The Song of the End of the World, Part I

Summer, 1999

A guy is standing at the free-throw line of an outdoor public basketball court located at the edge of a small suburban park, flanked on the other side by a quiet "small-town urban" street lined with small businesses. Let's call him "Guy One" for now. Guy One's dribbling the basketball, actually basketball-shoegazing in silence, facing the basket. Pete's Fish & Chips, as well as the ageing Lux's Abbey Theater, Smugsworth Capital Bank and Paco's House of Burritos (We Also Have Tacos!), are all visible from the court.

Dribble dribble dribble.

The season is summer, the year 1999, the time nine past noon and the atmosphere your typical Midwestern-summer-nine-past-noon scorching hot. Humidity levels: sub-tropical, too, with virtually no wind. Sweat and dampness: the rule on the surface of your average sapiens... and cold-drink container of any kind.

Dribble dribble dribble dribble, dribble.

While Guy One's alone in the court, other people are visible, both passing by in their cars and sporadically walking by along the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Guy One's wearing a long sleeved white shirt, black tie, grey slacks, black nylon socks and shiny black leather oxfords. Guy One halts his basketball-shoegazing dribbling and holds the ball with both hands. He looks up to the basket. He shoots. The basketball bounces ungracefully (disgracefully?) off the rim and the backboard's loud rattling has decreased to almost zero dB by second 3. Guy One makes his way to the ball which has bounced away and just now rolled past the 3-point line, en route to the sideline. The ball crosses the sideline, the ball hits the bleachers. The bleachers are four-row. The bleachers are aluminum. The bleachers are empty.

The bleachers.

Are.

Quiet.

The ball bounces off them, then slowly rolls back to where it came from and comes to a full stop a good 7 inches from Guy One's immaculately shined oxfords. Guy One picks up the basketball. His back still facing the basket, Guy One jumps and spins around in midair, letting the ball go while still in midair. And Guy One lands... and the ball goes through the rim. Whoosh. And then silence.

Silence...

But not for long. From the opposite corner on the far side of the court, some other guy is walking toward Guy One, and all possible courtside, suburban summer aromas have now been replaced by Drakkar Noir. Let's call this new guy "Guy Two". Guy Two is  wearing Air Jordans, crew-high black socks, white "Save the Whales" tank top with the "ales" in "Whales" crossed out and on top of the crossed-out "ales" hand-written "ores" in black permanent marker; blue with broad white stripe at sides, calf-height shorts.  Guy Two: gold chains. Guy Two: gold caps. Guy Two is what, back in the 90's, was increasingly referred to, ethnically, as 'Caucasian', as political correctness emanating from the media slowly started creeping its way into everyday life.

Guy Two: Late twenties. Average height and weight. Light skin, light hair, light eyes, light eyebrows. Light eyelashes. Light body hair. Light freckles. Light, washed down, average, mass-produced appearance. Would a beach-ball wanna-be beer gut feel at home as part of an average, mass-produced appearance? Probably. And boy, does Guy Two have one? Oh yes, Guy Two have one.

Guy One's features, of long oval face with strong chin; large, 'sad', deep-set hazel eyes with long, pronounced eyebrows; incipient frown lines, incipient expression line where nose bridge meets brow; incipient crow's feet; medium, recessed ears and long, narrow, slightly aquiline nose with smaller, sharp-angled nostrils; full, classically contoured lips over a strong round chin; full, head of straight, short hair parted midwise; bronze skin tone, 6'2" frame, and mesomorph build, contrast sharply with Guy Two's.