The Relationship between Kobe Bryant and Ron Artest

A wind rippled through the dry grass, made golden by a sunset that painted the entire yard in dreamlike hues. Phillis watched her husband sit on the front stoop like a sad, little child, his white undershirt transparent with sweat, his forehead wrinkled from pouting. She crossed her arms and wondered how long he would sit out here waiting for his dog, Ron, to come home.

LeBron James faces the offseason: "Office in Small City"

Do I even have to preface this story?  The Cavs lost, and they lost in shocking fashion.  That is all. 

LeBron James just spent the last six hours altering his destiny, crossing out every appointment and meeting on his calendar from now until July, making each box of the week into a transparent window, as if time were now transparent and of little consequence--only, how can the moments of our lives be of little consequence?  Moments tend to build and stack into cinder block walls, gather momentum like a freight train, or increase in mass like a snowball, but, with each stroke of his pen, LeBron took a block off the wall, shoveled coal out of the furnace, and unrolled a snowball into a white carpet; and even he was uncertain as to whether his actions were driven by freedom or recklessness.  Maybe freedom is reckless.  LeBron did not want to think about it, yet one's own thoughts are rabid dogs, hard to put down.  LeBron stared through the windows of his office, taking in the cloudless sky before him.  He was a man without obligations.  He could go anywhere, but he chose to stay seated, doing absolutely nothing.

A pulley squeaked outside LeBron's window, as two men lowered themselves by feeding rope to metal wheels.  When they found themselves level with the floor of LeBron's office, they stopped and tapped on the window.  LeBron didn't budge.  He didn't even blink.  They tapped again.  Still nothing.

"I guess it don't matter to him whether we wash it or not.  He ain't movin.  Look at his eyes," the man pressed his index finger against the glass, leaving his fingerprint.  "Jus' look at 'im, Antawn.  He's got goldfish eyes.  I bet if we wait he puffs his cheeks out."  The man demonstrates his theory by puffing out his own cheeks.

"Mo, quit clowning.  If, Mr. James, doesn't want to communicate that's fine, but we ain't gaining nothing by inciting the man."  Antawn begins to wipe the window down with a wet rag, obscuring their view of the office from the outside, and as they washed the window, LeBron didn't move.

"Mr. James?  Mr. James, Mr. Brown wanted me to deliver this," in comes LeBron's secretary, Ms. Varejao, carrying a fish bowl.  "Where do you want this?"  LeBron doesn't answer.  He continues to stare out the window now streaming with water, and he begins to feel sad.  The emotion catches him off guard.  In fact, LeBron's not sure if the emotion is even his.  In fact, he decides the tears welling up in his eyes must belong to his reflection, in the window, and not him.  No, this sadness can not be his.  It must belong to the window.  It must be part of a daily routine: a part of the building's daily maintenance.  That's right.  At age twenty-five, he's too young to cry.   This emotion that's not even his is just upkeep, something that must happen.

"Mr. James, you can ignore me if you want to, but I'm leaving the bowl in here.  I don't need it, and I don't want it," Ms. Varejao places the bowl in front of LeBron on his desk.  The water sloshes a bit as she places it on the cherry wood desk and lands on an envelope, addressed LeBron, that Ms. Varaejao has also delivered.  "Good day, sir."  She walks out and shuts the door.

In the bowl are two Siamese fighting fish, slowly circling one another, flaring their gills, each displaying its colorful fins like a matador's red cloth.  LeBron watches them, studies them, wonders why Mr. Brown wants him to be the proud owner of two Betta fish.  He opens the envelope as the smaller Betta fish charges the larger one:

LeBron, I need you in Boston this week--make that the company needs you.  You need to inform Mr. Garnett, Mr. Pierce, and Mr. Allen that their services are no longer necessary.  I don't care how you do it, just as long as it gets done.  If you need any further motivation, just observe my two fighting fish, MJ and Kobe.  They will teach you all you need to know about competition and survival of the fittest.


Mike Brown


LeBron balled the note up and let it fall to the floor.  The smaller fish was now floating belly up in the bowl, its fins wrapping around it like a shroud.  The larger fish wobbled in the water, drunk on violence, numb to the cost of victory.  LeBron picks up the bowl, raises it above his head, and hurls it at the window, screaming.  The bowl bursts, less like glass, and more like a bubble against the double paned window of the office.

"Daaaaammmmmnnnnnn!" calls one of the window washers, as both the men in their jumpsuits stare into the office window.  The other window washer calls back, "I don't know, but the dude seems a lil temperamental."

Standing in a puddle of water and glass shards, with a dead fighting fish beside his left foot and a flopping one beside his right foot, LeBron flares his nostrils as if they were gills.

"Dawn in Pennsylvania": Milwaukee Bucks lead Atlanta Hawks

Without their best player Andrew Bogut, most people thought the Bucks were done, especially when the Hawks went out onto a 2-0 lead, to start the series.  Since then, the Bucks have won three in a row and the art of predictions look like a foolish endeavor.  

Walking through the warehouse, it feels like a hollowed out egg, even the outside walls are painted Easter with ads for car parts and local butcher shops.  Darkness fills the rooms like a black yolk.  Brandon Jennings walks through shadows and slits of gray light, following whispers, drawn to them like a moon to gravity.

His brother's death brought him here.  They delivered the arm--broken, twisted, and bloodied--but no body.  Brandon has come for the body, all seven feet and two hundred and fifty pounds of it.  Andrew was a mountain of a man, in life, with his blood pumping through him, but in the depths of Brandon's imagination the sight of his brother's mangled arm reduced him to Ayers Rock, the blood breaking the skin and staining its surface into a sunset, or a red dawn.  These thoughts bring a chill to Brandon's spine, but he braces himself against the shivers, not wanting to appear timid, as he takes measured steps on the thick concrete floor of the warehouse.  He comes to a door, cracked slightly open, and nudges it forward.  The gray of this room, stinking of cigarettes and ashtrays, feels warm and airy compared to the dark hallway, with its air like black ink, and Brandon feels strangely calm.

"Welcome, Mr. Jennings, we didn't think you'd show," Josh Smith fires the line like a stray bullet.  "We thought you'd faint at the sight of your brother's blood.  You've got bigger testicles than we guessed.  I like that word: testicles.  It shows that bravery takes some effort, some test if you will that I don't think a word as simple as balls can convey.  Say it with me. . . testes. . . testicles. . . yeah, there it is."  Brandon stands still as the light in the room, unwavering, not uttering a syllable, not even a breath, wondering if this rambling idiot before him can truly be the diabolical genius plotting his demise.  Brandon doubts it.  He takes a step forward, placing himself in a circle of men, who carry themselves like massive birds of prey, like hawks, as if they owned the sky itself.  To Brandon, they are merely buzzards, or scavengers of old men's bones.  Brandon can smell the stale tobacco and decrepit whiskey on their clothes and on their breaths, and he begins to smile at the illusion these petty thugs desperately cling to, trying to appear as mafiosos, when nothing else could be further from the truth.  Brandon feels young.  He knows who he is, and he's proud of his youth.

Brandon looks to his left, and eyes a man not much older than himself with a posture like a weasel and a white flower popping out of his pocket.  Brandon recognizes him as the one they call Marvin.  He looks to his right, and observes a with wide shoulders, even wider ears, and a young man's goatee.  His name is Al.  Brandon also takes the time to notice two other men in the room: one sitting in a chair by the window and the other leaning in a corner full of shadows.

Khhhuuuuuhhhhh!  The sound resonates from Marvin's throat, as Brandon grabs it with his right hand.  If Marvin has more to say, no one knows because Brandon's grip holds all other syllables in the collapsed Adam's apple of Marvin's neck.  With the butt of his left palm, Brandon breaks his victim's nose, shoving the weasel's body into big Al with enough force to put both men on the ground.  Marvin's blood creeps along the concrete like an oil spill  and in the middle of this puddle sits either Al or Marvin's gun.  Brandon swoops for it and fires it in one motion, shooting Josh Smith in his cajones--excuse me--testicles.  The other two men in the room have not moved.  Brandon points the gun slowly from one to the other.

"Well, Mr. Crawford, it looks like the boy knows what he's doing," the man in the corner steps into the light from the window, puffing his cig so that the end of it glows red.  "Yeah, it appears he definitely knows what he's doing, Mr. Crawford."

"That he does," comes a patient voice from the folding chair.

Brandon decides not to let the two men talk, settling the gun on the man standing in the gray sliver of light, "I came for my brother's body."

"Well. . . it. . .  ain't . . . here."  The man speaks as if he's evaporating, as if all he can do is threaten, like thunder from a passing storm; his lack of action embracing the anonymity his voice struggles to defeat.

Mr. Jennings begins to squeeze the trigger.

"Rooftops": Lakers Take Game 5 against the Thunder

Seeing as how the Lakers rolled over the Thunder in Game 5 and Durant went 5 of 14 from the field, it feels like a good time to continue with the Detective Durant narrative, as inspired by some of Edward Hopper's painting "Rooftops."

Detective Westbrook uses the tip of a ball point pen to scrape dried dog shit from off his shoe's sole.  He goes about the process with a deliberate patience, much like a dentist or an archaeologist, as if the rubber he's unearthing might be valuable.  He props his left leg over his right in a manner that suggests he's used to waiting in places that cause most people to tighten like rubber bands stretched around too much paper.  After a time, Westbrook notices that his scraping motion is in sync with the waiting room clock's second hand.  This mechanical choreography makes Westbrook uncomfortable.  He stops, puts the pen in his coat pocket, and uncrosses his legs.  At first, he appears to not know where his hands should be placed, so he stands and walks past the elevator to the water fountain.  He leans down and takes a sip.  The water tastes of metal.  He wonders about its lead content and then pivots back toward the green chair he recently abandoned.

As Detective Westbrook reaches the elevator, it opens and a nurse steps out to clear the hallway.  As the other nurses and one doctor push the gurney out the elevator, the back wheel catches on the edge of the door, halting its momentum, prompting the doctor to growl, "Damn it, Nurse Kirilenko, watch where you're going!  This man has slim line to walk without us banging him into doorways."  As they pass, Westbrook notices the name "Mehmet Okur" on the doctor's clipboard.  He looks down at Mehmet's face, with its eyes open and still like saucers.  Mehmet's pupils are faint drops of coffee, barely discernible, almost as if they are staring inward and not out.  The sight of them makes Westbrook ponder his partner's eyes as they looked up at him from a pile of loose bricks.  Were Kevin's pupils that faint?  No, Kevin's pupils were dark and dilated, not squinting to see some inner light.  No, Kevin was in much better shape than this Mehmet character.  Westbrook returns to his chair, crosses his arms, and uncrosses them, watching the clock contemplating the finiteness of coffee cups and heart beats.

Detective Durant went  into the brownstone alone.  He told Westbrook to circle around back and watch for anyone coming or going, and Westbrook did just that.  Westbrook waited outside the row of houses, that leaned and stumbled into each other like drunken lovers on a brisk ferry ride, watching the dark windows and door, wanting to light a cigarette but knowing that to do so might get Kevin killed.  This case had taken up five months of their lives, almost half a year, and not once had they been this close to apprehending their suspect, a man that the rest of the department referred to as a shadow, an obscurity no one notices until it's all around you, like the blackness of night.  Most of their suspect's victims were found with their throats slit and a profound smile on their faces, as if in death their white teeth were a sliver of moon.

The thought of the last body they'd found, a huge man with a huge smile, named Dwight Howard, crept into Westbrook's mind and a chill came over him.   If this shadow could slay a behemoth like Howard, then what chance did his matchstick partner have?  Westbrook drew his gun and headed for the back door.  He fumbled with the doorknob, which was locked, and was about to kick the door  open, his leg already raised, when he heard a window open from above and a gun shot.

Westbrook backpedaled, almost tripping over the curb.  Above him, a body slithered onto the rooftop, hoisting itself up using the brownstone's chimney.  A brick came loose just as the body stood up on the roof and fell three stories, landing about ten feet or so in front of Westbrook.  Westbrook searched the line of the rooftop for the shadowy snake, but saw nothing except for the outline of the chimney.

"Russell, you still out there, man?"

"Yeah, Kevin, he's on the roof!"

"You gotta line on him?"

"If he moves at all from behind that chimney, he's a dead man."

"You hear that, Black Mamba?  There ain't no where to go."  Silence.

Westbrook wasn't sure what the best move from here might be.  The Black Mamba could not come out from behind that chimney to run from one rooftop to another without risking getting shot, and, if he jumped off the front, there were two patrol cars blocking off the road.  He had nowhere to go.  The only question was how long the man could wait up on the roof.  Westbrook envisioned the next day, around noon, and how hot the sun would be.  This was it.  The line was drawn.

Westbrook watched the framework of the chimney, like a cat waiting in the high grasses for its prey.  He imagined the Black Mamba on the other side of the chimney's brick walls staring back at him the way cobras stare through glass plates at the zoo, hissing at all the children who slap the window, smearing their dirty fingerprints all over it.
Durant reached his hand up from the window and slapped the gutter, gave it a tug, found it sturdy, and began pulling his body up onto the roof, pushing against the window sill with his legs.  Durant's decision to act, to poke the cobra inside its basket, was greeted with a grating sound.  Westbrook could see the bricks sliding like the slow quiver of a mirage.

"Kevin, man, those bricks are movin!'"

Durant's foot slipped on the sill; he was not hanging off the gutter by only his arms, no support.

"I'm not the Black Mamba!" screamed the chimney, "I'M RON ARTEST!"

A cascade of bricks emphasized this exclamatory statement, raining down like chunks of hail around Durant.  The gutter gave way from the onslaught, and Westbrook watched his partner fall three stories, landing on the ground underneath a pile of rubble.  Westbrook rushed to the pile and began heaving bricks off Durant's body, yelling a combination of pleas for help and threats at life: "Help!  Man down!  Help us!  You bastard!  You fuckin' bastard!  Help us!"  Westbrook yelled until his syllables became inaudible.

"We'll get him, Russ," whispered Durant.  "I ain't dead, just down."  The look in Durant's eyes was as infinite as the night.  If Westbrook was more religious, he would have thought that Durant must have seen something in his fall, that here was a man becoming the same thing he hunted, but Westbrook dismissed these ideas, closed his eyes, and fell silent as a stone.  Durant's eyes, however, were open wide.

This post originally appeared at The Faster Times on April 20, 2010, when the Lakers were ahead in the series 2-0.

Celtics Take 1-0 Lead Over Heat: "Two Comedians"

The Celtics won the first game of their first round series with the Heat by a score of 85-76.  The best player on the floor was clearly Dwyane Wade, who put together a stat line of 26 points, 8 rebounds, 6 assists, and 7 turnovers.  Paul Pierce once again showed off his fragility, whether it was due to his delicate physical state or needy emotional character is up for debate. KG elbowed ever closer to the status of a crotchety old man at the Y, growing more and more frustrated with the loss of his own athleticism and, therefore, his own importance, and, somehow, the real catalyst for these theatrics was the long lost court jester, Quentin Richardson, who found the inspiration (testicular fortitude) to take on the spineless role of Iago and whisper sweet nothings in the ear of KG.  KG's response got him suspended.  The Playoffs are clearly upon us, and this scene from Saturday night deserves its own Ed Hopper piece:

Romeo, played by a Kevin Garnett believed by some to be too old for the starring role, holds Juliet's head in his hands and weeps.  Juliet is played by an aging star as well, Paul Pierce, who has a reputation as a great actor in scenes containing the bed cousins of life and death, and even the occasional resurrection.  However, Pierce falters in scenes of the mundane, appearing bitter and cross that not every moment of his career can be seen as dramatic as bearing a cross on his way to the grave and, ultimately, his greatest triumph.  

In fact, Pierce's favorite role in his long career, that exists somewhere in the cloudy realm of better than good but not quite great, is the time he played Jesus in a Hollywood version of Jesus Christ Superstar.    The production was also the first time Pierce teamed up with Garnett, who played the part of the Virgin Mary.  Critics hailed the film as a real life example of the Immaculate Conception, or something out of nothing; after all, the cast did not even meet before shooting started, much less rehearse.  The chemistry between the two stars and their supporting cast was uncanny, as they and their agents had followed a bright star to Boston where a majority of the film took place.  Rajon Rondo was stunning as a more than tempting Mary Magdalene and Ray Allen possessed the knack of disappearing and then reappearing, with burro in hand, as the thankless, always mortal, father figure, Joseph, in The Greatest Story Ever Told.  

The film was an artistic achievement, as well as a box office smash, and the careers of the cast were finally embraced by a pantheon of past greats, that didn't seem to mind even the most expletive filled Awards speeches by Garnett, forgiving each f-word from out the Madonna's mouth as a sigh of relief that all her hard work and difficult choices, such as leaving the place of her birth, were not in vein.  Times were good, and most believed more were on their way, but the group's follow-up effort to their Biblical epic (fans loved their 2009 version of The Big Chill, while critics wondered why the most talented Celtic was cast as a dead man, whose scenes were cut from the final version, even if his death brought out the most from everyone else).  The epilogues of epic myths are often underwhelming in comparison to the stories that birthed them.

Now, the ensemble is reunited, and Kevin, his limbs trembling, cries into his Paul's closed eyes: "Oh, here/ Will I set up my everlasting rest/ And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars/ From this world-wearied flesh./ Eyes, look your last!/ Arms, take your--"

Paul jerks to life, wincing in pain, "Dude! don't squeeze my shoulder so hard!  I told ya'll I hurt it in dress rehearsal putting on my corset."  Kevin stares into Paul's now wild eyes, not knowing how to handles his co-star's ad-lib, whether to kiss him and die or to walk off the stage and say forget the whole thing, neither of us is a teenager anyway.  

"Man, this is terrible.  The lines aren't right.  Casting's terrible.  'Sheed's the only one pulling off his role as Mercutio, which means he's just gotta run his mouth," comes a voice from the front row, which Kevin and Paul can not see because of the stage lights.  "I should have listened to Joakim.  Ya'll lost whatever it is after spendin' last year singin' 'Ain't Too Proud to Beg' like you were a bunch of Kevin Klein's."  The voice, full of frustration, sounds exactly like Quentin Richardson and pauses to let the insults sink in, just long enough for someone to throw an elbow, but even Kevin's long arms can not reach all the way to the front row, if only he were closer.  "That's it.  I'm outta here.  I'm goin' to see Michael Bay's Transformers 3, starring LeBron and Shaq.  It'll be overhyped, but at least it's got some bad ass robots."    

The rest of the crowd erupts in applause.  After nearly an hour and a half, Quentin's monologue is the first genuine acting of the night.  Kevin can hear them picking up their things.  He can hear them moving to the ends of their aisles.  Here he is on the biggest stage in the world, playing one of the greatest parts in history, and the crowd doesn't even have the decency to watch him die--they'd rather follow this harlequin out the door to see some Hollywood bastardization of what was once a great '80s cartoon show.  Kevin can't stand it.  His eyes boil over with hatred.  All of his injuries, all of his pain, all the years of feeling like no one noticed him, he sees it all parading in front of him, following Quentin Richardson, as if Quentin were a pied piper leading all the snakes in Eden.  Kevin leaps off the stage screaming, throwing elbows, biting, pulling and pushing his way through the crowd.  They grab at him.  They try and stop him.  But somebody will die tonight.  It doesn't have to be Romeo.  It doesn't have to be Juliet.  All Kevin knows is that this play is a tragedy, and, as Kevin moves through the theatre like a tank in Tiananmen Square, a calm voice arises over the chaos, "For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo."  The voice is that of Dwyane Wade's, a man accustomed to getting the last word.  

"Two on the Aisle": Busted Brackets

From time to time, we tend to use Ed Hopper paintings as a magnifying glass for studying the ins and outs of the NBA, and, with March Madness in full gear, the NBA becomes a fan of the drama much like the rest of us.

The Charlotte Bobcats Midseason: "A Room by the Sea"

From time to time, we tend to use Ed Hopper paintings as a magnifying glass for studying the ins and outs of the NBA. The Charlotte Bobcats' 2009-10 season is their best on record, and the team appears to finally be heading for the playoffs. A seemingly rag-tag cast of veteran talent is leading the 'Cats' groundswell, and Larry Brown appears to be putting his Midas touch to good use once again.

Mavericks-Wizards Trade: "Excursion into Philosophy"

From time to time, we tend to use Ed Hopper paintings as a magnifying glass for studying the ins and outs of the NBA.  The recent Dallas-Wizards trade that saw Caron Butler, Brendan Haywood, and DeShawn Stevenson sent to Dallas for Josh Howard and Drew Gooden calls for us to do this once again.

Gilberta lay on the bed motionless, passed out, not wearing any underwear.  Anyone walking into the room would have quickly seen everything she had to offer, decent legs and a butt that now sagged more than it once did.  Not impressive.  Not yet repulsive.  She was in limbo.

Kevin Durant: Stairway at 48 rue de Lille

Seemed a good time to pull out the Ed Hopper lens. Don't know what I'm talking about...click here.

The step creaks with arthritis, and the railing itself gives like a knee. The shadow that follows the groans of a staircase's old age is nothing but a silhouette of skin and bones, falling back into the depths of the forgotten first floor. The shadow is a thin curtain, and appears frail enough to need a cane; but the body moves with a surprising spryness. Captured in Kevin Durant's ascent up the stairs is the worn out, tired idea of the hero, rejuvenated by a six foot ten inch Jacob's ladder of taut muscle and sinew.

Philadelphia 76ers Offer Iverson: "Summer Interior"

We will continue to view the NBA season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Sixers in our comments section.

The threadbare sheets feel like cobwebs in her hands. As she lets them evaporate from her fingers, she counts the threads that remain on her skin, like stray hairs on an old man's scalp; they wiggle like legs plucked from a grandaddy spider in the breeze blowing in from the open window. Elton remembers how summer days in Durham when she used to trap grandaddy long legs in glass jars and pluck off their legs, using metal tweezers because she didn't want to dirty her hands.

Sitting on the hardwood floor, her own legs cramping and burning, Elton feels as if her own muscles are being squeezed by giant pair of tweezers. She is the twitching limb of a dismembered body, having lived out the American dream to its most bloated possibilities under the bright lights of southern California, all of her lies and deceit having brought her here to a seedy motel in Philadelphia, the birthplace of Declarations, of separations, and reinvention.

Elton would like to pull herself up from the floor, clean herself of experience, and put on a new dress, but her spot on the floor is as low as any valley, a stranger named Igoudala is in the shower, and the threads of that new dress are already as worn as the bed sheet.

Knock. Knock.

"Who's there?" she doesn't recognize her own voice, shattered like last night's shot glasses.

"Open the door, Elton. It's time to go home." The voice is more familiar than her own.

"Allen, is that you?" she asks the question as if she fears either of the two answers it might render.

"Is that the maid? Tell her to come back in an hour." Igoudala is out of the shower, a towel around his waste, droplets of water running down his shoulders clean as tomorrow's sun rays. Elton sits on the floor, frozen between Igoudala in the open doorway of the bathroom and Allen on the other side of the room's shut door. She goes back to rubbing the bed's cobwebs between her fingers and thumb, shaking her head slowly from side to side, like a weather vane in a stagnant breeze.

Golden State Warriors Put Stephen Jackson on the Block: "Office at Night"

We will continue to view the NBA season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Warriors in our comments section.The metal of the file cabinet feels cold against the palm of her hand, like a flagpole in December. She reaches further into the drawer, searching for the warmth of manilla folders and green hanging binders. Her fingerprints shuffle through the contents of the cabinet, making the sounds of boots through snow, and her palm leaves a smudge on the outside of the drawer, like breath on a window in winter, when she lifts it. She looks over at her boss, sitting at his desk made from cedar and thinks to herself, "God dammit, look over here. I didn't wear this blue dress today for nothing. Look over here, you fat, old man. " Ms. Anthony Randolph has played this game of cat and mouse for a little over a year now, wearing sweaters that hug her like an x-ray, swaying her hips like wisps of willow, and leaning over Mr. Don Nelson's desk like a crane with cleavage, but the old man pays no mind, causing Ms. Randolph to think, "what's a woman got to do to get ahead in this place?" She notices Mr. Nelson's hand shake. The letter he clasps begins to rattle in his fingers like a china tea cup, sitting on a saucer, with a spoon it, during an earthquake. She takes a half step towards the desk, treading lightly, and leans in with her right shoulder. The letter reads:

Dear Mr. Nelson,

I'm sick of you. I'm sick of your company. I want to blow the whole place to kingdom come, and I will, if you don't move me to another branch, in another city, as soon as possible. I've looked into your eyes, and I've seen your soul; and I pity its glassy coldness, you f#ckin' wretch of a man.

Sincerely,

Stephen Jackson

PS I better never hear you call me Captain Jack, or any other faggot pirate name, behind my back again.

Ms. Randolph stands with her jaw hanging lower than a low cut sweater. She's only had one direct encounter with Stephen Jackson, but it was enough to let her know that the contents of this letter should be taken seriously. Her second week at work, Ms. Randolph stayed late revising the company's file system when smoke began to creep from underneath the door to Jackson's office. At first, the smoke exited the room in strands as thin as the hairs on an old man's head, but the smoke continued to grow positive increments until one was forced to assume that Jackson's office was indeed an oven with a burn pot roast trapped in its belly. Ms. Randolph ran to the door and knocked on it, "Mr. Jackson...Mr. Jackson! are you alright? Is everything okay?"

"No, everything is not alright. The damn door won't open."

Ms. Randolph, using the the folds of her dress like a hot pad, grabbed the brass door knob and turned it, opening the door with an ease that suggested the door had not been jammed shut or locked at all. Inside the office, in the midst of an inferno of smoke, Mr. Jackson kneeled on his knees, chest bare and pantless, a metal trash can hiding his crotch, singing, "Come on , baby, light my fire!" In the trash can, Jackson fanned all the paper contents of his office as they burned into oblivion. Now, as Ms. Randolph reads the letter in Mr. Nelson's hands, all she can picture are the flames from the trash can reflected in the pupils of Mr. Jackson.

Ms. Randolph takes a half step back and pivots toward the file cabinet, pressing her palms against it, to feel its coolness, and she can not help but notice that sweat runs down Mr. Nelson's forehead, as if he were wild boar, rotating over a fire with an apple in his mouth. The buzz of the intercom interrupts the silence of the room, "bzzzzzzzz. Mr. Nelson, there is a man picketing outside the building."

"Is it Jackson?"

"I don't believe so, sir. He's holding a sign that says, 'HELLO, WORLD, MY NAME'S ELLIS, AND I'M TIRED OF TAKING THE BLAME FOR YOUR SINS! 2012 APPROACHES!!!'"

Mr. Nelson takes a moment to respond and then summons the strength to utter, "I'll be right down." His voice is not convincing that he will be right down, and he wallows in his desk chair for minutes that weigh like years. Then he rises from his chair, takes in a deep breath, lifts his shoulders to the sky, and buttons the top button of his sports jacket. "Ms. Randolph, could you be so kind as to file this letter under 'J.' I trust that you will keep its contents a secret." He hands her the letter and walks out of his office, with the stubbornness of a pig, pretending its destiny is something other than sausage, ham, or bacon.

Ms. Randolph opens the file cabinet and places the letter in the 'J' folder, using her index finger to open up enough space in the folder to insert the letter. When she withdraws her finger, the folder becomes a razor against her skin, and a drop of blood lands on the Jackson letter, looking like the slush caused by a snowflake falling on a sidewalk that is no longer below freezing.

Sacramento Kings' Kevin Martin Injured: "Room in New York"

We will continue to view the NBA season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Kings in our comments section.Ebony and ivory. Black and white. A thin line between here, there, and everywhere else. Tyreke pushes the key of the piano over and over again, but a piano can not be forced into tune by repetition and wishing. The dissonance of the piano's stray notes reverberate from underneath her fingerprints like clues to a crime. Somewhere, on the waves of sound that float through the room, floats the chalked outline of harmony's perfection. It's homicide is a cold case--cold as the careers of Chris Webber and Vlade Divac--and the discord from the piano is a cruel reminder that some mysteries are never solved.

Kevin Martin leans into the black and white of the newspaper print, hoping proximity to the ink of the words he finds there will block out the discord caused by Tyreke's futile search for a melody. Kevin's read the paper twice through already. Now marks his third plunge into a sea of words he's already mapped out like some fifteenth century explorer, who embarks for the horizon praying that just maybe he'll bump into India. Kevin has yet to bump into anything, India or otherwise. In fact, while Kevin's reading of the paper mirrors the arbitrary journeys of Columbus, Kevin feels a much stronger kinship with Jimmy Stewart's character in Rear Window.

Kevin has been walled up in his apartment for day, tracing the paths of houseflies that buzz through the room like insect adaptations of Amelia Earhart. When the flies grow despondent from ramming time and time again into the window pane, Kevin commiserates, saying, "When you build the escape tunnel, let me know, buddy. I'll be right behind you." Of course, then Kevin finishes the part of the article that's on the first page and is told that the conclusion rests on page A7, which forces Kevin to try and row through the newsprint with a cast around his wrist, a cast that barely allows Kevin to even grip the page, much less turn it. As Kevin wrestles with the front page of the paper, Tyreke pokes away at the wretched piano, and it becomes clear that today is not the day for discovering passages to India.

Out of frustration, Kevin tosses the bulk of the paper across the room; its wings flutter for a bit, giving the illusion of flight when, for a second, the paper crosses the path of an oscillating fan. Then the aircraft crashes and burns, landing in a jungle of potted houseplants. Kevin eyes the wreckage from his chair beside the dining table. The billows of smoke from the crash take the shape of the headline: "Gamble on a Weekend Getaway--Vegas is the Place." Kevin turns to face the window. The familiar flies are no longer buzzing but scattered like deceased prisoners of war along the windowsill. The bleak pageant causes Kevin to giggle. The giggle grows into a laugh so loud that Tyreke stops poking the keys of the piano.

Kevin turns to his apartment mate, "Tyreke, if we can't grow wings and no one across the street is giving us a murder to witness, then I give you permission to do me in, just don't bury me with the flies. That's all I ask."

Washington Wizards Preview: "French Six Day Bicycle Rider"

In an effort to gear up for the NBA season (even though the season started last week), we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Wizards in our comments section.The lack of oxygen at this altitude shreds lungs; rips them as if they were construction paper. And if that weren't enough, Gilbert felt the ligaments in his knee pop like rubber bands lifting anvils during the race's early stages.

Now he peddles furiously up the road that winds around the mountain like a noodle of spaghetti curled around a fork. Every breath strikes a match deep inside his chest, and his knee goes numb with the monotony of laying siege to this fort's summit.

Up in the distance, where the sun spills onto the asphalt, Gilbert can just make out the shapes of LeBron and Dwyane; both gilded in gold. Gilbert tells himself himself the distance between himself and his competitors is not as great as first estimated, grunting at his knee, "Now is not the time to fall apart." He peddles his way out of the shadows, dreaming of hyperbolic chambers.

Milwaukee Bucks Preview: "Groundswell"

Josh Spilker is back once more to help us finish off these (now belated) Ed Hopper NBA previews. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Bucks in our comments section. "Not going in the boat, man, not going in the boat." It was Jennings, in the barbershop. He had to watch his words, literally. If his jaw moved too much, it would mess up his barber's skilled hands, or at least he was told they were skilled. He had wanted a perfect image etched into his hair for opening night. He was in Milwaukee and he knew his place in Milwaukee. The barber had done a few of these before, usually as a joke for bachelors before their wedding, guys in the industry who wore it for a week and then shed it on the morning of the big day. The barber didn't know this kid, he had only seen him, heard him, and trusted he had the cash. So as Jennings talked, the barber was trying to steady his hand on the faint outline of the beer can, with the words "Milwaukee's Best" barely visible.

Redd stood in the corner, all-knowing, all-seeing. He had seen this act before actually when some other hotshot rode into town, thinking he could beat the Wisconsin winters. Charlie V did the same thing, hell even Ray said he tried a Milwaukee's Best when he first got here, full of new hope and new promise in a place where there was none. He also listened to Joe Alexander's pleadings for Jennings to join them. He knew it was a stretch for Joe to try and convince Brandon, but he didn't really nowhere else to turn. He wanted someone outside of Jennings immediate circle of friends to provide some outside perspective, but someone young enough to try and talk some sense in him. Jennings, in his bravado and many preseason profiles was a bit lost in the spectacle right now. Redd had that feeling before he walked in, but was hoping Brandon could still be saved.

"You just don't know, you just don't..." Joe went on.
"Joe, it's cool man, it's cool. Brandon is his own man. He'll be alright," Redd said. "Come on, we'll find somebody else. See ya'll."
"See ya Redd. See ya Joe," Jennings said, running his fingers over his hair.

Redd knew the history of the boat. At first, he was skeptical, seeing Ray going out there every night. But it worked for Ray, and Redd knew it was only chance. The way it started was Ray got a phone call in the middle of the night, 2 am or so. The caller identified himself as "Lew" and that he had a secret for him. Lew told Ray about the lake, the boat, the time of day, everything. Lew said Ray could go by himself, but it could be no more than three. Lew said the lake was fickle, very fickle, but he didn't know anyone who got out without doing. So Ray did it, and did it, and finally he was picked. So Ray started going year, after year, after year, until finally Seattle then Boston. Course it took several years to get out.

Redd was like Brandon once, he didn't understand why Ray wanted to go in the boat so bad. But once Redd saw, once he realized, he knew it was his only option. Once Yi got in town, Redd knew it was a bad situation from the start. Redd mentioned it to Yi, and he was intrigued. Once Michael explained the concept, the mystic power of the lake, Yi had to be held back. He wanted to go immediately. The interpreter was even more excited than Yi was.

Last year, Redd thought it was his year. Richard saw what had happened to Yi and Charlie V. wanted in too. They went on the windiest night of the year, the lake had waves, large ones and the three men paddled out. Redd guided, navigated, threatened Charlie V. to put on the life jacket that saved his butt when he flew overboard. They found the buoy, circled it like Ray always instructed and made their way back. In that short time, a new calmness had come over Redd, and he thought he was getting out. But no dice. V found a great deal and Richard's dream came true.
"Timmy D! I'm with Timmy D and Tony P!" Richard galloped around Redd's house, unknowingly slandering everything Redd had built. Redd couldn't believe what was happening, what his career had become.

Michael didn't understand why he was never picked.

"Who else should we get? Who else we gonna get?" Joe asked eagerly, wanting the adventure to begin. Andrew? No, Andrew had no fire and limited skills to get out. Luke and Jodie were just lucky to have jobs. Carlos and Kurt had been here, been there, they didn't believe in any mumbojumbo, just cashed the check and honed opportunities for second careers as a chef and car wash magnate. Their minds had moved on. They needed someone savvy.

"Luc? Would Luc come you think?" Redd asked.

"Yeah, yeah, Luc most definitely would," Joe said. Luc was young, Joe was young. It was the next generation he was trying to save. That's all he had left. Better them than the other Luke or Francisco or Charlie Bell or Gadz.

"Go get 'em. Go get 'im now," Redd said. "Meet you at the marina."

"Yes, we're going, we're going!" Joe sped off in the opposite direction, not wanting to find Redd changing his mind.

That was a problem for Redd these days. He's never sure if he's okay with the anonymity or desires to be the second (and god-forbid third) banana on a championship team. He sees Ron in LA, Vince now in Orlando, Marion in Dallas, even Sheed in Boston and a part of him wants to do the same. Just go down the Hornets on the cheap, put them over the top with some ace shooting and dependable defense. Or maybe the Wizards. Provide a comforting hand to Gil and Caron, while making plans for a parade with Antawn. It all seemed like glamor and glitz, like making the jump from community theater to Broadway. Milwaukee was comfortable and he lived a better life than most. He was uncertain. Maybe that's why he hadn't been picked.

At the marina, Redd found a kayak, slid into the water. He sat down, counted the life jackets, found the oars tucked inside. Everything was in place. Redd was ready to be chosen.

Oklahoma City Thunder Preview: "New York Movie"

Josh Spilker is back to help us finish off these (now belated) Ed Hopper NBA previews. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Thunder in our comments section.It's dark, except for the screen. Its glow glints from bright to mauve to Oklahoma brown. In the audience darkness, a bounce, always bouncing, he can't stop it, can't control it, no, he doesn't have restless leg syndrome, or so he's been told from three different specialists. He is just energetic, excited, anxious even. He prefers anxious. Specifically, anxious tonight, the big screen in the big city. He prefers flat Oklahoma, the skies of Texas. Moving west from the Maryland hood was the best move he ever made. Sure, he could've followed Melo to a big time school, but he preferred to be overshadowed by other pursuits in Texas and Oklahoma. Gave him time for his craft. Time to develop. Time to shine on his terms. Everyone just thinks he's a tall dude. They have no idea what a Thunder is, anyway.

"Excuse me, excuse me, pardon me." He has to move out.

Always so polite, so his mom tells everyone who asks about Kevin. "Sweet Kev, sweet sweet Kev," she says, showing off the five diamond rings on her fingers. "Sweet Kev knows how to take care of his momma," she says. What she doesn't know, what he doesn't tell her, is how those are bribes to stay far, far away. He is a silent assassin. A cat burglar who knows all the back alleys and backways. He just gets nervous in the spotlight, such as here in New York.

"Yo, Kev, where you going man, the big show is just starting." It's James. Kevin loves James. The guy who has enough suave and panache to persuade Kevin, to move Kevin, both in silliness and in seriousness. James is older, but Kevin is richer. James is serious, but Kevin is more talented. James is funnier, but Kevin is goofier. They get along. Not like Russell always trying to fit in. Not like Green, burdened by the weight of falling short. James, Kevin feels, is like himself. Deeply underrated, out to prove the world different with sly grins and a whimsical personality that belies a deep desire to succeed. James too, Kevin reckons, is a silent assassin. Kevin is glad James is here.

"I know," Kevin says, "I know." Kevin is afraid to admit he's a little scared. He doesn't like to see himself as part of the big event, the big premiere. He saw the starring roles by Kobe, by LeBron, even Dwight last year. He doesn't know how they did it, how they put up with it. The movie posters, the trailers, the magazine covers, the early nods as an awards winner before the movie has even been shown. Kevin plays it cool, he laughs it off, he doesn't like being on the coastal towns, they know so much and are so smart with so many questions. He likes Oklahoma, where Kevin can be Kevin and no one knows he's a big-time star.

Out in the lobby, he can hear the first waves of sound. The feature film starring Kevin Durant has started. And all he wants to do is bite a nail. Just let him bite one glorious nail. He deserves that much, right? Just one bad habit?

Portland Trail Blazers Preview: "The Martha McKeen"

In an effort to gear up for the NBA season (even though the season started last week), we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Blazers in our comments section.With a divine wind, this boat slices through water, making waves appear like loaves of bread. The sunlight crowns the waves in butter. That's on a good day when partaking of the ocean is like communion and eternal salvation. On any other day with a less than perfect wind, attempts at sailing around the sandbar can be as futile as a kamikaze mission. Today the wind is heaven sent, and if Commodore Roy were less hungover, then today would be the day that the little boat that could sailed out past the breakers and out of sight from the coast, like a dove sent from the beach into the great blue yonder.

But Commodore Roy is hungover, singing W. B. Yeats poems to the tune of Modest Mouse songs, banging his peg leg onto the hollow drum of the deck and playing slap bass on his thigh with the palm of his hand, and, unfortunately, he's yet to realize the anchor of the S.S. Oden still drags the bottom of the ocean's floor from where it was dropped the night before.

The heavy chain pulls at the beams of the boat's hull. Commodore Roy believes the creaking is the sound his skull makes after a night of too many bourbons. Nails are pried loose from wood, and, below the deck, water gathers like lead in the belly of a whale; it's gut is about to burst. The bleeding is internal, caused by an anchor no one can see. Sea gulls glide through sun rays on what appears to be the consummate sea breeze, but the journey of the S.S. Oden appears to be much shorter than her crew intended.

San Antonio Spurs Preview: "Second Story Sunlight"

In an effort to gear up for the NBA season (even though the season started last week), we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Spurs in our comments section.Ms. Jefferson jerks in fright as a bat flaps out of the woods and into the crisp night air.

"Nasty little bloodsuckers, aren't they?" quips Senor Ginobili, never lifting his eyes from his newspaper.

"Yeah," comments Ms. Jefferson faintly; her attention diverted to trapping the sounds of the bat's wings.

"When I was younger, I would venture into those woods alone, and snatch those creatures out of the air with my bare hands. I would walk into a clearing and just stand there with my eyes closed, waiting. When I caught one, I would bring it back to the house and show my father. I would tell him, 'Pops, look what I hunted down for you in the woods,' and he would tell me, 'Manu, you are a foolish boy. One day you will get bit, catch disease, and die way too young.' Well, I'm old now and not a scratch on me. Fathers only know so much, eh?" He puts the paper down on a table next to his glass of wine.

Ms. Jefferson does not know how to respond. Her Argentine lover is an odd man. If he weren't wealthy, she would say he was crazy or call him mad and be done with the whole affair; but his bank account can afford the label of eccentric, so she puts up with his stories of catching bats, the often depressing words of his father, and his elderly friends, who laugh too hard at jokes that are no longer funny. She's even come to accept his thinning hair and the bald crater its left on the back of his head. After all, it's Senor Ginobili who saved her from disappearing into the drab Milwaukee skyline.

She stood on the corner, eyeing her reflection in a rain puddle, tinted red and green from a traffic light when a Rolls Royce pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, and a Spanish accent rolled out, "Excuse me. I require a tour guide."

She told the voice from the car window, "As long as you got the money, you call it whatever you want."

"No, really, I need a tour guide. I'm here to view the city's gutters and down spouts." Ms. Jefferson took this for a euphemism, hiked up her skirt, and got inside the luxury car. Inside the Royce's dark interior, she did not get a clear view of her client's, her patron's, her future lover's face, but he greeted her with a story, as if they already knew one another and all the characters were familiar to her.

"Pops always believed one could tell the most about a city by how its citizens handled their rain water. He would say, 'Manu, any city can stay dry in sunshine, but, son, I want to live where people stay dry when it floods.' My father always spoke like that, and I always listened to my father; but, unlike him, I prefer a city whose spouts and gutters overflow, causing unpredictable torrents from rooftop to sidewalk. I thrive on sudden downpours actually."

And with that Ms. Jefferson knew she had found a different kind of client than the typical Midwestern drunk who would take her back to a shabby apartment and split a twelve pack of PBR with her. A night with Senor Ginobili was like looking through a kaleidoscope. Her world was changing, and she now sat with her Argentine lover on a porch in south Texas, attempting to not startle at the nocturnal migrations of bats, searching the night for prey, like rats, mice, and mosquitoes.

Senor Ginobili downs his wine, and rises from his chair, leaving an indention where he's sat reading all night. As he stands, he can feel all the years of bull fighting, fencing, and rock climbing creak through the timbers of his knees. He reaches out and runs his fingers through Ms. Jefferson's hair. He leans into smell it; its scent screams just twenty years old, and makes his knees feel less stiff while other parts of him grow rigid. He walks over to the bedroom doors. "Ms. Jefferson, I think it's time we retire." He swings the door open and gestures with his arm for her to enter. She rises like moonlight from her chair and floats across the porch, stroking his cheek with her hand as she passes. She disappears into the darkness of the bedroom. "Manu, I've been meaning to tell you. I'm thirty, not twenty."

Her voice is strange to him. He can't place it. She's lost to him like a minotaur buried inside of a maze. Wings whisper at his back. He spins around and flashes his left hand up to his chest, seizing the bat from the air. He flings it over the railing and walks inside the bedroom. Blood drips from his hand onto the carpet. Senor Ginobili's been bitten; rabies is coming to a boil inside his veins.

Boston Celtics Preview: "People in the Sun"

In an effort to gear up for the NBA season, we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Celtics in our comments section.Rajon Rondo has always had a greater appreciation for the words in books than he has for natural landscapes. Mountains are created by the violent movements of tectonic plates. They are creatures born from the constant rumblings of the Earth's bowels. They stand for millions of year, but no matter how long a mountain stands it will eventually give way to time. The wind blows inches off its height every year, and the rain washes away the dirt that makes its slopes. No mountain is permanent, which is why Rajon finds the efforts of his family so futile. Every year, as they get older, his aunts and uncles drag him out here to watch the mountains and admire their permanence, and every year Rajon thinks what foolish doctrines the old adopt in order to feel their world is not slipping away.

"Aren't they beautiful?" asks Uncle Kevin.

"Don't they just make you think about perfection?" reflects Aunt Rasheed.

"I miss them so much in the seasons when we're not here," confesses Uncle Pierce.

Aunt Ray just hums in response to each comment, giving them confirmation as deep thoughts, and Rajon continues to plow through the pages of his book, thinking these mountains aren't even as tall as they used to be.

Utah Jazz Preview: "Early Sunday"

Josh Spilker of Deckfight gives us the 2010 Jazz. Feel free to add your thoughts in our comments section and check out the other NBA previews we've done so far.

The truck has to be unloaded. Goods, cargo, consumer products, bulk freight. Brown boxes with netting to hold them in place. Pallets draped in a sheet of plastic. Inside the truck, he reaches for a box maneuvering around the pallets. He sometimes uses the forklift when the chance arises, but he doesn't mind the physical labor. It's what got him here in the first place.

"You have the knowledge, the ability, the talent, you can operate it," Brewer tells Paul.

"No, no thanks, sir. I'm happy where I am."

"Paul, I'm your bro, you don't have to call me sir," Brewer responds.

"Sir, yessir," Paul says.

Once Paul and Brewer are out of the way, Carlos fingers the joystick on the forklift with smooth confidence, like Billy Mays behind Donkey Kong controls. In the forklift, Carlos glides to the side of the truck. Up and over, its sleek steel slides underneath a large palette of Thelonius Monk records. "More of these? In Utah?" Boozer mutters. His knit cap fits snug over his glassy head, capturing the easy sweat of this labor. He drops the palette in the middle of the factory floor, the third in a row, so neatly arranged. Many are surprised that Boozer is still here. But he tells them that the money is good, the air is fresh. He is from Alaska, after all.

Down below, Paul has pulled no less than twenty-five boxes off the truck, in five stacks, five boxes high. Ronnie only has two stacks, Deron is doing fine work, three stacks while making time to chat with Carlos and Mehmet, who is also behind his own forklift. Everyone understands that part of Deron's job is to seemingly waste time, to talk with everyone, ask how they're doing, how they're families are going. His job is to know where everyone is at--physically, emotionally, spiritually. Even with these extra sometimes mentally trying duties, he still outpaces Ronnie and most of the other guys on a regular basis.

The P.A. clicks on. "Paul, that's enough, take a seat." The bossman peers out from a window overlooking the factory floor. A tall man with a trucker's hat sits behind him, though Paul can't make out the face. "Andrei, you're in."

Paul raises his right hand while staring up at the cased-in box. "Sir yessir, Mr. Sloan," Paul yells and runs to the breakroom. Andrei is on his way out, yawning with a Snickers bar in his hand. "God, I hate working mornings," Andrei says. "For that matter, I hate working nights too, ha!" And slaps Paul on his back. Andrei jogs to the truck and proceeds to open a box, first lifting individual bottles of detergent out one by one, before moving to another box and lifting out individual bars of Ivory soap. Andrei stacks the bars one on top of another.
"Well, look at that!" Andrei exclaims. He then texts his wife about all his accomplishments at work and in the midst of doing so knocks over the soap with his gangly knee.

"And so much promise," Deron says to Mehmet, jogging over to clean up Andrei's mess.

Back in the breakroom, Paul takes a seat on a hard plastic chair and closes his eyes. Two deep breaths. These fifteen minutes is the only time in his day for meditation, the same prayer and routine that he's done since he was 12. With his eyes still closed, he reaches around to his backpocket and pulls out his wallet. By memory, he flips it open, and his index and thumb split open a hidden pocket. He pulls out the card and opens his eyes. It's a card of man with a beard, in a purple Jazz jersey and short shorts. A loopy "K" and maudlin "M" are all that's decipherable from the signature across the front.

Paul closes his eyes, flips the card over and repeats the stats. With no pause he rattles off 85-86, 87-88. His voice quivers with a great year, 88-89. .519 FG. 10.70 RPG. .88 BPG 27.7 PPG. The card vibrates in his nervous fingers as he begins the the best: 89-90. .562 11.10 RPG .61 BPG 31.0 PPG. If that's not the Holy Spirit then Paul doesn't want to know it. He finishes the remaining years, finding comfort in the rhythmic blur of the numbers. He looks up, sees if he is right. He is, of course he is. Paul knows the bio by heart, because, essentially it is his own. His thumb glosses over the worn veneer of the card. Paul lays the card on the table, and hunches over, tears welling in his eyes. Sometimes the weight is too much.

The phone rings in the breakroom. Paul looks up, knows he's the only one there and picks up.

"Paul." It's the bossman. "Come on up here, there's someone I want you to meet."

"Sir, yessir." He hangs up the receiver.

Paul takes a deep breath. He didn't want to go up there. He preferred to deal with the boss down here, on the floor, where the only thing discussed was proper stacking technique, speed and quizzes about the forklift manual, if there was ever a full-time opening. Which after this summer, seems more and more unlikely. He hoped against hope that things would work out here, here in the anonymous mountains of Utah.

Paul takes another deep breath, turns toward the stairs off the breakroom and jogged the two flights upstairs. He presses the buzzer and is immediately let in. There was bossman Sloan, lounging on a couch. The tall man in the trucker hat seated next to him. They both stand.

"Paul," Sloan says. "This is Karl."

"K-k," Paul stutters.

"That's right, Karl Malone."

"Paul. I've heard a lot about you. It's a pleasure," Karl said reaching for Paul's hand.

The whites of Paul's eyes were large, rotund. His mouth wide open. Paul feels faint.

"Keep working. One day, you'll move up, maybe get your own truck line someday. I know it," Karl continues.

With that, Karl and Sloan can only watch as Paul's body grows lithe and sinks to the ground.

Memphis Grizzlies Preview: "Self Portrait"

In an effort to gear up for the NBA season, we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Grizzlies in our comments section.A chewed up dog pisses on a garbage can that stoops by a rusty fire escape. Imagine Napoleon dragging on all four paws to plant a French flag in midst of a wasteland, and you have what this mutt has accomplished. A thick sludge made up of what appears to be either coffee or lava lurks in the curb. The whole street smells of urine and fast food. Hot air creeps up through the cracks in the sidewalk, as if the whole neighborhood rested over Hell's furnace. At night, devils walk in and out of apartments and down rickety metal stair cases, making deals and bargains, over souls and minds and time, whispering through televisions and crack pipes. The dog lowers its leg, pokes its nose up in the air, and smells the new day, already cloaked in yesterday's guilt. The canine barks at an oncoming car and then mopes down the street passing by the window of a first floor apartment.

The window is open, and flies buzz in and out of the slits in the screen. An old man rests face down on a cot that sits beside the wall opposite the window. Next to the cot is an old milk crate, coated in dusty magazines and newspapers. Piles of old clothes litter the floor. They look like they either came from or are on their way to the local thrift store. On the floor below the window is an old television set, complete with an aluminum foil antenna and a knob for changing the channel. The television has not been usable since the switch from analog to digital.

The man on the cot rolls over and places his two feet on the floor. With his toes, he can feel that the floor needs to be vacuumed. Hard bits of dirt and old toe nail clippings nibble at the bottoms of his feet. His head rests in his hands. The day is not met with enthusiasm.

He takes an old pair of slacks off the floor and pulls them up over his legs to his waist. An old leather belt still weaves its way through the loops; he tightens it to the third notch, to keep his pants from sagging like the young hoodlums that roam the block outside his apartment. He doesn't bother changing his undershirt; it's only on day two. He puts a button up on over it, and tucks it in. His shoes are well worn, and the laces feel like they will fall apart in his hands as he ties them. On his way out the door, he grabs his hat and jacket. He looks like an old newspaperman, like he knows stuff in books but is smart enough not to tell everyone he meets. The shoulders of the jacket show that he used to be a strong man, but, now, they curl like the cover of a paperback book that's been folded in half. The jacket looks worn like a book's broken spine. He passes the landlord, Mr. Stern, on his way out.

"I'm not running a charity, Iverson. You gotta give to get," Mr. Stern says these words without looking up from his crossword puzzle. " You gotta give to get in this world."

"Can you watch my door for me? Broke the lock last night when the key got stuck." Allen Iverson is only half lying. The lock on the door is broken, and it did happen last night; but a key never entered the lock. Allen lost his keys on his way home from the bar, and used his shoulder to force the door open, busting the lock. Allen didn't remember the ordeal until he put his left arm through the sleeve of his dress shirt. The sharp pain of a sprained rotator cuff helped him to remember everything from searching the bar for his keys, from his regular barstool all the way to the toilet, to his impromptu decision to yell, "Geronimo!" while charging into his door like a buffalo with a limp.

Mr. Stern responds to the request, "Gotta give to get. Give to get." He saves the rest of his vocabulary for his puzzles.

Allen eyes the gray sky as he walks down the sidewalk, wondering to himself, "How the hell did I wind up in Memphis?" He does not find the reasons to be all that revealing. He got laid off from his job at a Detroit auto plant, and he was told that his age made him an insurance liability. When he first heard the explanation, he planned on taking the company to court; but, on his way home that day, he slipped on some black ice and threw out his back. In court, the company's lawyers demonstrated that Allen Iverson could no longer physically perform the task of lifting up car doors hour after hour and day after day. Allen lost the case, and moved to Memphis because it was warmer than Detroit, cheaper to live than LA, and had a better bar scene than Charlotte. It was also as far as he made it on his way to Miami before his car broke down. Memphis meet Mr. Iverson, the man without a true destination.

Allen walks by a chain link fence. He holds his right arm out, and drags his fingers along the metal. He walks as if each joint in his leg has a bullet in it; each step presses bone to lead. The pain causes Allen to stop. He clings to the fence with both hands, and peaks through the diamond-shaped holes at some kids playing basketball on the other side. Two tall gangly boys are picking teams. To Allen, they look like teenagers. Their smiles look like their baiting the world to come close enough to their mouths to be swallowed, and their laughs suggest they are cocky enough to try.

"I'll take Gasol. Who you got, Rudy?"

"Conley."

"Thabeet."

"That's all there is, OJ. Who else am I going to pick? That old man with the limp? Puhlease. We'll take you two on three," he takes the basketball he's been dribbling between his legs this whole time and heaves it at the kid named Rudy. "You other scrubs can go play over there." He points to a backboard across the court with no rim. Streaks of brown mark where the rim should have been. As the game begins, Allen thinks how light the ball looks in the hands of these boys, like they're gods dribbling the earth. A sharp pain in his back then reminds him what a toll playing Atlas can have. He turns from the court, and walks on. It's late morning and time for a drink.