Aneurysm 1.2

I was somewhere in Vermont. I remember while sitting in the plane, looking through the small airplane window, looking down, as we came closer and closer to the ground, noticing how green the earth was. And how fast we were coming at it.

“My father had an aneurysm today. Earlier today. Like around 9 in the morning. So the crazy motherfucker drove himself to the hospital. He drove himself! And he walked right into the emergency room. Told everyone his head hurt.” I said, stage lights right in my eyes. Good thing, though, because I didn’t want to see anyone’s face. Not for this story.

“He does things like that. He does a lot of things by himself. Quiet guy. Keeps to himself. Takes walks by himself, drives around town late at night by himself, drives to the hospital when he gets an aneurysm by himself.” I said. Giggled to myself. Blinking at the lights.

“Ya know, I don’t even know what that is. Aneurysm. I bet you I can’t even spell it.” I smiled as best as I could. I heard the people in the audience shuffling in their seats. I shrugged my shoulders and continued. “All I know is that it’s some brain shit that’s bad. I think Nirvana had a song called Aneurysm.”

I shuffled my feet. Took my eyes off of the lights and looked down at my feet, noting what they were doing. “Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm…aneurysm…aneurysm…” I said softly.

“I heard from somewhere or someone or something that if you said a word often enough, it would lose it’s power over you…” I sighed. “Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm…aneurysm…aneurysm…”

It became quiet. Really quiet. And then I tried smiling. “Nope. Doesn’t seem to work.”

Some of them laughed.

“So I did some research. Called up some registered nurses I knew.  Asked them what it was. They told me.” I paused. Not because of some stage  technique Tom taught me. I just didn’t want to cry.

“It’s not too good…” I looked back up at stage lights cabled on the ceiling. Lots of lights. Ambers, reds, blues, greens. Good somber wash.

I looked back at my feet. At the bright circle I was standing inside of. It felt warm.

“He was a basketball player, back in the Philippines. A pro.  Six feet tall, big basketball IQ, quick hands, and he was fast.Other teams would draft American players just to try to stop him. He was that good. Could’ve made a career playing professionally in the Philippines.” I said. “But then I was born.”

That was the cue. A basketball rolled onto stage. I stopped it with my foot. And picked it up. Dribbled it a couple of times. Through the legs. Behind my back. Rolled it off my hand. Spun it on my fingers. Then held it against my hip.

I looked into the darkness. I couldn’t see a single face. Just an ocean of bumpy shadows.

“Back then, in the 70′s, especially in the Philippines, basketball didn’t make much money. Not enough money for a growing family, anyway. So my dad came to America. Land of the free, home of the brave. Where anyone from anywhere in the world could make good money as long as they worked hard.

“He was a busboy at first. Then, after a few years, he became a waiter. While he was doing that, he joined an insurance company, part time. Eventually, the insurance company hired him full-time. Then he started getting into real estate. He wanted to become a real estate agent.

“Around that time, I was in junior high school. 13 years old. And that’s when I got into basketball. Couldn’t escape the genetics.”

I dribbled the ball again. I started moving around the stage a little. The spotlight followed me. I dribbled the ball between my legs. Behind my back. Under my knee. I dribbled a little harder. Started sweating. Started breathing hard. My eyes started to water.

I stopped.

“When he found out, I was getting into basketball, he got really excited. Ya know. His son, following in his footsteps. Playing the same game he used to play when he was a 13 year old kid.”

I took a deep breathe.

“See, we didn’t talk too much while I was growing up. Shit, I don’t think EVER talked! We’d just point to food and then nod or shake our head depending on how hungry we were.” I laughed. So did the audience.

I held it in between my hands. Looked at it. Traced my fingers across the seams. Pushed my fingers into the bumps. I sighed. Tried to smile.

“So he built me my own hoop.” I said, remembering what it looked like. “Dude. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen! The most embarrassing piece of shit monstrosity ever to have been created! The Frankenstein’s monster of basketball hoops!”

The audience laughed. I smiled big. It really was ugly as fuck.

“See, we had this fence in our backyard. A wooden fence. It came with the house. What this guy did, my dad, this guy, what he did was tear down that fence to get lumber for this hoop. He sawed and nailed and roped and hammered and glued until he created this splinter-ridden, Medieval catapult-looking, clunky, way-too-heavy, questionable-for-children-to-play-with, thing!” I said animated.

The audience laughed louder.

“Then, because he didn’t want to buy an actual basketball rim, he went down to the closest elementary school, waited until midnight,  and stole one of the school’s basketball rims!”

The audience was really getting into the story.

“But there was no netting. So what this mad scientist did was take fishing wire and dangled it from the rim. He didn’t even tie them together! He let it hang like fucking streamers!” I had to laugh. The memories became clearer and clearer. ”Whenever I made a shot, it didn’t ‘swoosh’. It didn’t say anything! Because it’s fishing wire!”

The audience was having a good time, laughing out loud, and clapping their hands together.

“He was so proud.” I smiled. And looked out into the crowd. No faces, just shadows bobbing back and forth in enjoyment of a story that most likely reminded them of their fathers.

I stopped laughing. And sighed.

I dribbled the ball once. Then twice. Between my legs. Held it back in my hands.

“I would play on that thing every afternoon. Something inside of me made me feel good playing basketball. Something about the geometry, the muscles used, the developing skills. It felt good.” I dribbled once. ” After a while, that’s all I would do. All hours of the day, the night, and the next morning, all I’d do is play basketball. On that monster of a hoop. For some reason I just loved it.” I laughed to myself. Looked at the crowd. “Genetics, I guess.”

I dribbled the ball once.

“He was so proud. Proud of me, proud of the game of basketball, proud of that ugly, fucking, wooden, basketball thing.” I bounced the ball off my foot and back into my hand. “He didn’t know how to show it, though.”

I looked at the shadows in the seats. “He’d pretend to mow the lawn just to watch me play. Even though I mowed the lawn an hour earlier. He’d pretend to work on the car in the driveway just to watch me play. Without tools in his hands. He’d pretend to water the bushes just to watch me play. Our hose didn’t work.” I smiled, my eyes watering. “He was so proud of me…”

I dribbled the ball once.

“He was so proud of me…”

I dribbled the ball again. Dribbled it between my legs. Dribbled it under my knee. Rolled it across my chest and on the stage, between my legs, three times. I started moving stage right, dribbling, harder, faster. My thigh muscles tightened. My core flexed. The spot light followed. I started running. Between the legs, around my back, against the back wall. I ran harder, dribbled harder. Sweat was dripping. I was breathing heavy again.

“He was so proud of me…” I said in between my breaths. I could feel my eyes well up. So I dribbled harder, ran faster, cut quicker, spun, jumped, pumped, juked, harder, faster, quicker. I wanted to feel my muscles stretch. I wanted to feel physical strain. I wanted to feel a burn. I needed to feel. Something.

That’s when I started crying. The tears mixed with the sweat. The sobs mixed with the huffing. My father lying in the hospital, on a bed, tubes, machines, asleep, in pain, maybe dying. My father building the ugliest, most beautiful, basketball hoop ever created for his son. My father giving up on his dream to be a professional basketball player so he could bring his family to America for a chance at a better life.

“My father had an aneurysm today…” I whispered to myself.

I dropped the ball. My hand covered my face. Tears gushed between my fingers. I lost control of myself. There was no audience to me anymore. All there was, was the desperate feeling of my father’s son.

“He’s in surgery. Right now…” All I could see was the watery world of tears still sitting on my eyelashes. “They’re cutting his head open…”

I took a couple of minutes. To calm myself down. To compose myself. This was still a show. And I had to finish this story.

I could hear people crying. I could hear people listening.

“He was so proud of me…” I said one last time. Looked at them one last time. Tried to smile one last time.

Then, I took a bow. Walked off stage. Packed my stuff. And got the fuck out of Vermont.