leaned back, stretching himself out far enough so that he could let his eyes trail up the castle peak that rose above him. He felt like he was staring at Everest. Jack drew himself back so that he was standing on the platform again. He looked out at his mom. Her phone was pressed to her ear, and she was scribbling down notes on one of the files now spread across her lap while others spilled onto the bench beside her. Jack allowed himself one more moment before placing his feet on the wooden railing and launching himself skyward.

——

            Ten minutes left in the game and the Knights were getting close to pulling themselves out of the tailspin started in the first half. Evan Matthews, the point guard, had just inbounded the ball and was now rapidly moving up the court. As he crossed over the half court line, he passed the ball to Jordan Hayes, their second-string small forward, and the dance began. Jack’s gaze followed the ball around the court, but somewhere between passes, his attention got locked on the players’ legs and feet. Each movement was powerful, purposeful. They moved like they were on air, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away.  Hayes finally got an opening and sent up a shot at the 3-point line. Jack’s eyes jerked to the ball just as it dropped through the net. His ears rang from the deafening roar that became the bar, and in celebration Jack drained what was left of the beer in front of him. He was up to twelve beers, but what did it really matter? In the end, he wasn’t going anywhere. Just as that bitter thought wedged itself into Jack’s mind, the bartender called last round and started making his way to Jack.

“You ready for me to call it.” The bartender asked as he passed Jack on his way to the trash can. He tossed in the handful of beer bottles he had collected and then headed back towards Jack.

“Sounds to me like you already did.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Yeah. I did.” Jack rolled his empty beer bottle between his hands. “Can I have another?” he asked looking away from the bottle in his hands.

“I don’t know. You think you’ve had enough?”

“Oh, come on. You and me both know I’m not driving anywhere.”

“I know, but that’s not the only reason we cut people off.” The bartender said looking down at the counter suddenly hyper fixated on the movement his towel was making.

Jack scoffed and then took his beer bottle, lifted it to eye level, and released it. The bartender’s eyes followed the arch of the bottle as it soared across the room and into the trashcan.

“Okay, one more. But only because your team is actually playing good tonight.”

“Yeah…my team.”

Jack felt exposed now that his hands were empty. He stretched out his fingers and then clenched them tight again. Over and over. It wasn’t lessening the feeling. He swore his legs were tingling. Finally, he broke down and started rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, creating friction and heat even though the bar was plenty warm. Relief flooded his body as the bartender returned with his beer. Lucky number thirteen, Jack thought as he looked back up at the screen. Three minutes left, and the Knights were only two points down. Jack was having a hard time believing his eyes. They were making a comeback.

Jack tensed as he watched Reed Jackson, the Knights’ power forward for the last two seasons, inbound the ball to Matthews. The man beside Jack shot out of his seat nearly knocking his beer into Jack’s lap as Matthews headed up the court. This was it. Matthews looked like a god. Head up. Control in every step. Tension in every dribble. Confident as he surveyed his team looking for the opening. Two minutes. A guard from the opposing team pressed in on Matthews, trying to force a pass.

“Come on Blackwell,” Jack whispered, “Get open.”

The players kept moving as though they were all locked in an intricate dance, each completing their moves with practiced precision. Who would be the first to miss a step? One minute left. Then, it happened—an opening. Rivers slipped through the double coverage, and Matthews never hesitated. He pitched the ball inside. Rivers snatched it out of the air. His two shadows pivoted to try and cover him, but it was too late. Dante Rivers had it. It took him under two seconds to square up with the goal and fire. Jack felt like he was there on the court. He swore he could feel the leather of the ball as it rolled off his fingers. He could hear his sneakers squeak against the polished, maple wood floor, smell the sweat that beaded up on his brow, and feel the hush fall around the court as the other nine players held their breaths, and for that split second, the whole world saw him as he released the ball, and it soared through the air towards the goal.

            Jack’s heart swelled with pride as the ball moved through the net filling his ears with the most perfect sound he’d ever heard, and for a moment Jack forgot. Jack let out a loud cheer as the bar exploded with noise. Shouts of victory and cries of disgust merged together until Jack couldn’t tell if the bar was full of cheering fans or ogres scouring the Earth for food. The man beside Jack had bolted from his seat once again and was clapping everyone within reach on the shoulders and shouting about the greatest comeback of all time. He had just finished his victory routine with a man two chairs down from Jack when he spun around. However, the man had miscalculated. He must have thought Jack would be standing like everyone else. Standing and jumping. Their team had just won. The first win all season. But Jack wasn’t standing, and as the man’s heavy hand swung back, it clobbered Jack in the face. Jack’s chair wobbled, and he was unable to steady it. The chair toppled over, Jack along with it.

——

            Jack was lucky that the playground castle had been in the community for a long time. The roof of the turret was made of wide slats of wood that ran parallel to each other, and while Jack was sure that in its prime, those pieces of wood had all but seemed welded together, that was no longer the case. Over the years, the pieces of wood had separated just enough that Jack could wedge his fingers between them. Once he had his fingers pinched in the highest crack he could reach while standing on the ledge, he placed one foot on the support that held the roof in place and shimmied himself higher. He had to all but yank his fingers from the first crack as he prepared to move higher. Once he had his fingers re-positioned, he eyed the next crack. Gripping the wood tighter with his left hand, he reached up with his right. He couldn’t quite get it. He felt like screaming Jack was always told how tall he was for his age, but now those comments felt like heavy lies as he fingers hovered just inches away from the crack.

He looked down, but going back would be a betrayal, so he surveyed the crack again. He was fairly sure he could jump the gap; it wasn’t that far. He shifted his fingers around on the current piece of wood he was clinging to making sure that they were ready then he pushed with his feet. He swore he felt his soul explode as he was weightless one second and in the next his fingers were crashing into the wood. Scrambling he wedged his fingers between the planks. He had made it. He was doing it. He took a deep breath. Those few inches felt like a long-awaited award. He looked down again. Jack was surprised to see how far up he was. He had measured the height in his mind, but from here, the ground seemed farther away than it had when he was on the swing set. His fingers began to throb, pulling his attention away from the ground. He had been still for too long, and there was too much pressure. He looked up towards the peak. He was almost there.

            Two more foot placements, two more pushes followed by jammed fingers between old wood, and Jack was there. He had miscalculated how much space he would need to stand once he reached the top, and the peak did not afford much. That’s okay, he thought. He wouldn’t be here long. Jack worked to position his hands around the peak of the castle and pulled his legs up under him. He bounced a little on his feet, testing the roof and the power of his legs. Coach had them working out two days a week. “Have to have power to get the ball where you want it to go,” Coach had said as he instructed the team how many of each exercise they were supposed to complete. The roof felt secure under Jack’s feet, and he smiled as he felt his muscles tense under his skin. Once he had his mom’s attention, he would push with his legs and thrust himself up and over the peak.

            Pulling his elbows to his ribs, jack raised his upper body so that he could see over the peak and find his mom. She was still on the same bench. She had more files out now. She had pulled out so many that she had run off the person who had been sitting beside her. This was it. Jack sucked in as much air as he could into his lungs and then yelled, “Mom.” It was the loudest he had ever been, and it worked. He grinned as he watched his mom’s head snap up and immediately scan the park area. He saw her face move from confused to panicked as she realized she could not find him.

“Mom!” he yelled again.

This time she found him. Their eyes locked, but Jack was confused because his mother’s face did not look as he thought it would. She wasn’t smiling or waving; she looked afraid. She shot up from the bench, spilling her files everywhere. He had to act now. If she got too close, she wouldn’t get the full effect. So, he took a quick steadying breath and with every muscle he had developed this season launched himself into the air.

—

Jack’s head cleared as he propped himself up on his elbows.

“Shit, man. I’m sorry. I was just celebrating. I thought…well I thought you had moved.”

“Fine,” Jack mumbled.

“What?”

“I’m fine,” Jack gritted out between clenched teeth.

Jack looked down; the chair now resting over his legs. The man must have followed Jack’s eyeline because he bumbled out another apology as he bent down and moved the chair. The man stood the chair back up and then looked back down at Jack. Jack could feel the heat of his anger as he watched the man put the pieces together. Jack was 6’8” and 200 pounds, and from the knees up, he looked every bit of it. But from the knees down. He clenched his fists. Jack was wearing sweats as he always did, but laying on the floor allowed the fabric to fall in all the wrong places. The man started speaking again, but Jack couldn’t hear his words. Jack’s eyes trailed towards the screen on the wall. Rivers and the team were celebrating. It looked like every person in the stands was on their feet. Jack could hear the applause, feel the attention. Once the entire team had gathered, they began to chant their team’s motto “One Team, one dream.” As their chanting escalated, the team began to jump in unison, arms laid over each other’s shoulders as they found oneness in their victory. Each time their feet hit the floor, Jack felt the impact in his soul, and each time they leapt into the air, Jack forgot how to breathe just as he had forgotten what it felt like to be unattached—free.

Jack looked back at his legs. At this point, several other people had gathered around. He could hear voices offering to help him, but all Jack could see were his legs. They were withered and misshapen. Useless. The nursing staff at the facility had told him that with continued effort, he could keep his legs from rapidly deteriorating. He had tried for a while. Fought the urge to give up. His mother had fought too, but the accident had changed things. She wanted Jack to have the best. She had always wanted that for him, and she had always made sure he had it. Working back-to-back cases to ensure they could pay the league’s fees. Working the weekends at the beginning of each season, so he could have his pick of basketball sneakers at the store, but after the accident, he had needed more.

She now worked multiple cases at once, and as his treatment plans got more complicated, she had taken a second job. He begged her not to, but she assured him it wouldn’t be forever. Once he was better, she would quit. She would have more time. “Just focus on getting better,” she told him. Focus. As if Jack could will his legs to move again. Weeks passed, and there was no movement. After a few months, the tingling sensation had started. Jack almost cried the first time he felt them. His legs were waking up. They had just been asleep. He had yelled for the doctor and nurses. Everyone was hopeful; Jack had heard whispers of regeneration. Then a year passed. There was no more hope; he could see it on the nurses’ faces when they checked his vitals. Jack wanted to stop the treatments, but his mom kept finding the newest medical breakthrough. “Just a little more time,” she begged before she would grab her briefcase, kiss his cheek, and go back to work. “Honey, this one is going to work,” she promised as she left the room to answer a phone call. The years that followed were like a bad dream. Jack knew everyone was waiting for him to wake up. He never did, and now…well this was his now.

“Come on guys, back up.”

Jack’s attention snapped back to the bar as the sound of the bartender’s voice reached him.

            “Hey man, your ride is here.”

Jack looked over his shoulder and saw a slight blonde woman setting up his portable ramp so that it covered the stairs leading out of the bar. It would be here soon. His metal cage with wheels like a carriage. A carriage that would take him back to his one-bedroom apartment until the next game. Then it would arrive again, and he would come back here. He would come back to the smell of stale peanuts scattered across the floor and on the tables. Back to the worn bar stool with cracked red leather. Back to the same bar and the same beer. Jack would come back because for Jack there was no forward anymore.

Jack grimaced as the bartender’s arms looped underneath his shoulders. He felt his body lift from the floor, and for a moment, Jack let himself remember the feeling of being unattached, of soaring. Jack closed his eyes and let his memory of the way the chilled wind had felt as it blew the hair back from his brow. For a moment, Jack pretended he was free, and then the leather of his wheelchair pressed into the backs of his thighs. Jack opened his eyes. He was grounded.