Full-Court Requiem
The elf ears itched. That was the first problem. The second problem was the bottle of peppermint schnapps in the Santa sack, which Dex Calloway had been hitting since eleven a.m. because the mall's "North Pole Village" was a recycled tire warehouse with a space heater that smelled like burning dust, and the kids were starting to blur together into one snot-nosed, screaming mass of want.
"Ho ho ho," Dex said, without enthusiasm, as a kid maybe six years old tugged his fake beard. The beard was glued on with spirit gum that was melting under the heat of the overhead fluorescents. His knee throbbed. The one that had been rebuilt twice, the one that had ended his career on a Tuesday night in Indianapolis when he'd tried to cross over a rookie who had no business guarding him, and the joint had just given up. Pop. Like a champagne cork. He'd heard it over the crowd noise.
"You're not the real Santa," the kid said. Accusatory. Sharp.
Dex leaned in, close enough to smell the kid's fruit-snack breath. "That's right, kid. The real Santa's in a box somewhere in New Jersey, waiting for his knee to heal. I'm the backup. Now what do you want?"
The kid's face crumpled. A wail started building, low in his throat, like a freight train coming down the tracks. Dex's handler, a mall manager named Phyllis with a clipboard and a permanent scowl, materialized at his side.
"Mr. Calloway, we've had complaints about your language."
"I said 'ho ho ho.' That's literally the job description."
"You smell like a distillery." She said it loud enough for the parents in line to hear. A few of them turned. One woman pulled her daughter closer, like Dex was a stray dog that might bite.
Dex stood up. The Santa suit was two sizes too big, and the padding in the belly had shifted, so he looked less like jolly old Saint Nick and more like a scarecrow that had eaten a beanbag chair. He pulled the beard off with a wet rip. The spirit gum took a layer of stubble with it.
"Fine," he said. "I'm done."
"You can't just—"
"Watch me." He reached into the sack, pulled out the schnapps, and took a long pull. The liquid burned going down, warm and cheap, and it settled in his stomach like a stone. He handed the bottle to Phyllis. "Merry Christmas. That's for the staff party."
He walked out of the tire warehouse, through the mall's main concourse, past the Cinnabon and the kiosk selling phone cases with rhinestones on them. His knee complained with every step. The elf ears—part of the costume, a stupid little accessory that Phyllis had insisted on—were still in his pocket. He'd taken them off, but the itch remained.
His phone buzzed. He fished it out of the Santa sack, which he'd slung over his shoulder like a hobo bindle. The screen lit up with a number he knew by heart, even though he'd tried to forget it.
**Law Offices of Feldman & Ruiz**
He answered. "Yeah."
"Mr. Calloway?" A woman's voice. Brisk. Professional. The voice of someone who got paid to ruin his day. "This is Angela Ruiz. I'm calling regarding the arrears on your child support payments."
"I know what the arrears are, Angela. I get the letters."
"Mr. Calloway, the court has issued a wage garnishment order. If you don't make a payment of at least three thousand dollars by the end of the month, we'll be forced to file a motion for contempt."
Dex stopped walking. A family with three kids swerved around him, the father giving him a dirty look. Dex ignored him. "Three thousand? I just lost my job. I just got fired from being Santa Claus. I don't have three thousand dollars."
"That's not my concern, Mr. Calloway. My concern is the best interests of your daughter."
The word hit him in the chest. Daughter. Maya. She'd be nine now. Nine years old, with her mother's dark hair and his crooked smile. He hadn't seen her in fourteen months. The last time he'd tried, her mother had met him at the door with a restraining order and a look that said she'd already buried him.
"I'll get the money," he said. "Just give me some time."
"You have until the end of the month. After that, we file." The line went dead.
Dex stood in the middle of the mall, holding a dead phone and a Santa sack full of cheap whiskey and regret. The elf ears itched in his pocket. He thought about Maya. He thought about the three thousand dollars he didn't have. He thought about the bottle of schnapps he'd just given away, and he wished he hadn't.
His phone buzzed again. A number he didn't recognize. Area code 313. Detroit. He almost let it go to voicemail, but something—maybe the static in his head, the low hum that had been building for weeks like a radio tuned between stations—made him answer.
"Yeah?"
"Dex? Dex Calloway?" The voice was familiar. Deep, gravelly, with a laugh buried somewhere in it. A voice from another life.
"Who's this?"
"It's Mouse. Mouse Kowalski. From the Vipers."
Dex's brain did a double take. Mouse Kowalski. Sixth man on the 2004 Meridian Flats Vipers, the team that had gone to the state semifinals before falling apart in the fourth quarter. Mouse had been a shooting guard with a bad attitude and a worse jump shot, but he'd been the first guy on the bench to hand Dex a towel and a Gatorade. They hadn't spoken in fifteen years.
"Mouse," Dex said. "You still alive?"
"Barely. Listen, I got a proposition for you. You still in the game?"
Dex laughed. It came out hollow. "I'm not in anything. I just got fired from being Santa Claus."
"Perfect. Then you're available." Mouse's voice dropped, losing the laugh. "I need a coach. The Lady Vipers. Girls' basketball team here in Meridian. We're in trouble, Dex. The coach quit two weeks ago—ran off to Florida with a pool cleaner, if you can believe it. The team's got six players, and they're all about to quit. The school's about to cancel the season."
"Mouse, I haven't coached anything in my life. I barely played the last three years I was in the league. I was a bench warmer with a bad knee and a worse attitude."
"Yeah, but you see the floor, Dex. You always could. You saw things other guys didn't. That's what we need."
Dex thought about the three thousand dollars. He thought about Maya. He thought about the static in his head, the way it had been getting louder, the way sometimes he'd blink and lose a few seconds, like a record skipping.
"What's the pay?" he asked.
Mouse was quiet for a moment. "There's no pay. The athletic budget's been cut to nothing. But there's a cot in the storage room off the gym. You can sleep there. And there's a meal plan—the cafeteria lady, Mrs. Delgado, she'll hook you up if you say you're with the team."
"A cot," Dex said. "You're offering me a cot."
"And a chance, Dex. A chance to get back in the game."
Dex looked down at the Santa sack. He thought about the mall, about Phyllis, about the kid who'd called him a fake. He thought about the garnishment order and the restraining order and the fourteen months since he'd seen his daughter's face.
"Where's Meridian Flats?" he asked.
"About four hours north of you. Rust belt. You'll know it when you see it. The gym's got a sign out front that says 'Home of the 1984 State Champions.' It's the only thing this town's proud of."
Dex closed his eyes. The static in his head buzzed, like a fluorescent light about to die. "I'll be there tomorrow."
"Good. And Dex? Bring your own shoes. The team's got mismatched sneakers and one ball that's flat on one side. It's rough."
"Rough I can do."
He hung up. The mall hummed around him, the sound of a thousand people buying things they didn't need. Dex slung the Santa sack over his shoulder and started walking toward the exit. The elf ears itched in his pocket.
He drove through the night. His car was a 2009 sedan with a check engine light that had been on so long it had given up and turned itself off. The heater was broken, so he drove with his coat zipped to the chin, the Santa sack in the passenger seat like a passenger who didn't talk.
The static in his head got worse the closer he got to Meridian Flats. It wasn't a sound, exactly. More like a pressure. A weight behind his eyes. He'd been to doctors about it. They'd done MRIs, EEGs, all the alphabet soup. Nothing. "Stress," they'd said. "Trauma. You should consider therapy."
Dex didn't believe in therapy. He believed in whiskey and distance and never looking back.
Meridian Flats announced itself with a water tower that had been painted with the words "HOME OF THE VIPERS" in fading red letters. The town itself was a collection of brick buildings that had seen better decades—a diner, a hardware store, a church with a cracked steeple. The streets were empty at two a.m., lit by sodium lamps that cast everything in a sickly orange glow.
The high school was at the end of Main Street, a three-story brick building that looked like it had been built in the 1950s and not touched since. The gym was attached to the back, a squat structure with a sign above the door: "Meridian Flats High School Gymnasium—Home of the 1984 State Champions."
Dex parked in the empty lot. He sat in the car for a long moment, the engine ticking as it cooled. The static in his head was loud now, a constant hum that made his teeth ache. He got out, grabbed the Santa sack, and walked to the gym door.
It was unlocked. He pushed it open.
The gym was dark, but the emergency lights cast enough glow for him to see. The floor was warped, the lines faded. The bleachers were metal and rusted, folded against the walls like sleeping giants. And above the scoreboard, a row of banners. Most of them were faded, the colors bleached by decades of sunlight. But the one in the center was still bright: "1984 STATE CHAMPIONS—VIPERS."
Dex walked to center court. His footsteps echoed in the empty space. The static in his head pulsed, like a heartbeat. He stopped at the free-throw line and looked up at the banner.
And then the lights went out.
Not the emergency lights—those stayed on, dim and orange. But the darkness seemed to deepen, to press in from the corners of the gym. The temperature dropped. Dex could see his breath.
The static in his head became a sound. A crowd. Cheering. The squeak of sneakers on wood. A whistle.
Dex blinked.
He was no longer alone.
The gym was full. Not with people—with ghosts. Flickering shapes, translucent, moving up and down the court. Players in old-fashioned uniforms, short shorts, high-top sneakers. The crowd in the bleachers was a blur of faces, cheering, screaming. The scoreboard above the court flickered, the numbers changing: **1984**.
Dex turned in a slow circle. The players moved around him like he wasn't there. A point guard with a high fade and a confident grin dribbled past him, calling out a play. The ball passed through Dex's chest like smoke.
And then the point guard turned. Looked directly at Dex. His eyes were dark, and his mouth moved, forming words Dex couldn't hear over the crowd noise.
But he could read lips.
*Finish it.*
The gym snapped back to reality. The lights came on, bright and harsh. The crowd was gone. The players were gone. Dex was alone at center court, his heart hammering, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. And on his palm, a thin red line, like a paper cut, welling with blood.
He didn't remember getting it.
Dex stood there for a long time, staring at the blood on his hand, the static in his head finally quiet. The banner above the scoreboard seemed to glow, the words "1984 STATE CHAMPIONS" burning into his retinas.
He didn't know what he'd just seen. He didn't know what "finish it" meant.
But he knew one thing for sure.
He was in Meridian Flats now. And Meridian Flats was not done with him.
"Ho ho ho," Dex said, without enthusiasm, as a kid maybe six years old tugged his fake beard. The beard was glued on with spirit gum that was melting under the heat of the overhead fluorescents. His knee throbbed. The one that had been rebuilt twice, the one that had ended his career on a Tuesday night in Indianapolis when he'd tried to cross over a rookie who had no business guarding him, and the joint had just given up. Pop. Like a champagne cork. He'd heard it over the crowd noise.
"You're not the real Santa," the kid said. Accusatory. Sharp.
Dex leaned in, close enough to smell the kid's fruit-snack breath. "That's right, kid. The real Santa's in a box somewhere in New Jersey, waiting for his knee to heal. I'm the backup. Now what do you want?"
The kid's face crumpled. A wail started building, low in his throat, like a freight train coming down the tracks. Dex's handler, a mall manager named Phyllis with a clipboard and a permanent scowl, materialized at his side.
"Mr. Calloway, we've had complaints about your language."
"I said 'ho ho ho.' That's literally the job description."
"You smell like a distillery." She said it loud enough for the parents in line to hear. A few of them turned. One woman pulled her daughter closer, like Dex was a stray dog that might bite.
Dex stood up. The Santa suit was two sizes too big, and the padding in the belly had shifted, so he looked less like jolly old Saint Nick and more like a scarecrow that had eaten a beanbag chair. He pulled the beard off with a wet rip. The spirit gum took a layer of stubble with it.
"Fine," he said. "I'm done."
"You can't just—"
"Watch me." He reached into the sack, pulled out the schnapps, and took a long pull. The liquid burned going down, warm and cheap, and it settled in his stomach like a stone. He handed the bottle to Phyllis. "Merry Christmas. That's for the staff party."
He walked out of the tire warehouse, through the mall's main concourse, past the Cinnabon and the kiosk selling phone cases with rhinestones on them. His knee complained with every step. The elf ears—part of the costume, a stupid little accessory that Phyllis had insisted on—were still in his pocket. He'd taken them off, but the itch remained.
His phone buzzed. He fished it out of the Santa sack, which he'd slung over his shoulder like a hobo bindle. The screen lit up with a number he knew by heart, even though he'd tried to forget it.
**Law Offices of Feldman & Ruiz**
He answered. "Yeah."
"Mr. Calloway?" A woman's voice. Brisk. Professional. The voice of someone who got paid to ruin his day. "This is Angela Ruiz. I'm calling regarding the arrears on your child support payments."
"I know what the arrears are, Angela. I get the letters."
"Mr. Calloway, the court has issued a wage garnishment order. If you don't make a payment of at least three thousand dollars by the end of the month, we'll be forced to file a motion for contempt."
Dex stopped walking. A family with three kids swerved around him, the father giving him a dirty look. Dex ignored him. "Three thousand? I just lost my job. I just got fired from being Santa Claus. I don't have three thousand dollars."
"That's not my concern, Mr. Calloway. My concern is the best interests of your daughter."
The word hit him in the chest. Daughter. Maya. She'd be nine now. Nine years old, with her mother's dark hair and his crooked smile. He hadn't seen her in fourteen months. The last time he'd tried, her mother had met him at the door with a restraining order and a look that said she'd already buried him.
"I'll get the money," he said. "Just give me some time."
"You have until the end of the month. After that, we file." The line went dead.
Dex stood in the middle of the mall, holding a dead phone and a Santa sack full of cheap whiskey and regret. The elf ears itched in his pocket. He thought about Maya. He thought about the three thousand dollars he didn't have. He thought about the bottle of schnapps he'd just given away, and he wished he hadn't.
His phone buzzed again. A number he didn't recognize. Area code 313. Detroit. He almost let it go to voicemail, but something—maybe the static in his head, the low hum that had been building for weeks like a radio tuned between stations—made him answer.
"Yeah?"
"Dex? Dex Calloway?" The voice was familiar. Deep, gravelly, with a laugh buried somewhere in it. A voice from another life.
"Who's this?"
"It's Mouse. Mouse Kowalski. From the Vipers."
Dex's brain did a double take. Mouse Kowalski. Sixth man on the 2004 Meridian Flats Vipers, the team that had gone to the state semifinals before falling apart in the fourth quarter. Mouse had been a shooting guard with a bad attitude and a worse jump shot, but he'd been the first guy on the bench to hand Dex a towel and a Gatorade. They hadn't spoken in fifteen years.
"Mouse," Dex said. "You still alive?"
"Barely. Listen, I got a proposition for you. You still in the game?"
Dex laughed. It came out hollow. "I'm not in anything. I just got fired from being Santa Claus."
"Perfect. Then you're available." Mouse's voice dropped, losing the laugh. "I need a coach. The Lady Vipers. Girls' basketball team here in Meridian. We're in trouble, Dex. The coach quit two weeks ago—ran off to Florida with a pool cleaner, if you can believe it. The team's got six players, and they're all about to quit. The school's about to cancel the season."
"Mouse, I haven't coached anything in my life. I barely played the last three years I was in the league. I was a bench warmer with a bad knee and a worse attitude."
"Yeah, but you see the floor, Dex. You always could. You saw things other guys didn't. That's what we need."
Dex thought about the three thousand dollars. He thought about Maya. He thought about the static in his head, the way it had been getting louder, the way sometimes he'd blink and lose a few seconds, like a record skipping.
"What's the pay?" he asked.
Mouse was quiet for a moment. "There's no pay. The athletic budget's been cut to nothing. But there's a cot in the storage room off the gym. You can sleep there. And there's a meal plan—the cafeteria lady, Mrs. Delgado, she'll hook you up if you say you're with the team."
"A cot," Dex said. "You're offering me a cot."
"And a chance, Dex. A chance to get back in the game."
Dex looked down at the Santa sack. He thought about the mall, about Phyllis, about the kid who'd called him a fake. He thought about the garnishment order and the restraining order and the fourteen months since he'd seen his daughter's face.
"Where's Meridian Flats?" he asked.
"About four hours north of you. Rust belt. You'll know it when you see it. The gym's got a sign out front that says 'Home of the 1984 State Champions.' It's the only thing this town's proud of."
Dex closed his eyes. The static in his head buzzed, like a fluorescent light about to die. "I'll be there tomorrow."
"Good. And Dex? Bring your own shoes. The team's got mismatched sneakers and one ball that's flat on one side. It's rough."
"Rough I can do."
He hung up. The mall hummed around him, the sound of a thousand people buying things they didn't need. Dex slung the Santa sack over his shoulder and started walking toward the exit. The elf ears itched in his pocket.
He drove through the night. His car was a 2009 sedan with a check engine light that had been on so long it had given up and turned itself off. The heater was broken, so he drove with his coat zipped to the chin, the Santa sack in the passenger seat like a passenger who didn't talk.
The static in his head got worse the closer he got to Meridian Flats. It wasn't a sound, exactly. More like a pressure. A weight behind his eyes. He'd been to doctors about it. They'd done MRIs, EEGs, all the alphabet soup. Nothing. "Stress," they'd said. "Trauma. You should consider therapy."
Dex didn't believe in therapy. He believed in whiskey and distance and never looking back.
Meridian Flats announced itself with a water tower that had been painted with the words "HOME OF THE VIPERS" in fading red letters. The town itself was a collection of brick buildings that had seen better decades—a diner, a hardware store, a church with a cracked steeple. The streets were empty at two a.m., lit by sodium lamps that cast everything in a sickly orange glow.
The high school was at the end of Main Street, a three-story brick building that looked like it had been built in the 1950s and not touched since. The gym was attached to the back, a squat structure with a sign above the door: "Meridian Flats High School Gymnasium—Home of the 1984 State Champions."
Dex parked in the empty lot. He sat in the car for a long moment, the engine ticking as it cooled. The static in his head was loud now, a constant hum that made his teeth ache. He got out, grabbed the Santa sack, and walked to the gym door.
It was unlocked. He pushed it open.
The gym was dark, but the emergency lights cast enough glow for him to see. The floor was warped, the lines faded. The bleachers were metal and rusted, folded against the walls like sleeping giants. And above the scoreboard, a row of banners. Most of them were faded, the colors bleached by decades of sunlight. But the one in the center was still bright: "1984 STATE CHAMPIONS—VIPERS."
Dex walked to center court. His footsteps echoed in the empty space. The static in his head pulsed, like a heartbeat. He stopped at the free-throw line and looked up at the banner.
And then the lights went out.
Not the emergency lights—those stayed on, dim and orange. But the darkness seemed to deepen, to press in from the corners of the gym. The temperature dropped. Dex could see his breath.
The static in his head became a sound. A crowd. Cheering. The squeak of sneakers on wood. A whistle.
Dex blinked.
He was no longer alone.
The gym was full. Not with people—with ghosts. Flickering shapes, translucent, moving up and down the court. Players in old-fashioned uniforms, short shorts, high-top sneakers. The crowd in the bleachers was a blur of faces, cheering, screaming. The scoreboard above the court flickered, the numbers changing: **1984**.
Dex turned in a slow circle. The players moved around him like he wasn't there. A point guard with a high fade and a confident grin dribbled past him, calling out a play. The ball passed through Dex's chest like smoke.
And then the point guard turned. Looked directly at Dex. His eyes were dark, and his mouth moved, forming words Dex couldn't hear over the crowd noise.
But he could read lips.
*Finish it.*
The gym snapped back to reality. The lights came on, bright and harsh. The crowd was gone. The players were gone. Dex was alone at center court, his heart hammering, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. And on his palm, a thin red line, like a paper cut, welling with blood.
He didn't remember getting it.
Dex stood there for a long time, staring at the blood on his hand, the static in his head finally quiet. The banner above the scoreboard seemed to glow, the words "1984 STATE CHAMPIONS" burning into his retinas.
He didn't know what he'd just seen. He didn't know what "finish it" meant.
But he knew one thing for sure.
He was in Meridian Flats now. And Meridian Flats was not done with him.