Lipofsky Basketballphoto.com (Wiki.) |
Paul threw the virtual
ball aside in disgust. It bounced and then disappeared into a holographic
display of tennis rackets artfully disarrayed, interspersed with cans of
fluorescent balls and wrist-bands, head-bands, and other accessories.
Extraneous thoughts went through Reggie’s head as he patiently awaited the
outcome.
“I don’t know.”
Reg was the sporting
goods manager. He shrugged in sympathy. In his grey cavalry-twill pants, and
his white, short-sleeved shirt with the tie stuffed inside about the level of
the third button, he was always up for a game of virtual one-on-one,
twenty-one, or just shooting hoops for a buck each. He had a preppie look, with
the patented Michael J. Fox runners. In a pinch, he could be relied on to set
up a putting competition at the annual summer picnic, and was known to party
pretty hearty at the conventions which department managers attended once or
twice a year.
If he was smart, he
would lose this game by a hair and upgrade, up-sell and up-smart Mister Pauly,
as he called him privately. Paul’s parents had died in a plane crash, leaving
their precious one a half a mil or so in trust, with a big monthly cheque from
the annuity fund. Lately he was insufferable around the store. Now that he was all
over the grief part.
“Yeah. Maybe we should
try another one.”
The tournament was
three days away and Paul, who worked the stockroom, didn’t really need the best
equipment, but he wanted something half decent. He was floating around inside
of these shoes. Nice shoes and everything, they made a statement of conscious
self-worth and aspiration, but they just weren’t him.
It was one of those
office things. His pop, a lack-luster nonentity by all accounts, had warned him
about office politics, which extended to the adult industrial leagues which
dotted this fair land. They had their allure, and their dangers for
well-meaning and cautiously-ambitious entry-level management trainees who
otherwise didn’t have much going for them.
“Shaq isn’t for you,”
admitted Reg, standing with hand on hip, the hip flung out like a florist
sensing the kill as he looked at their options. “Ah! An old standby. We’ll try
the Dennis Rodman…no?”
He trailed off at
Paul’s vehement head-shake.
“I have to be able to
sleep at night, and look myself in the eye when I shave.”
Reg grinned amiably,
although he didn’t think Rodman was so bad.
“Ah, let’s see here…”
“What about a real old
classic?”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to try the
Wilt Chamberlain.”
Reggie’s eyebrows
lifted in an encouraging display of objectivity. He wasn’t ruling it out just
yet.
“All right, then.” He
went back into the warehouse and grabbed another product off the shelf.
***
That one was no good
either, and the pair of them went through a few more options. Paul was on lunch
and they were having a slow day anyhow. While spring usually brought in a surge
of wannabe instant athletes, all looking for the very latest in high-tech,
professional sporting goods at the lowest possible discount store prices, today
was sunny and warm and business was slow. Reg had always marvelled at how Paul
took the slightest and most trivial challenge so deadly seriously when he was
such a useless cunt at the best of times.
Reggie was the
tolerant sort. He didn’t have to hang with Paul in his off-hours, thankfully.
If you looked up
‘self-absorbed’ in the dictionary, Paul’s picture would be there. He was always
talking about mountain climbing. It was one of those things that was always in
the planning stages. So far, quite a few expedition prospects had dropped out
on one pretext or another. It didn’t take too much time or much listening to
see what you were dealing with here.
They finally settled
on the Larry Bird, although in Reggie’s opinion Paul was just too short to make
it work. He struggled with the fasteners. With a little luck, he might still
have time to grab a sandwich, if Pauly didn’t obsess too much.
At five-foot four,
even in his uplift shoes, with that pasty skin and pudgy face, the beady little
eyes and the buck teeth, the fading hairline (at 26,) and the receding chin,
which was not a function of age, he would always be an insignificant little man
trying desperately hard to play basketball while wearing another man’s skin.
The name on the box, the picture on the front, meant everything to Pauly, never
mind the fact that he looked like he was running around inside of a potato
sack…
He wouldn’t be a bad
player if he wasn’t so busy trying to be somebody else. The only other thing
they had was a rather shop-worn Jeremy Lin display model, and Pauly had baulked
at Rodman. There simply wasn’t time enough to order anything and get it here on
time.
Reggie wondered if
deep down inside Paul hated himself, but the man’s entire family tree probably
didn’t have that much grace.
Someday the NBA would
breed a short, clumsy, pudgy-faced white superstar, and then maybe they could
find a Sports Skin to really suit someone like Pauly.
Most likely, it would
never happen. You never know, though. It was a nice thought.
The real problem with
Pauly was that one way or another, regardless of cost or utility, he was going
to buy something today.
That much was a given.
He would never be satisfied with it. Not in a million years.
It went with the
territory.
END
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