FILTERS 4

PROCESSION

Andrew lies in bed, staring at his ceiling.

He stands and immediately wishes he hadn't, willing the ground to swallow him whole. In eons of minutes he walks to the bathroom, showers, puts on his suit, and walks downstairs, where he listlessly browses the internet on his phone until it is time to leave. He drives Michael, his parents drive separately.

He still feels the pull of the ground in his slow walk to the school. The brothers are dressed identically, same black shoes, same black suits, same black belts and ties, same black shirts. His father is almost the same except in place of a jacket he wears a gray sweater, arm held by his mother, wearing a black two-piece Andrew thinks is new. They have arrived well before the first bell, but there are still students who call out to him.

They pass through the commons, down one hall, down another, and into the large gymnasium. Here it is busy, with many tables set for the players announcing their college decisions. The table for him is obvious, with cameras and microphones and many people around it, faculty, technical crew, and journalists. Faculty wear lanyards, everyone else has bright red stickers.

A red sticker calls out to him, "Hey Andrew! How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling like I'll answer all of your questions after the conference, thanks."

Michael laughs. His football coach spotted them when they entered and has made his way to them. "Good morning Andrew, how're you feeling?"

He sighs, "Ready to get this over with."

His coach grins, he expected this response, and the principal joins them and the two speak with his parents. Andrew and Michael slip around to the table, where the producer introduces herself. Andrew takes the chair and looks down the large camera ahead of him. A monitor on one side shows the feed of the table, a monitor on the other side shows the ESPN set, soundless. Three hats, one red, one blue, one black, all atop small stacks of paper. A single pen is already beside the letter for Florida.

The producer and an assistant get him ready, and for all Andrew knows a full day might have passed. They go through the routine and they have him test the microphones and they give him an earpiece that connects to a black box that goes on his belt. They test again and again, Andrew's annoyance rising. The producer says "Alright, Andrew, I'll be standing behind the monitor showing your feed. I'll cue you in, then Rece will take over."

"Fifteen minutes, Andrew," says the voice in his ear. His parents and Michael stand behind him.

It feels longer than that. Andrew's hand begins to itch for the blue hat, and he's just about to take it when he the producer points at him and hears the count and then the voice of Rece Davis.

“—School in Atlanta. USA Today's national player of the year and ESPN’s number one recruit, the multi-threat wide receiver and free safety Andrew Black joins us. He’s narrowed his selection to Georgia, USC, and the University of Florida. Thank you for joining us Andrew and congratulations on getting here, it’s been a long time coming. What are your plans?”

Andrew runs over his speech and skips to the end. He takes the blue hat.

“I’ll be playing for the University of Florida.”

There is light applause and isolated cheers from the small crowd before they quiet, thinking he will say more, but he doesn’t. He hears laughter in the earpiece and then “Alright, Andrew Black, cutting straight to the point. Swapping sides in that Georgia rivalry to go to the Gators. What made you choose Florida?”

“Devaris Walker is the best quarterback in college football, they need a wide receiver, and it’s a quick flight between Atlanta and Gainesville.”

Laughter again.

Rece says “You know I'm a big fan of Walker and I can confirm that it is a short trip. You’re a funny guy Andrew, I love the candor, anything else?"

Andrew shakes his head, "Nope."

"Alright, well, congrats again. I'm looking forward to your highlights this fall. Good luck."

The producer says "Great, good job," and Andrew is already standing, taking off the earpiece and box and setting them on the table and his jacket and tie and handing them to his mother, who hands him his bag. He walks across the gym hardwood, avoiding calls and the other tables of signees as he enters the lockers, kicking his shoes across the room and stripping down. He's pulling another pair of gym shorts up as his brother comes in, also free of his jacket and tie, also with a bag in hand, saying "Damn bro, how do you feel?"

"Glad it's over."

Michael snickers, "Why don't you like being on TV?"

Andrew has had one side of this conversation many times.

"Mike, I don't give a shit about TV. I'm in this to be the best who's ever played. Everything outside of the field that isn't about being better on the field doesn't matter."

Michael's surprised, eyes-wide, "Really?"

"Yes, really. When you're on the mound, and you're glaring at the guy at the plate, are you thinking about being interviewed by some whogivesafuck on ESPN?"

Michael shakes his head, but then nods, "Well, yeah, man, sometimes."

"Okay, what's Mike Trout's personality?"

Michael says "He likes weather, and the Eagles. And pretzels."

"Exactly, and he's the best. No need for bullshit, just play."

They return to the gym, a journalist is waiting, "Andrew, could you say a little bit more about your decision?"

Andrew rolls his eyes, "You heard pretty much everything. But, ah, I am thankful for my coaches here, and my family through all of this."

"What about the other schools?"

Andrew says "They just wanted me to play football for them. That's all, have a good one."

His mother hugs him, “I'm so proud of you.”

“You’ll have another one of these with Mike next year."

Michael says "I don't think they air college baseball commitments on TV."

"For you, they might."

Andrew feels free. His decision took a year and now that it's made he has nothing left to do but show up. School, practice, home, running, school, practice, home, running.

Routine, routine.

Classes blur. Practice blurs.

Home life blurs. Schoolwork blurs. Running blurs.

Daylight lingers, days warm.

Games bring fervor and haze. Games blur.

Victories are more numerous but winning percentage is lower, he doesn’t carry his baseball team. Not like Michael, who is neither at full height nor full ability to turn fools at the plate and still he chews through batters. Michael doesn't appreciate this, he thinks he's in the shadow of a .750 leadoff.

Andrew loses any sense of time and rides the weeks into the months until he's sitting beneath the closed iris of the Falcons' stadium waiting for his name to be called and his procession made and diploma received. The grass spreads to four corners around him, the neat rectangle rich and green and the presence in every space not filled by voids. He wonders with rows of plastic and metal on uncovered turf the weather of the city of the team he is four years from and if their field is grown or laid.

His name is Black, it will be called soon. Soon, state baseball finals in a week. Soon, moving to Gainesville in a month. Soon, walking onto the national stage like–

"Andrew Black!"

Like how he walks now onto this local stage to raucous adoration. He waves to the cheers and time firmly locks in place. Most names must still be called and where for that moment he was the focus of the crowd, now he focuses on them. Their seats, the platform, the podium, gowns over clothes and below caps and hair of voids and their dim warmth. The same in the audience.

Voids.

He thinks he should stop calling people "voids."

The figures in the field, black and untouchable. He physically looks at his family.

Pictures are taken with his family and with just his brother. With Isaiah, with other football players, with baseball players. With his coaches, with administrators, with many girls. He shakes many hands, many people tell him congratulations, many people wish him good luck. The girls want hugs, he wants to go home. They go to dinner first.

His phone is full of invitations.

He jumps up the back steps, the lock turning as he reaches for the handle and he's up and changed and down and back out the door while his parents still talk in the kitchen. "Andrew," he hears his father say as his foot hits the driveway.

"What's up?"

"Are you going out with your friends?"

Andrew shakes his head, "No, just running."

"Okay, be safe."

He runs.

When he returns he locks himself in the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror.

He thinks he should have gone out.

But how can he sit talking to some girl, how can he stand around as person after person talks at him, as if he isn't what he is? As if they know anything about what he can do, as if they have any idea of his mind? Who else knows thoughts with no natural end and pushed aside or else distracted emerge again in endless day? It isolates.

It isolates.

Andrew and Michael practice outside of practice. He wants to leave a final trophy for his coach, Michael wants to set the tone: Andrew's leaving, but Black remains the best.

Andrew twirls the bat, swings, and runs the bases.

In the bus home, the trophy sits beside him. Michael and his friends are talking about a party. Andrew's already declined, he wants to get things ready for the move.

He's looking over his small bookshelf when Michael texts him.

Hey. Ended up somewhere sketchy. Can you pick me up?

Location Received

omw

Andrew drives to an area near a university. Gentrification has radiated out in different lines, splitting neighborhoods into new mild affluence and old destitution. Andrew parks on a brightly lit street and walks into darkness and squalor. These houses are quiet, with few lights on, each yard surrounded by fences, occupants almost entirely inside. Michael's waiting, and they begin walking to his car when he finds the figures, just out of sight in an alley.

"We should get out of here." Andrew says quietly.

Their pace quickens, but the group has emerged, following them.

"Hey. Hey! The fuck you doing with that hat?"

Michael turns, confused, "It's an Atlanta Braves hat?"

"The fuck you wearing blue on my street?"

Andrew shifts his posture to emphasize his height and size. "We didn't know, we're gone, don't need to worry about us."

"Nah, nah man, that's not good enough. Give us your shit."

Andrew shrugs, "Man, I got nothing on me." Turning out his empty pockets to emphasize.

"You got your shoes."

Michael says "Fuck them, I'm not giving them shit."

"The fuck you say?"

Michael takes Andrew's pose, "I said we're not giving you bitches shit."

Andrew shoves his brother out of the way and throws a fist through the nose and cheekbones of the first charging figure. A second figure is moving to his right, Andrew's right foot is already raising, kicking into their abdomen and his other fist striking their head before they react, they fall backward, their head slamming against the concrete. He effortlessly pushes aside the weak swing of the third figure, now fully looking at them, and his fist crushes into their chest, another head hits concrete. He only glares at the fourth and turns to Michael whose expression flashes from amazement to terror.

Andrew hears it but doesn't think, he turns back to see the gun as it fires again and he's moving forward, his left hand out and the metal piece firing a third time before it's ripped from their hand so violently that their fingers and wrist twist and break and his right levels between their eyes: lights burned out. Andrew is already finding the little flattened bullets and casings, still warm, he draws them with the gun, crushing them together, and puts the ball in his pocket.

Michael stammers "Andrew–"

'We have to fucking go, come on."

"Andrew–"

"We have to go!"

"But he–"

Andrew grabs for his brother and Michael's senses return and they run.

They're in the car and driving. Andrew notes idly that he isn't shaking and his heart and breathing feel normal. Michael is shaking, his breaths are rapid.

"You. He shot," tremors in his voice.

"He shot. . . " Michael leans over his knees, his hands on his head. "He shot you! And the gun–it's like–it–it just–he fucking shot you! And you're fine!"

Andrew's thoughts are elsewhere. "He was using FMJs in a neighborhood, what an asshole."

"What?" says Michael, sitting back up, and Andrew can feel a finger poking through the hole in his sleeve. "Why are you not freaking out about this?" Andrew just starts to move his hand to his head, then puts it back on the wheel. "I guess I knew that would happen."

Michael's "What?!" is so loud that Andrew almost flinches. "This is impossible."

"It's not the only thing."

The little pops of cooling metal are the only sound in the garage.

An old baseball has drifted off of a shelf and hangs unturning in the air, over his car, which is in the air as well.

"What the fuck. Andrew. What–what the fuck, Andrew?!"