Yarn Cats, Inc.

It really didn’t start as a hustle.

There was a time in my life when I had a real job. It required me to fly on a lot of airplanes and feel like I was important. I blew the money I made. That’s another story.

Well, this job was with an English company. The office closed when management flew home to the UK for two weeks at the end of every year. Associates had two weeks off throughout the rest of the year. Time did not roll over. That summer, my vacation requests got cancelled after some folk were fired and I was assigned their workload. At first I griped, but the closer we got to Thanksgiving, the happier I got. My time would not roll over. The company wasn’t going to cut me a check. I had two weeks of vacation I was owed and another two weeks mandated. I had all of the requests and their denials in writing. Just before the November holiday, I sat my boss down and explained my dilemma. He got angry, mainly with himself. It’s not like he picked up any slack for the folk he’d let go. He put it all on me. Sometimes it’s like that, man.

Anyway, I had a month of vacation and nothing to do. I decided to learn racquetball. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

None of the fellas played racquetball, but that was easily remedied. Everything else aside, I have always been blessed with open minded friends. Luckily, at that time, we all had memberships at a local health club whose commercials promised trimming workouts but whose restrictive contracts only guaranteed to fatten its parent company’s wallet. We were all bored. I think we were all single. Racquetball Saturday mornings was not a hard sell, just tough logistically. The only branch in our area that boasted racquetball courts was in the River City complex in the West Loop. We all agreed to meet there my first Saturday morning off. We all bought racquets during the week. None of us knew how to play. I made sure the courts were reserved.

For all of his technical talents, Mark should have been a teacher. He has a natural affinity for it. As we sat outside of our reserved courts Saturday morning, he patiently explained the game to us. He’d found instructions on the Internet, and had watched some people play the night before, peppering them with questions.
Our crew had reserved both courts. Early Saturday morning. Eventually, the four of us: me, Mark, Flat and Irwin, worked up a collective sweat as we learned the basics of the game. Saturday morning became Tuesday nights for us all and weekday mornings as well for me and Flatbush, since we had the most daytime availability. Racquetball took over our lives, and by week three, everyone had made some adjustment. Mark had found a pro quality racquet at a used equipment shop for little of nothing. I spent three weeks working my deltoids and forearms really hard to improve the strength of my swing. Flat would practice with a 1970s area super small racquet, and switch up for the games to a standard size. His technique in hitting the ball from the standard racquet’s sweet spot was unbelievable. Irwin had put his karate lessons (and his ganja smoking) on hold in order to focus on his game and improve his wind, respectively.

Four guys learning a new sport. Dedicating themselves to perfecting their skill.

It really didn’t start as a hustle.

One Tuesday night, Flat innocently asked if we could improve our games further by playing for stakes.

Everybody gave Flatbush the leery eye.

“Like what?” I asked aloud. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark shake his head.

Irwin said, “What? Just play different people until w get better?”

Flat did not even acknowledge Irwin. “Put money in a pot every Saturday, winner of a day’s tournament takes it home.”
That was adding too much complexity to the agreement. I agreed playing for something would increase the intensity of our game, but having to make sure I had cash every Saturday morning, plus always wondering if I was going to win some money, was too much. Also, we all knew that whenever Flat and money were together, he had an angle.

“Tell you what,” I suggested. “Let’s do this. We play until total elimination. Loser buys breakfast. Winner chooses where we eat. The other two guys come along for the ride. I’ll referee to make sure some of us,” we all eyed Flat intently, “doesn’t go overboard with expensive restaurant choices.”

The fellas agreed readily. Flatbush gave me the evil eye for a second, which I returned, but then he reached into his bag for his racquet, and we all began to warm up. Mark watched this whole exchange quietly. Irwin complained he was out of cigarettes.

“Man,” I asked, “didn’t you give up weed?”

“Yeah,” Irwin shrugged, “but cigarettes are filtered.”

It really didn’t start as a hustle.

We are four relatively decent guys. Smart, too. A bit too smart for our own good.

Initially, our tournaments were intense sessions that involved a lot of cussing, trash talking and banging into walls as if they were made of feathers. Those first few “Loser Buys Breakfast” Saturdays, I noticed grimaces as guys tried to raise coffee cups to their mouths or chew with any rapidity.

Eventually, though, our tournaments became less about winning, and more about not losing.

In fact, Flatbush became Irwin’s bosom buddy. I noticed when Irwin was out of squares, Flat always had a pack of Newports in his bag for him. Although Flat had quit smoking ages ago, claiming it interfered with his sex life.

Many Saturday mornings, I also noticed Irwin walking into the club bleary eyed. The explanation? He and had had started making Friday their hangout night.

“Wanna come? Flatbush is usually real good for a few drinks. He usually gets my bar tab. Says business is good.” Irwin changed out of his clubbing clothes into his workout gear, trying to shake the hangover off.

I gave Irwin a hard look. “I’ll pass.”

Mark shook his head.

We each had different playing styles. Mark knew all the technicalities and would play by-the-book racquetball. I had a serve that was difficult to hit and was willing to take my lumps to get a point.

Flat was a smart player. Always competitive, he worried about the score. Sometimes, after a heated exchange, he would gently lob the ball off the back wall, making it impossible for a defender like me, at he back of the court and geared up for a blast, to return it within a bounce. Point, Flatbush.

Irwin played an OK game, but he was usually distracted.

Sharks know blood. Even when it is their own. While this didn’t start out as a hustle, the unwritten name of the game went from “Win at All Costs” to “Just Beat Irwin.” Once, I heard Flat mutter when I had him down several points, that all he had to do was outrank Irwin. A couple of times when one of us forgot our wallet on a Saturday morning, the sideways glances said it all. “As long as Irwin has his, we’ll eat well after the match.”

There were still battles. I guess we all wanted a shot at choosing the breakfast location, plus there was just a strong sense of competition. I wanted to shut Flat’s mouth. Flat wanted to prove he could return my serve.

One day, Flat and Mark had a match that for all its intensity would have made a Jedi master proud. Flat’s brains and hustle versus Mark’s technique. I sat, like a kid, with my nose pressed to the glass the whole time. There was something bigger than just racquetball and breakfast happening that morning, and while I don’t think there was any thaw in the ice between, each had a heightened level of respect for the other when they emerged from the court, panting. I went half on breakfast with Irwin. We clearly both lost. The show was worth going halves on the check with the real loser, Irwin.

Those were great Saturdays. A lot of exercise with your friends and a guaranteed free meal afterwards. Women may have played fair and thrown a game or two to help Irwin out. Wasn’t happening. Mark had too much integrity, Flat had too much to gain, and me? I was angry the man was letting himself be duped by Flat.

Being honest? There were times Irwin tried to put up a game, and I noticed the three of us got relentless then. You could see the look on each of our faces as we crushed Irwin like a pop can. “Dude, I FORGOT my WALLET!”

Irwin never complained. I am a fan of cheap breakfasts in out of the way places. Mark believes in fairness. I practiced, I came sound of mind and clean of body, I played hard, if I have a taste for something expensive, too bad. I played by the rules.

Flat just wanted to get over.

One Saturday, we were breakfasting at Army & Lou’s after a Flatbush win. Some folk go to places like Army & Lou’s for the history. Some because they like the food. People like Flat go because many years ago such places were jammed packed with Black luminaries who made soul food restaurants like Army & Lou’s and Izola’s their stomping grounds. Flat was 30 years late in everything. Flat would buy a deuce and a quarter not for its classic appeal but because that’s what “in” Black folk drove hen we were kids. Forget that we had moved on to BMWs. We weren’t at Bazzell’s French Quarter Bistro when Flat won. We were at Army & Lou’s; I guess hoping Cecil Partee and Harold Washington (both dead) would drop by.

So while enjoying soul food at 9am (I think I was having catfish and scrambled eggs), Flat began announcing how life was like racquetball. Through hard work, cunning and hustle, I am at the top. Today’s game proves it. For all of you guys’ education, playing by the rules and just generally doing what you think you should to be successful, I choose where we eat most Saturdays because I, Flatbush, am the real example of Black male success.

A lot of this rant seemed aimed more at Irwin than the rest of us. Mark’s origins were humbler, and truth be told, he was harder than Flat could be in a dream. Flat made a point of keeping me around because it made him look like he was an OK guy. When he’d meet women while hustling on trains or the streets, the ones that would agree to go out with him would meet me. “See, I have educated normal friends,” the gesture seemed to say, “I just choose to be a street hustler. You know how classist Black folk can be…if I was that bad; would this dude be hanging with me?”

I had my flaws, too, however.
Flat really seemed to be giving Irwin a hard time. Irwin, too had played by the rules, and done well for himself. He came from a very tight and supportive family. Of the three of us, Irwin appeared the softest. He wasn’t internally hard like Mark and he wasn’t a devil may care ass like me. Flat was more bark than bite but the very way he made his living meant he was not weak.

This all got kind of old. First, I never though fish should be paired with eggs. Second, Flat had bested me in a match that went into extended points and he eked out a two point win. Third, I was always curious. Why is it these Black folk who love to talk about how rough they had it and how real they are die to spend their time with the very boogie Negroes over whom they claim superiority? You send your kids to a private school, you are wrecking the system. Your kids are spoiled. They do it, their kids are fortunate. They spend more time criticizing the way you live and were reared and trying to provide their own kids with some bootleg version of the same, usually so they can look down on someone else.

“Dude,” I started. Mark cleared his throat. His eyes were bright. Irwin kept looking at his plate.

“The hell you talking about Flat?”

“Bill Gates…no education…Sean Combs…no education…Leonardo DiCaprio…no education…Michael Dell…no education…Richard Branson…no education…you educated Negroes think you run something, but you don’t have the drive to run yourselves. Regardless of how much family you got or schoolin’ you need, people like ME make the world go around. Ya’ll got the same bad habits as anyone else. You don’t get as many women as I do. I’m even better at your sports that you are.”

Mark had a look on his face that could only be described as the cat having eaten the canary. He looked intently at me. Irwin was looking at his plate.

I pushed aside my fish and laughed. Then I started, calmly.

“Man, don’t think for a minute just because you didn’t go to school, that puts you in with a group of folk who missed graduation but made something else happen.

“Bill Gates…operating system to the world…Sean Combs…questionable but ultimately profitable music…Dicaprio…Oscar, anyone? Dell…yeah, cheap computing makes him the Henry Ford of the millennium…Branson? The only Virgin most guys are willing to embrace…

“What do you DO, Flat? What do you produce? If you kicked the bucket today, what could the world say you offered it with your presence? Oh, you liked chasing big booty hood rats that had 5 kids by 6 dudes before they were twenty…”

“I make money…”

“Doing what? Dude, you sell bootleg products. The Chinese won’t even put you on they payroll, so you ain’t a serious bootlegger. Wow. You the dude that show up in the beauty salon dressed like a clown and selling something that has the societal and consumer value of, what? A damn yarn cat.”

Some things are funnier in concept than sound. Mark almost spit milk through his nose. Irwin was shaking with mirth. Flat glared at me.

“A what?”

“A yarn cat, fool. You on the bottom side of industry. Do you sell toiletries? No. Groceries? No. Books? Hell no, you just read the ones where everything is a damned conspiracy. Shoes? No. You sell bootleg consumer products. A clear indicator that even your clientele, the so called “real uneducated Black folk” are in worse shape than you. They would rather pay you for a knockoff of a product so they can associate themselves with what they think defines having money than just buy something functional and live their lives.”

“My products are…”

“Useless as a damn yarn cat. A cat made outta a ball of yarn. Looks like a damn cat but if you put it over in the corner by some mice, eventually they have beat its ass, ripped it to shreds and used its innards to make their holes more comfortable. Sad thing about yarn cats? They are not even useful. They are not even a justifiable impulse buy. They just some dumb shit one fool thought up to sell to another fool so the fool’s economy can keep both of them feeling productive.

“What kinda work you do baby?
“I sell yarn cats. They useless, but they look good. Kinda like me. I pretend to be useful, but I got the utility of a damn cat made out of a spool of calico. What I can do is dog women, hustle my friends and convince myself that I am better than the very people I strive to emulate on a daily basis.”

My voice had never risen above an ever conversational tone. We could have been discussing the weather, except one would wonder why climate change would evoke the responses coming from Mark and Irwin.

“If you so damned on top of things, what you playing racquetball for anyway? Shouldn’t you be out on the courts somewhere? Damn. What? You a reverse wannabe? Some people wanna be thugs? You wanna be boogie?”

Flat was steaming, but he stayed quiet. For the next hour, as we stuck around, whenever the conversation got slow, Irwin would mutter “Yarn carts” and Mark would mutter in turn, “’Bout as useful as a stove made outta gasoline cured wood.”