Funny how?

The club is almost totally silent, except for Tommy's voice. He is telling a story, with his group of henchmen crowded around his table. Some have valid looks of interest on their faces, and some have heard this kind of story before, obviously faking their enthusiasm for it.

The club is dimly lit, with the small lamp in the middle of the table illuminating the men's faces. Ray is the closest to Tommy. He is leaned back with his elbow on the table, smoking a cigarette and listening intenty to Tommy. His face is filled with awe and respect for Tommy. Ray hasn't been in the gang for long; he is least tenured member. Cleary, he his trying to gain the respect of Tommy, the most adored, and the most feared, of the group.

Tommy is recalling a conversation he had with a cop during a failed bank robbery some time back. "I'm in the middle of the fucking weeds, laying down." "The cop comes over and says what are you doin'?" "I said I'm resting."

The group laughs everytime Tommy pauses, which isn't often. His diction doesn't allow for breaks in the action, and his Italian accent looms heavy on every word. Tommy is still talking.

"So uh, what are you gonna tell us tough guy?" "I'm gonna tell you my usual, nothing, zero." "No, you're gonna tell me something today, tough guy." "Alright, I'll tell you something. Go fuck your mother."

The group explodes. Ray laughs the loudest, looking around for approval. The laughing is so loud you can barely hear Tommy explaning the sounds of the beating he took from the cop for his comment.

Tommy tells of how he wakes up, and of how the cop was still there. He asked him again to tell him something, but Tommy again so politely refused. Another beating. Another explosion of laughter. Tommy stops his story to take a drink, all the time muttering under his breath about the "prick cop". The laughter dies down, and Ray says quietly, "You're funny. You're reallll funny."

Tommy stops drinking. With a confused smile on his face, he says "What do you mean, I'm funny?" Ray laughs even louder, and explains that the story was funny, that Tommy was a funny guy.

Tommy looks around at the men at the table, all of whom dressed in suits. "What do you mean, the way I talk?" Tommy asks. The table is suddently slient. No more laugher, no more talking. It's just Tommy and Ray. The rest of the table sits nervously.

Ray takes a drink, and sits back in his chair. "You know, it's just funny." "The way you tell the story and everything. It's just funny."

Tommy leans all the way forward in his chair. He looks Ray directly in the eyes and asks sterny, "Funny how?" "What's funny about it?"

A man from the group speaks up behind Ray. "No Tommy, you got it all wrong." Tommy cuts the man off. "Whoa, Anthony, he's a big boy." "He knows what he said." "What you say?"

Ray and Tommy now hold the attention of the entire club. The men and the table no longer make eye contact with anyone, sipping their drinks with their head down. The patrons of the club quit eating and drop their napkins to listen. They've seen this before; they know what Tommy's capable of.

Ray brings his shoulders up to his chin and leaves them there. "You know, you're funny," he stutters as he waves his hands from side to side, not knowing what else to say.

"Okay, let me get this straight, cause I don't know, maybe I'm a little fucked up, but I'm funny how? Like a clown? Do I amuse you? I make you laugh? I'm here to fucking amuse you?" Tommy's voice is becoming more upset, and he is biting his upper lip, quickly losing his patience. "What the, fuck, is so funny about me?" "Tell me, tell me what's so funny."

The entire club is completely slient, and Ray's mouth is open and staying that way. He doesn't blink, he doesn't move, he just stares at Tommy in disbelief and terror. He too, knows that Tommy has no conscious, that Tommy has loyalty to only one man. And that man sure as hell anit Ray.

Ray suddenly smiles, puts his hands up, and says, "Get the fuck outta here Tommy."

"That motherfucker, I almost had him," Tommy points. He looks around, not believing that Ray had fallen for his trick. The table lets out a relieved laugh, and resumes with their drinks. A waiter, who had been standing at the table at the beginning of the conversation, to scared to move, fans himself with the menu he had been holding.

Now this waiter, quietly laughing and nervously smiling, sensing an in, leans down towards Tommy. The conversation between Tommy and Ray had been tense, very tense, but at least it didn't end in violence.

The waiter, however, was not to be so lucky.

That's gotta hurt

The day, a Sunday. The time, early afternoon. The place, our kitchen. The men of the family, my dad, two younger brothers, and I were all standing on the linoleum. My brothers were getting ready for a Upward Bound basketball game, a church league basketball operation for ages 12 and under. Tommy was 12, and Joey was 10.

We were having a normal conversation for the time, with Tommy and Joey making fun of each other, Dad telling them to quit, and myself egging the action on.

But this conversation was different. In this conversation, Joey was going to take a stand; he was tired of being the butt of all our jokes. So after one particular comment, (Joey you shoot like a girl), he decided he had had enough of all our shenanigans.

He planned his attack with precision. Waiting until the older and larger Tommy was enjoying a spoonful of vanilla pudding, he struck. With lightening speed and without a word, he pivoted to the left, whipped his left leg across his body with accuracy and authority, and made direct contact with Tommy’s groin. Tommy, obviously caught of guard and in immense pain, let out a yelp and crumpled helplessly to the floor.

I immediately looked at Dad, whose initial reaction was much like Joe Theismann’s when he saw Terrell Owens pull a Sharpie from his sock on Monday Night Football. He laughed. His eyes widened in shock, and he laughed. But the laughter died almost instantly, as Dad switched from funny to pissed in a heartbeat.

His loud voice filled the room, and all but drowned out Tommy’s painful sobs coming from our feet. Dad closed the gap between him and Joey, and let him know that without a doubt that what he did was wrong. Joey was sent to his room, and Tommy was left to recover his comfort and his pride.

Cue Lines

"If you were there, you'da been running for your life."

"My old room was just the way I'd left it."

"Who here remembers first grade? I do."

"The last time I had seen my brother I could push him around. Now, I was the one fighting to stay upright."

"Every Sunday morning after church, my grandparents would fix breakfast at their house."

"I imagine my car accident was horrific; I had seen my car and heard the stories. Yet I couldn't remember a thing."

"The t.v. was dedicated to college football on Saturday afternoon at our house."

Page 22 - #2

I walk into my apartment, and it's quiet, tense. The smell of competition is in the air. My roommate Matthew is sitting in his cream-colored gaming chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He's so close to the televison he might go blind by Friday. Our friend, Dan, is sitting farther away on the couch, slumped to his left, with his jacket still on, like he had just came in. But I know he had been here for a while. I know why he's here.

It's the playoffs. NBA 2K9 playoffs baby.

I asked who was winning. No answer. I asked who was at home. Still no answer. I asked what the series count was, because I know they've been playing for a while.
"2-1 Dan", Cromer answered quickly. I looked at Dan, who was smiling, so I knew who was winning. I sat down to watch, and no sooner had I hit the chair when Matthew lets out an aggressive "AHHHHH!" Apparently his Kobe had just dunked on Dan's Yao. With a quick pause, Matthew paraded around our apartment, quite proud of the posterization he had just applied. After calming down, they restarted play. Dan ended up winning the game by double digits, and the series 4-2. Here's where the complaining starts.
"I would steal the damn ball everytime, and it would just bounce off my face and out-of-bounds", Matthew said.
"I don't know man. I guess you're just not pushing X quick enough", Dan said, egging it on with a smile.
"It's those cheat codes you put it before the game. You tell us you're loading rosters and what not, but you're really typing in the "Kobe Bryant misses every shot with less than 2 minutes left to go" cheat. This sucks. Get outta my house. I'm going to bed."
Matthew leaves, and Dan sticks around long enough to scorch me 103-79. Ouch.
But that's why it's fun. Them dudes will be over here again tomorrow, grinding out another hard-fought series.
And it's really fun to watch. It beats watching most of the real sports you see on television. There's just one difference. Under any circumstances, you are not, I repeat, not, allowed to walk in front of the television.
Especially in the playoffs.