Nick
The sound of popping flooded the interior of the bubble we played tennis in. Every year in Maryland when the real winter—long and cold—hit, the courts would be swallowed by a tent. My tennis partner of choice, Nick, and I would be evenly matched across the line. The ball was out by less than an inch, yet it was still out and Nick didn’t call it. The point was his, but we kept on playing. The game was that good. We didn’t want it to end. Barring ice and rain, we would keep up the sport, as the competition was too keen to stay home. Even locking down a time was a frenzied fight once the phone lines opened. Hence our early morning games (the only time we were able to snag); Nick and I especially wanted to test our skills. That moment between the ball hitting the ground and the racket rising, all the sounds disappeared.
Nick was a young African American man I’d met at the tennis courts a block from the D.C. line. Looking back, I’d guess we were both 4.0’s at that time according to the United States Tennis Association rankings, so we were pretty evenly matched.
One Sunday, Nick and I were driving home just after dawn. The morning was cold as hell, and an eerie, nearly full moon hung outside. It was snowing softly, and six or eight inches were stacked up on both sides of the 495 median. It was utterly silent in the car, a spooky quiet, uncanny and odd when contrasted with the storm outside. I glanced over to the northbound lane, and beheld an extraordinary sight. Riding high on the front left bumper of a light sedan was a beautiful white dog—expressionless, except for a faint, bedazed cast to his face. This canine could only have been crossing the beltway, and had nearly reached the metal median when he was struck by this speeding car. The whole scene unfolded in slow-motion, quiet as the tomb. The surrealistic nonchalance of it all, coupled with the extraordinary lack of affect in the dog’s face silenced me and I sat back in my seat. Dumbfoundedly, I glanced at Nick, oblivious, his undivided attention on the road. I never said a word to him. What was there to say?
We continued down the freeway, and I turned my attention back to the moon. Surely, I thought, it must’ve been waxing.
Nick, is that moon waxing? I asked.
A brief wink passed before Nick said, Dat moon wanin’.
The man was a poet.