“Oooh...” he drums his fingers across the steering wheel. “A nice, quiet suburb deep in de San Fernando Valley.”
“That’s where Ace grew up?”
“Nah. Lottta famous people send their pickney to Pittman Academy—a private school. Celebrities don’t live in Chatsworth though. Dem hire us poor layman fi drive dem pickney from Calabasas and Brentwood and fight up wit de traffic so dey kids can play ball wit AW’s son and take Home Economics with Cedric the Entertainer’s daughter. Issa place for them to be wit their own people.” He sucks his teeth again, taking a turn. “Junior had plenty friends there and played alongside a heap uh youth dem. Plenty in the NBA now, but that bwoy can play circles around all uh dem still.”
Even with all the past tense words Gus keeps blurting, I still can’t picture Ace frowning—only him smiling and calling me “kid.”
“You know, even when that bwoy got his car, him still ah make me bring him to his first practice. Says it’s our tradition.” Gus chuckles. “Ah meh even bring him to his first practice at UCLA. That’s his daddy’s alma-mater, yuh know?”
“Shoot... all real-deal basketball fans know that, Mr. Gus.”
He laughs. “Hey, meh just wan’na know who de bwoy have in meh backseat.”
“Basketball is a religion in my house.”
The Williamsarea religion in my house.
He laughs harder and then settles down as we glide onto the highway and traffic stops.
“Meh hate dis damn traffic,” he mutters under his breath to himself until he finds my eyes again in the rear-view mirror. “That’s ah strange place dat, you know?”
“Where?”
“UCLA.” He scratches his salt and pepper head. “Then again, ah guess any place like that seem strangeandexciting fi a black boy.”
“What you mean?”
“Ah… nuttin ah chat me ah chat. Sometimes meh wish meh could go back in time and wave him back to the car after he buss out dat backdoor onto campus with dat smile he always smiling. Tell him to let me bring him back home to his mudda.”
I see Ace’s smile again. His stark white teeth and the pink hue of his lips that surround them.
“Anyway...” He sighs as traffic inches forward. “Junior told meh a lot while sitting in dat backseat travelin’ to practice, but him words neva traveled outside these four doors.”
“Oh yeah? Stuff like what?”
“Aha! Nice try! Meh cyah tell yuh dem ting dey.” He taps the side of his head. “Dis ah ship of secrets. Anyone who ride in dat backseat ‘ave their own treasure chest up here.”
“Even me?” I smile.
“Even you, meh dear.” Traffic clears and the car glides for another few miles before he hits the brakes again. “So, yuh ready to put your first valuable inside yuh chest?”
I glance out the window.
The city bustles around me. I hope I’m sitting in the same seat Ace sat in on his rides to his first days of practice. I close my eyes because I think I smell him underneath the leather and I think I’ve taken a sip of the Kool-Aid now.
“He’s a legend,” I utter. “That’s what I think about him.”
Gus howls out a hoot and claps his hands. “Respect! Respect!”
Legend feels safer than the other words he makes me want to yell to the world about him.
Gus turns the jazz back up, and I look at my phone, opening Twitter.
He exits off the highway as I scroll past Chelsea venting about Blythe’s hoarder-like tendencies, Bryson’s musings about the pre-sales he scored to Splashtown, and Ace.
I gulp.
“Yuh want de window down?” Gus asks, looking at me through the rear-view mirror with a grin.
