Category: Fiction Factor

The sound of the basketball thundered throughout the gymnasium, with each bounce creating a reverberating thump. Joining in the hardwood concert were well-worn high-tops, adding their own rhythmic squeak as the player worked from left to right, then shifted from right to left, and finally raced from one baseline to the other.

Sometimes when he shot, the clank of the rim signaled a missed opportunity. Sometimes, but not often.

Usually when the ball was catapulted by his right hand, the only sound was a swish.

Harley Mayfair was born to play basketball. His father coached the local high school boys’ team – the Freetown Firebirds – and Harley started tagging along to practices and games from the time he could walk. He was the quintessential “gym rat.”

He loved the sounds in a gym … all of them. The furious grunting that could be heard during suicides, the sound of his dad shouting, “You never know what’s next, so always be ready” after every drill, and the roar of the crowd whenever the Firebirds hosted a game.

He often thought back to the first time fans cheered for him. It was during the opening game of his freshman season. With just a couple of minutes to go in a blowout win over Milton High, his dad decided to put him in to get some game experience.

He recalled how dry his mouth was as he took the court and how embarrassed he was when a small group of his friends starting chanting, “Harley! Harley!”

He thought he was going to throw up.

But when one of the seniors brought the ball up court and passed it to him, he calmly raced toward the top of the key, stopped, pulled the ball to his chest and launched a beautiful set shot that barely touched the net on its way through the hoop.

The crowd, as they say, went wild.

By the time he was a sophomore he had replaced the set shot with a dead-eye jumper, and finished the year as the region’s leading scorer.

The word “superstar” wasn’t a phrase used much during his prep years, but he most certainly was one. In fact, he was so good by the time he finished high school he had college scholarship offers from across the country.

He wanted to stay close to home so his mom and dad could watch from the stands, so he signed with Calico Polytechnic Institute. The CPI Bulldogs played in what looked like an old Army barracks – Calico Hall – and Harley loved the echoes inside the 5,000-seat arena.

He even enjoyed day games, where the sun would often shine in through the windows of the building and provide the north end of the court with something of a spotlight.

And that’s what he was waiting for today – one last day in the spotlight. One last day in his old stomping grounds.

Across the way, the sparkling new Harley Mayfair Memorial Arena was set to have its grand opening in just a few months, and Calico Hall would be razed and replaced with a parking lot.

It was progress, of course. And CPI – now known as Calico Tech – was due for a makeover.

Much had changed since Harley played in the 1950s, and even more since he died in 1997.

But there was one more chance to work from left to right, then shift from right to left, and race from one baseline to the other.

He might even have time to take a set shot before the hydraulic equipment was moved into place for the demolition.

Calico Hall had always seemed like home to him – especially in the afterlife.

After today, though, he’d have to move on.

Like his dad used to say, “You never know what’s next, so always be ready.”

Every molded plastic chair was taken in the hazy, glass and steel arena, and those without a place to sit pressed against the aluminum rails separating the seating area from the concrete floor.

Shoving matches were already taking place in the stands as everyone packed inside was hoping to secure the best possible spot.

Time was when The People’s Arena in downtown New Mega-annum City was filled, basketball or ice hockey was the draw. Jamal Felker remembered the days of coming here with his father and watching the New Mega-annum Tarantulas of the World League of Professional Basketball play.

Part of the fan experience was the “T-Shirt Cannon”; each time the Tarantulas scored a 3-point basket, a crew of young people armed with pressurized cylinders would fire T-shirts into the crowd.

Jamal got lucky once – the night the Tarantulas beat the Ocean City Tsunami in a playoff game. Following a 30-foot bucket from team star Rod Arrington, a tee was fired right where Jamal was sitting.

Although there were a sea of arms reaching for the same prize, he was able to snatch the shirt out of the air and cradle it against his stomach.

On the front of the white garment was the team logo – a fierce black and gold spider – while on the back was a list of sponsors, including the New Mega-annum Pest Control Company.

Jamal always thought that was funny … a team with a spider mascot funded by a company that kills, among other things, spiders.

But the Tarantulas were long gone, just as organized professional sports were now nothing more than bittersweet memories. And the irony didn’t seem nearly as humorous these days.

Ever since the Cyber Wars and the formation of the Corporation of Nations, only the extremely wealthy could afford – and had access to – recreation and entertainment.

Jamal had heard there were still elite sports teams, although apparently only the elite knew about them.

But with food, housing and healthcare in short supply, “the little people” didn’t have the luxury of cheering for men and women playing a child’s game. Instead, three times a year they’d pack into arenas like this one hoping to catch a T-shirt – and catch a big break.

As the lights in each section of The People’s Arena dimmed, the spotlight glared on what used to be center court. Two people armed with T-shirt cannons were situated at each end, while three lined up on either side of the floor.

The hype guy – a man wearing a red fedora and oversized yellow sunglasses – stood in the middle, holding a microphone.

For the price of seven Corporation Credits, people could spend 30 minutes inside the arena in hopes of being on the receiving end of a launch.

This was the 17^th time Jamal had attended one of these events, and each was identical. Over half an hour, 10 shooters – known as the Launch Crew – would fire 20 shirts apiece into various sections of the crowd.

The hype guy would whip them into a frenzy with prompts such as, “The next shirt goes to the loudest section!” or “Let’s see your dance moves, beautiful people!”

Perhaps 18,000 were inside today, but only 200 would walk away with a coveted tee.

“Are you ready, New Mega-annum City?” screamed the hype guy who – as far as Jamal knew – had never given his name. “Show me your best dance moves!”

Everyone rose and everyone danced, some simply swaying awkwardly while others gyrated like they were possessed. The automated lighting moved across the arena, ultimately stopping to showcase some of the more enthusiastic performers.

The cannons then fired simultaneously, sending shirts sailing to every part of the arena.

One – propelled from the end of the floor closest to Jamal – hit a young girl squarely on her head. But before she could reach up to grab it a sea of adults pounced on her, hitting and clawing in an effort to seize the prize.

The “winner” was a tall, heavyset man in his mid-50s, who quickly pulled the tee over his head and raised his arms in triumph.

The barcode on the front of the shirt was scanned by one of camouflaged security personnel, who escorted him to the “ready room” while the young girl lay crying and bleeding.

The scene repeated itself for the next several minutes; T-shirts went flying, along with bodies.

Roughly 20 minutes into the event Jamal got his chance. He had noticed one of the Launch Crew members always seemed to aim between section 213 and 214, so he worked his way up to the area.

As one of the cloth projectiles came his way, he charged toward it, snared it with his left hand, and never broke stride as he deftly ran down the steps.

A youngster had caught his eye earlier – one who reminded him of himself during those simpler times when arenas were for sports and T-shirts were worn for fun.

He grabbed the startled child, quickly pulled the tee over his head, and forced a smile.

“Go, kid,” he said. “Be brave and good luck.”

The member of the security team charged with scanning the code looked at Jamal, shook his head, and then took the child away.

Jamal hoped he had done the right thing.

The T-shirt meant the kid would be transported to one of the space stations floating far above his dying planet. Yes, he’d be used as a laborer at a Corporation of Nations warehouse, but at least he’d be assured of food and shelter. He’d have a chance to grow up – and maybe even grow old.

But after seeing all the violence at The People’s Arena – and the increasingly grotesque nature of the humans who filled it in hopes of being shipped off to a “better world” – Jamal was unsure if he was helping or hurting the child.

All he could do was hope, even though any hope that remained for the residents of New Mega-annum City came at the end of a T-shirt cannon.

The drinkery at the Ambassador in Washington, D.C., was typical of most motel watering holes. A flat screen TV hung over the bar and the lounge itself – which blended into the lobby – had five tables with a small candle situated in the middle of each one.

There was no one at the bar, so Mallory decided to grab a stool and watch the last couple of innings of the Baltimore-Boston baseball game.

“What’s your pleasure?” asked the bartender, a 60ish man with tightly curled white hair and a deeply lined face.

“Vodka and orange juice,” Mallory said. “Well brand is fine.”

Mallory’s bar routine back in Asheville, North Carolina, involved getting to Will O’ The Wisp early in the evening, where her drinking buddy Arlie would usually already be there – and be well on the way to getting lubricated.

Mallory would throw back some drinks, make the last call around 11, and spend the walk back to her apartment daydreaming about how much better her boyfriend’s life would be if she wasn’t in it.

Well, this getaway to the nation’s capital was her chance, and it was nearing its conclusion. Amidst all the planning that went into her solo trip, Mallory hadn’t really taken stock of the real reason for the “vacation.”

Yes, she had visited the Entertainment and Sports Arena to watch the Washington Mystics play the Atlanta Dream, but that was all just window dressing, really. In actuality, she was running away from what had become her home and running toward her original home.

At some point later that night, she’d go back to her hotel, send her boyfriend, Mike, a “Dear John” text, and then disappear from his life forever.

It was like entering the Federal Witness Protection Program, only she wasn’t the target of criminals – at least not in the traditional sense.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Mike – she absolutely did. But the situation was untenable, and there was no way she could explain why; he simply wouldn’t believe her.

That was a sobering thought, and Mallory didn’t want to be sober yet.

So, one drink became two and two became six, and as the buzz kicked in, she noticed the bartender seemed to be keeping a close eye on her.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Mallory said. “I’m not driving anywhere. In fact, I’m just a couple of doors down.”

The bartender laughed.

“Good to know,” he said. “I send for a lot of cabs and I needed to make sure you were riding and not driving anywhere. My name’s Carl, by the way.”

Other than ordering drinks, Mallory had stayed quiet most of the night, but as patrons ducked in and ducked out for a quick snort, Mallory decided it might be nice to have someone to talk to.

“Nice to meet you, Carl,” Mallory said. “I’m staying here for a couple of days and got to watch a WNBA game live. I’ve grown to love basketball over the past several years, and it was nice to be at the arena to see it live.”

“Are you here by yourself?” Carl asked.

“I am,” Mallory said. “I’m from North Carolina and I’m kinda running away from home. I, uh … I just need to get away from my boyfriend. It’s for his own good.”

“Trust me … it makes sense – perfect sense,” said Carl, wiping down the counter. “I took a solo road trip myself a couple of years ago. Drove all the way to the West Coast and back, just to see the sights.”

“Cool,” Mallory said. “That had to be a lot of fun.”

Carl managed a weak smile and paused before answering.

“It was more therapeutic than anything,” Carl said. “I had just lost my wife. We had planned a cross country trip together but she died suddenly. Not unexpectedly, but suddenly.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Mallory said. “I’m sure that would’ve meant a lot to her – you know, being able to travel the country with you.”

“Well, we still got to go,” Carl said. “She was cremated, so I took her with me. At every stop we’d talked about – places in Oklahoma, New Mexico, Nevada – I’d scatter some of her ashes. Thing is, she didn’t have to die … if only I’d done what you’re doing, things would’ve been different for her. ”

Mallory ordered one more drink, downed it, and laid down a 100-dollar bill.

“Thanks for your hospitality, Carl,” Mallory said. “And advice. Just keep the change.”

Carl crumpled the bill, stuffed it into his pocket and gently grabbed Mallory’s right shoulder.

“You’re doing the right thing, Mallory, even though it hurts.” he said. “Be safe … and know he’ll be well.”

Mallory nodded, and gave him a knowing wink. She then scurried out of the bar, walked out of the main door of the Ambassador, punched in coordinates on her phone, and eyed the night sky.

If things were different, she would head back to Mike immediately, give him a big, lingering hug, and tell him she loved him more than anything on earth.

And it was true – she did.

But mating with a human was the ultimate taboo on her planet, and she knew if she didn’t leave earth, the bounty hunters from Luyten b would find Mike and kill him.

Sadly, Carl – and his wife – had already been given an object lesson in how cruel interplanetary justice can be.