Reminding Me of Mo

THE 826 EXPERIMENT

826 was a raucous ride in years past and this year will be no different. Our new bus driver, Shirley, isn’t intimidated by a bunch of Mexicans but quickly earns our respect. We appreciate that she keeps a silver boombox in tow, meticulously wedged between dash and window. The airwaves of KS104 keep our attention and Shirley makes no secret of her crush on Bobby Brown, who controls the airwaves of contemporary radio in 1989. Shirley pulls to the curb and cranks the door handle.

Mo and Pablo wait at the front of the line to claim the coveted seats at the back of the bus. Everyone else is scattered about, so I inch closer. Mo has a cool about him, wearing black stonewashed jeans with a pristine pair of Jordans. Pablo is wearing a long-sleeved shirt with shorts, an odd combination, but nobody says anything to him about it. Mo twirls a Chicago Bulls pencil in hand and notices me focused on the logo.

You don’t like the Nuggets?

Of course I do, but Jordan is the best player in the league. Mo responds.

Not Larry Bird?

Larry Bird! Mo chimes. But his awareness stops himself before expounding any further. He laughs in a high register then turns to Pablo who shakes his head and smiles, dismissing me without even having to speak on it.

"I like the Nuggets but they can’t beat Showtime. Even at fifty-two eighty, we’re still playing four games at the Forum and Showtime always shows up at the Forum. He holds out his fist and says, I’m Geranimo."

What’s up, I’m Gabriel, trying to sound cool as we bump fists.

This is Pablo. Mo says, introducing me to the behemoth on his side. Pablo then gives me a dap that reverberates my body and that is that. Mo never says I can hang with them but mentions their plan to mash to the back of the bus and I tell myself that no matter what, I will follow.

As Shirley turns onto 38th I expound to Mo and Pablo about the injustice done to me by my dad. His job gave him tickets to the Nuggets and Lakers at McNichols but instead of taking me he took my uncle. Nope, never forgave him. Still don’t. My one time to see Earvin ‘Magic’ Johnson—he hit the game winner no doubt!

Well it’s not like you missed Jordan or somethin’.

Will you quit with Jordan already? He can’t even get past the Pistons.

"That’s alright, he’s on George Michael’s Sports Machine every night. Hey, you wanna play 21 after school with me and Pablo?"

Yeah, what rules do you do?

Make it/take it. Two-hand tips for minus two, one-hand zero. One-point shots from the top until a miss. No takin’ it back after a miss.

You don’t take it back after a miss?

Nah, Mo said, lettin’ me know it wasn’t up for discussion. His court, his rules.

But we move when the bus moves. Shirley’s wide mirror is perfectly positioned to catch us in the act, for moving while the bus is in motion is the most egregious violation in her view. Yet Mo waits until Shirley executes a long buttonhook turn then glides seamlessly into a girl’s seat, convincing her of her own adolescent beauty, risking a referral just to dote on her for a while. Of course, we all have bus reputations to uphold. Pablo, who has the upper body of an Olympic weightlifter, is the muscle. All he has to do is merely sit by a kid who’s talkin’ stuff, sixty seconds later the kid is whimpering from Pablo’s physical prowess.

Inside this steel tube we feel invincible. 826 is our Japanese slow-bullet train. Its windows reflecting pictographs, namely a mural of Aztlan, when we hook a left from 42nd Avenue onto Tejon Street. Another right onto 38th Ave, passing the brown brick fire station then a left on Federal. We pass Botanica Yemaya, Woodbury Library, and North High School. On further down Federal Blvd during the entire morning show and all the music, including the Were you in a recent accident commercials. Now passing Barnum Park and Columbine Steak House. Further down as adolescent boys rubberneck the entrance to Dandy Dan’s while exceedingly more mature girls roll their eyes. We pass Chinatown and nope, still not there yet. We begin trading Hoops cards to pass the time. Conversations include the ins and outs of the greatest game ever invented. Green seats become tapestries we populate with jumbo letter font. Nicknames are etched in pencil lead. Bold letters appear from permanent markers written by dudes who crave initiation into a gang.

North Denver to Littleton is like taking us to Oz. The treacherous journey is longer than the 30 and 31 routes of RTD combined. We still do the knowledge. And recess. And the rest of it. We jump off the bus jetlagged, but the bumper-to-bumper traffic won’t grind us to a halt. We ask our parents if we can go to school in our own neighborhood, but they tell us to just deal with it. Nobody tells us it’s enforced by the state, a result of Keyes v. Denver School District 1, and that some in Denver were so opposed to busing, they exploded buses at the bus depot. That was twenty years ago, and it still impacts all of Denver’s neighborhoods. Our side of town is brown, so this forced merging of neighborhoods means anything can happen. Yet riding across town our pride is strong, hopefully we aren’t greeted with a bomb.

The best part of 826 is this newfound friendship. Mo and Pablo two titans of 826, and me, hoping to infuse some sophistication to their coolness. We spill onto school grounds with Pro-Keds and British Knights. Mo is last off the bus, dismissing the final two stairs and jump-stopping his introduction into a new world. Walking toward the entrance I ask Mo and Pablo about their homeroom.

You guys in Ms. Baumbach’s class?

Damn, me and Pablo both got Vigil, we’ll catch up at lunch though. You on free-lunch?

I had forgotten the Free-Lunch Program certified credibility but pivoted quick, Oh, well, you know bro, I brought my lunch today, diverting the fact that I must buy my lunch. My coolness waning fast but instead of ousting me, Mo roasted me:

"Hey, this crazy fool brought his own lunch to school! Which resulted in another disapproval from Pablo, who shook his head and through his clenched teeth, let out a Sssss."

The lawn edges at Kaiser are tight. Perfectly rounded trees with Crayola green grass suspended in white concrete trapezoids. Behind the school is no uneven gravel and broken glass shards like at the bus stop. Their field has a gazebo at the hilltop, highlighting rows of posh mini mansions with erect mailboxes. We enter this stargate known as 826 and emerge on the other side. Most feel we’re not supposed to see it, that it’s too foreign, and that we are too foreign. Nevertheless, the ace up the sleeve belongs to us, for the keeper of this futuristic landscape—Humberto—rides with us on 826 to maintain its allure.

We step in feeling free. Aqua Netted up. Eons away from our parents. (Do they know where they’re taking us?) At lunchtime, neither group has the courage to befriend each other nor extend a hand, for even if we do intermingle, half of us will go home on 826 so it doesn’t matter.

Three o’clock approaches and I wonder if the guys will remember me. Will they do a 180? Will Pablo finally decide to speak to me? Hell, they don’t even know if I can play yet, but to my surprise, when I climb the three steps onto the bus they’re already at the back. Mo waves for me to come on and Pablo—like some type of bouncer—stands in the aisle guarding the two by one seats and moves aside as I roll through. Now we’re a trio.

How was it? Mo asks.

What? School? Yeah, it was cool.

Good, cause ya’ mind has to be right for this game were ‘bout to run.

That comment has Pablo smiling and the game is afoot.

Shirley lets us get loud. The radio plays jams and it’s not long before homework flies out the window. After another momentous trek she drops us off and I follow the guys to just before Pecos Street, where we cut down an alley. Mo grabs his basketball. Next, we throw our school folders on the concrete and it’s on. Squeaks only happen in gyms. Out here it’s stomps, footsteps and jumpstops. The game is fastpaced and rough. I can’t break through Pablo’s smothering defense and when I do, Mo scrapes my shot with not much effort, deflecting it as it falls short of the rim.

Mo’s eyes are intense, he’s both athletic and intelligent on the court. Pablo resembles the Tasmanian Devil. No doubt they are warriors who don’t give an inch and stakes are high, reputations are on the line that could last a lifetime. After the first game I’m bent over heaving, hands over my knees, wondering if they’ll reject me, finishing with a point total of negative 8. Was my basketball IQ high enough for Mo? Was I physical enough for Pablo? I look up and see Mo walking toward me, sweat beads trickling down both sides of his face. He taps me twice on the back and with a steady breath says, C’mon, brother, let’s run it back.

ALLINIT

Jackin’ is at an all-time high. If that fool Tom Brokaw wants to make a change in something that has to do with us, start there. Leave our emcees alone. We don’t call anyone bully. There’s just jackers and full-time jack moves. Recreation centers are safe though, and for Mo, this specifically means St. Charles Recreation Center. He always talks about it, describing the ballers at St. Charles and how they come from around the city to sharpen skills. But Mo’s done reminiscing this morning. He suggests we go down there. I’m fighting the idea.

But bro, why we gotta ride across the whole city to play ball? We can do that right here, or we can hit Smedley . . . or Aztlan.

C’mon, man, nobody’s gonna mess with us. It’ll be fun. This is loong overdue.

Where we gonna park our bikes?

Who cares?!

But we don’t have no locks.

St. Charles is cool, man. We don’t need no locks. Truss me. I wanna introduce you to everybody.

I appreciate Mo’s confidence but sometimes broad daylight ain’t even a safe bet, especially if you want to keep your bike. They might jack you just for the sake of jackin’ you. But Mo’s belief that nothing was gonna happen meant nothing was gonna happen. So when I swiped my dad’s cycling cap, Mo let me rock it without judgement. So off we went, two homies on two bikes. It would’ve definitely helped us by having Pablo come but he had to help his dad with something.

Denver’s streets are affiliated. We’re not even hip to what this means, so we imagine wearing 3-D glasses with blue and red lenses where gangstas pop out of dimensions like ghosts, and Slimer throws gangs signs. Not everybody follows the classic examples of blue and red. Other gangs make their own colors with the teams on top. Denver Bronco gear should be neutral but it’s not. Gangs fuck that up too. So how we supposed to be fans without gear? I guess Mo had the plan with the pencils. Nobody’s gonna jack us for a pencil or a pencil sharpener, but you never know.

Red and blue are the colors of the Pepsi plant we pass on our way to St. Charles. We ride uphill, downhill, over broken glass shards and through steel structures. We arrive at St. Charles and it’s just how Mo describes it: warm and friendly. An elder outside the front door is excited to see him.

Hey Mo! Haven’t seen you in a while, son, everything good?

Yeah, we moved to the North Side but I’m still hoopin’ every day, Rich.

That’s good to hear. Cause all your crew be up here every day too, and they’re also getting better.

That’s good, Mo says, nodding his head and smiling, maybe they’ll catch me one day.

Boy I see your confidence hasn’t waned none. Who’s this?

This is my homie Gabe. I brought him to show him the gym.

Oh, nice to meet ‘ya G. Well come on in, I don’t wanna hold you guys up.

We enter and Mo politics with more elders at the front desk. Everyone is upbeat and has positive vibes. I can see why this is the spot for Mo.

We roll up on a dude at the corner table working solo shot on a jigsaw puzzle. From behind he looks like a child. He’s focused on the task at hand but when Mo slaps him on the shoulder it breaks his concentration. When he sees Mo, he smiles. His eyes are crossed naturally, and his head is shaped like a box, but it springs in excitement from the recognition Mo lays on him. This kid looks like an outcast, but Mo saw people, and that meant he saw Telley.

Geranimo, where you been, hermano? The center’s not the same without you. And school, too.

We moved away but I’m back today. What you up to, Telley?

I’ve been working on this all day. Looks good, no? I have these edges set. You guys wanna help?

Not right now, Telley. We came to hoop.

Oh, okay then. Score a lotta hoops, guys.

I’m surprised we didn’t hit the gym first but now I know this is a reunion. Mo left a bunch when he moved to the North Side. A whole community of elders and kids, team players and volunteers.

The pounding basketball and squeakin’ sneakers sound louder and louder as we make our way to the gym.

A kid bumps Mo’s shoulder intentionally and spouts off, HEY HOMIE! WATCH WHERE YOU WALKIN’!

Mo turns around but is intercepted by Rich.

"Hey, hey, hey, chill