The perpetual bouncing of the basketball was driving Roger to and beyond the brink of insanity. He drew in a deep meaningful breath and calmly reminded himself once again exactly why he was friends with Ziggy. What kind of a name was Ziggy anyway?
"I made it!" Ziggy hollered into their frosty surroundings in response to his spontaneous (and rather rare) swish. "Three points baby! Wo- hooo!"
"Three points?" Roger repeated confused. He leaned against the metal pole of the basketball hoop deep in thought. His butt was practically frozen to the pavement but he didn't really care. He was used to suffering – and problems gave him more depressing songs to whine about anyway.
"I thought you said baskets were only worth two . . ."
"I did," Ziggy confirmed, palming the orange ball as he swaggered over to his best friend's position. "But this here," he indicated by pointing, "this here is called the three point line."
Roger blinked a couple of times.
"But if your all running up and down this so-called court while hanging onto whatever sweaty guy you're put up against, how do you have time to look at the floor and see if your feet are touching some random line?"
"Dork wad," Ziggy buffed. "It's not just a random line, it's the three point line!"
"It's still a line," Roger retorted, flicking a miniscule pebble into oblivion. Hmm, oblivion . . . that seems like a good name for a song . . .
"Yeah whatever."
Mmm, good comeback, Roger thought to himself. But then again, Ziggy wasn't known for his mental capacity. In fact, he wasn't known for much of anything at all. Other than being annoying, that is. He wasn't anywhere near good enough to join the 'jock flock', as Runty called them (for his previous swish had been a stroke of pure luck) so he had resorted to taunting Roger and following him around all day with a rather twisted image of friendship. But even though the relationship was about as smooth as sandpaper, the two hung on to each other because they were all they had left. It was either be losers together or be a loser alone. And occupying the lowest rung on the social ladder was a much easier position to fill with someone accompanying you.
Ziggy made a sad attempt to repeat his previous move and ended up tripping on his permanently untied shoelaces.
"Klutz," Roger laughed, maybe for the first time this week.
"Oh stuff your face! I'd like to see you come out here and try this!"
Roger quirked an eyebrow, almost on the verge of a smile.
"You have the creativeness of a french-fry."
"What the hell was that supposed to mean?" Ziggy demanded, swinging his lanky arms around wildly in protestation. "Besides," he added, "I'm Irish anyway."
You would have to be blind not to realize that. With a million tiny freckles parading across his up turned nose and blazing green eyes, he seemed to fit the part well. For most of his life he even sported a mane of wild red hair but that ended with a very bad bleaching accident. Now he was covering the mess he made with jet-black hair dye, but Roger knew in time it would eventually grow out, and he could start laughing at him again.
"That I can see," Roger noted. "But seriously, stuff your face? No wonder you're not on the honor roll. You need some new material my friend."
"It's not like any of the jocks are on the honor roll anyway."
"So that's all your aspiring to be at the moment? That's your life ambition, to be a jock?"
"A-hem, at least I'M still in school."
"Aw man, fuck you."
Ziggy smirked.
"You have the creativeness of a french-fry," the dinky senior repeated to his fuming friend. "I mean, come on now. Fuck you? You're the artist, you should be able to do better than that."
Ziggy chucked the ball at Roger, or at least tried to. It missed his outstretched hands by a mile and the teen had to run a million steps to get it. Playing basketball with Ziggy was almost as hard a work out as actually playing the game right way.
After retrieving the stupid thing, Roger retraced his path and hobbled over to his friend who was planted firmly at the foul line, for it was the only shot he could occasionally make. Feeling the threat of his pride, Roger tried to calculate the distance that separated him from the hoop so he could throw the ball with just the right amount of force to outdo his accident-magnet partner.
"French-fry," Roger scoffed, almost finding the situation humorous.
"Hey, you're not French, are you?"
The blonde rolled his eyes. "We have such in depth discussions."
"You're not answering my question," Ziggy persisted.
"I don't know what the hell I am. But Runty seems to think we're English."
"English?" Ziggy muttered, crunching up his ski slope nose.
"She's developed a infatuation with the word 'bloody'."
"Ah. I see."
Roger stomached his rare butterflies and chucked the ball at the backboard. It bounced off with great zest and gusto and landed itself right square between Ziggy's eyes.
"Holy shit you son of a bitch!"
Roger frowned, remembering once again how many times he had requested Ziggy not to swear in front of his sister. It got to the point where Roger tried to make a rule that only he could swear because he wasn't in the habit of doing it at home. But trying to train Ziggy to do something –anything, really – was like throwing gasoline on a fire. It only got worse and worse and worse as time progressed.
"Maybe I should stick with my guitar," Roger mused.
"No way man. You suck at that too!"
The artist shoved his demoting friend onto the pavement with no remorse.
"Like you could do better."
And this was how the two had spent their Saturday afternoons for the past five years. Every weekend it was the same routine. It wasn't like they were ever invited to parties, or anything exciting for that matter. It was either try to play basketball or watch TV. Ziggy wasn't a talker and had no consideration for Roger's feelings that he tried to communicate through song. Ziggy wasn't cruel, just incredibly stupid. So the angst-ridden poet (I love how that sounds) had given up trying to share his emotions and devoted at least forty minutes a day to sulking. He probably would have spent way more time doing such if his little puny sister didn't interrupt him so frickin' often. But Roger wouldn't have to worry about that for long. In eight weeks she'd be back in school, and Roger could take all the time he wanted to be depressed and ponder the meaning of his life. And there was always and added bonus. Ziggy would most likely be off to community college (but even that was if-y) so he wouldn't need to be insulted twenty four seven.
With an awkward glance, Roger tried to figure out whether or not he would actually miss Ziggy when he was gone. He didn't have much time to think about it though. For the next thing he knew his friend tackled him to the ground in one ungraceful sweep and declared, "Let's move onto football."
"I made it!" Ziggy hollered into their frosty surroundings in response to his spontaneous (and rather rare) swish. "Three points baby! Wo- hooo!"
"Three points?" Roger repeated confused. He leaned against the metal pole of the basketball hoop deep in thought. His butt was practically frozen to the pavement but he didn't really care. He was used to suffering – and problems gave him more depressing songs to whine about anyway.
"I thought you said baskets were only worth two . . ."
"I did," Ziggy confirmed, palming the orange ball as he swaggered over to his best friend's position. "But this here," he indicated by pointing, "this here is called the three point line."
Roger blinked a couple of times.
"But if your all running up and down this so-called court while hanging onto whatever sweaty guy you're put up against, how do you have time to look at the floor and see if your feet are touching some random line?"
"Dork wad," Ziggy buffed. "It's not just a random line, it's the three point line!"
"It's still a line," Roger retorted, flicking a miniscule pebble into oblivion. Hmm, oblivion . . . that seems like a good name for a song . . .
"Yeah whatever."
Mmm, good comeback, Roger thought to himself. But then again, Ziggy wasn't known for his mental capacity. In fact, he wasn't known for much of anything at all. Other than being annoying, that is. He wasn't anywhere near good enough to join the 'jock flock', as Runty called them (for his previous swish had been a stroke of pure luck) so he had resorted to taunting Roger and following him around all day with a rather twisted image of friendship. But even though the relationship was about as smooth as sandpaper, the two hung on to each other because they were all they had left. It was either be losers together or be a loser alone. And occupying the lowest rung on the social ladder was a much easier position to fill with someone accompanying you.
Ziggy made a sad attempt to repeat his previous move and ended up tripping on his permanently untied shoelaces.
"Klutz," Roger laughed, maybe for the first time this week.
"Oh stuff your face! I'd like to see you come out here and try this!"
Roger quirked an eyebrow, almost on the verge of a smile.
"You have the creativeness of a french-fry."
"What the hell was that supposed to mean?" Ziggy demanded, swinging his lanky arms around wildly in protestation. "Besides," he added, "I'm Irish anyway."
You would have to be blind not to realize that. With a million tiny freckles parading across his up turned nose and blazing green eyes, he seemed to fit the part well. For most of his life he even sported a mane of wild red hair but that ended with a very bad bleaching accident. Now he was covering the mess he made with jet-black hair dye, but Roger knew in time it would eventually grow out, and he could start laughing at him again.
"That I can see," Roger noted. "But seriously, stuff your face? No wonder you're not on the honor roll. You need some new material my friend."
"It's not like any of the jocks are on the honor roll anyway."
"So that's all your aspiring to be at the moment? That's your life ambition, to be a jock?"
"A-hem, at least I'M still in school."
"Aw man, fuck you."
Ziggy smirked.
"You have the creativeness of a french-fry," the dinky senior repeated to his fuming friend. "I mean, come on now. Fuck you? You're the artist, you should be able to do better than that."
Ziggy chucked the ball at Roger, or at least tried to. It missed his outstretched hands by a mile and the teen had to run a million steps to get it. Playing basketball with Ziggy was almost as hard a work out as actually playing the game right way.
After retrieving the stupid thing, Roger retraced his path and hobbled over to his friend who was planted firmly at the foul line, for it was the only shot he could occasionally make. Feeling the threat of his pride, Roger tried to calculate the distance that separated him from the hoop so he could throw the ball with just the right amount of force to outdo his accident-magnet partner.
"French-fry," Roger scoffed, almost finding the situation humorous.
"Hey, you're not French, are you?"
The blonde rolled his eyes. "We have such in depth discussions."
"You're not answering my question," Ziggy persisted.
"I don't know what the hell I am. But Runty seems to think we're English."
"English?" Ziggy muttered, crunching up his ski slope nose.
"She's developed a infatuation with the word 'bloody'."
"Ah. I see."
Roger stomached his rare butterflies and chucked the ball at the backboard. It bounced off with great zest and gusto and landed itself right square between Ziggy's eyes.
"Holy shit you son of a bitch!"
Roger frowned, remembering once again how many times he had requested Ziggy not to swear in front of his sister. It got to the point where Roger tried to make a rule that only he could swear because he wasn't in the habit of doing it at home. But trying to train Ziggy to do something –anything, really – was like throwing gasoline on a fire. It only got worse and worse and worse as time progressed.
"Maybe I should stick with my guitar," Roger mused.
"No way man. You suck at that too!"
The artist shoved his demoting friend onto the pavement with no remorse.
"Like you could do better."
And this was how the two had spent their Saturday afternoons for the past five years. Every weekend it was the same routine. It wasn't like they were ever invited to parties, or anything exciting for that matter. It was either try to play basketball or watch TV. Ziggy wasn't a talker and had no consideration for Roger's feelings that he tried to communicate through song. Ziggy wasn't cruel, just incredibly stupid. So the angst-ridden poet (I love how that sounds) had given up trying to share his emotions and devoted at least forty minutes a day to sulking. He probably would have spent way more time doing such if his little puny sister didn't interrupt him so frickin' often. But Roger wouldn't have to worry about that for long. In eight weeks she'd be back in school, and Roger could take all the time he wanted to be depressed and ponder the meaning of his life. And there was always and added bonus. Ziggy would most likely be off to community college (but even that was if-y) so he wouldn't need to be insulted twenty four seven.
With an awkward glance, Roger tried to figure out whether or not he would actually miss Ziggy when he was gone. He didn't have much time to think about it though. For the next thing he knew his friend tackled him to the ground in one ungraceful sweep and declared, "Let's move onto football."