Big Diesel Just Talking

I used to be a "just keep walking" guy. A woman would say she hated walking to her car at night, and I'd start inspecting the garage in my head. Is the lot lit? Cameras? Nice area? How far is the car?

Couldn't you just keep walking?

That was my big contribution. Walking. As if women had not workshopped legs.

Then one day my brain did me a favor. It showed me Shaq wanting to fuck me. That cleared up a lot.

·

I mean Shaq. The real one. Actual Shaq. That Shaq.

In my mind, I'm at a Lakers game. My fear still thinks it's 2002. I'm in the upper bowl trying to eat nachos off my knees when the Jumbotron cuts to me. At first I think it's Kiss Cam, so I panic and point at a child. The child's father puts a hand on his kid's shoulder and turns him away from me.

Then the screen changes.

SHAQ SAW YOU

The arena loses its mind. Dan punches my arm.

"Dude. Shaq saw you."

"Saw me what?"

Before Dan can answer, a security guy appears at the end of the row. Big suit. Earpiece. He points at me and says, "Mr. O'Neal would like to see you in the Bio Room."

Right away, I have questions. What is a Bio Room? Why does Shaq have one? Why did he see me? Which part? But the crowd is still cheering, and that matters. If I stay, I'm the guy who refused Shaq in front of America. If I go, I'm following a man with an earpiece into the bottom of an arena because a seven-foot billionaire picked me during nachos. So I stand up. Everybody claps.

That's the first bad sign. Danger should not come with applause.

·

The security guy leads me through a concrete tunnel past laundry bins, equipment carts, and men with badges walking fast past doors nobody explains. Somewhere, a machine is washing jerseys. Somewhere else, somebody is yelling about ankle tape.

"What's a Bio Room?"

"It's where Mr. O'Neal gets to know people."

That is not better.

We stop at a black door with a gold placard.

BIO ROOM

Under it, in smaller letters:

AUTHORIZED DIESEL ONLY

I laugh because I'm scared. The security guy does not laugh. He knocks.

From inside, Shaq says, "Bring me my little inspector."

My blood leaves my body through my khakis. I don't know how Shaq knows I inspect houses. In this vision, Shaq has resources. Shaq has watched my LinkedIn. Shaq has seen me tell a first-time homebuyer her chimney needs a rain cap and thought, that one. Bring him to Bio.

The door opens, and the room is enormous, but not enough. Huge couch. Huge TV. Huge bowl of grapes. Huge framed jersey. Huge bottle of Icy Hot on a side table like holy water. And Shaq.

Shaq is sitting in the middle of the couch in a robe. A robe for him. On me, it would be a duplex. He's got one arm across the back of the couch, legs open like a toll plaza, and a fountain drink in his hand that looks normal until you realize it's probably a mop bucket with a straw. He smiles. I know that smile. Everybody knows that smile. When Shaq smiles at you, you smile back.

Even in Bio.

"There he is," Shaq says. "Nacho boy."

I look down. There is cheese on my stomach.

"Hey, man," I say.

Shaq points to the spot beside him.

"Come sit by Big Diesel."

There is a chair by the door. I want that chair. I want it like land. Shaq pats the couch. The couch sinks under his hand. So I sit beside him, not close and not far, because neither one feels safe.

Shaq looks me up and down.

"You got soft eyes."

·

Shaq picks up one grape. In his hand, it looks like a bead of sweat.

"You nervous?"

I say no.

He looks at my hands, then my knees, then back at my face.

"Mmm."

I have never hated a syllable more.

"You ever been with a champion?"

I look at the grapes. I can't look at him.

"I should probably get back to my seat," I say.

Shaq nods toward the door.

"Door right there."

And it is. The handle is right there. The hallway too. My shoes are on. My phone is in my pocket. I could stand up. I could walk out. I could find Dan and tell him Shaq had a room called Bio.

Shaq sips his mop bucket.

"You can go."

I do not go.

Shaq smiles.

"See?"

·

A man in a polo knocks and enters with a silver tray. Grapes, towels, a bottle of coconut oil, and one of those little hotel sewing kits. I look at the sewing kit.

Why? Why is that here? What garment is Shaq planning to repair during this event?

The man sets the tray down and asks if Mr. O'Neal needs anything else. Shaq looks at me. I look at the sewing kit.

"Maybe later."

The man leaves, and now I am alone with Shaq, coconut oil, and the sewing kit. Shaq leans closer. He smells incredible, which pisses me off. I wanted him to smell evil. Something obvious.

No.

He smells like cocoa butter, clean laundry, and a rich mall.

"You got a safe word?"

"What?"

"Mine's Kazaam."

I laugh. I hate myself immediately.

Shaq slaps his knee.

"See? We havin' fun."

We are not having fun. Shaq is.

·

My phone buzzes. Shaq looks at my pocket.

"Who that?"

I say nobody.

"You got a girl?"

I say yes.

"She know you in the Bio Room?"

I say she knows I'm at the game.

Shaq nods.

"Mm."

He leans back and spreads his arms.

"Tell her you with greatness."

I think about texting my wife.

Hey babe, all good, Shaq picked me from the bleachers and now I'm in his downstairs sex office. If I don't respond, check the Lakers injury report.

No.

There is no clean sentence. There is just me, Shaq, the sewing kit, and a bottle of oil large enough to waterproof a deck.

"You ever inspect a foundation this big?"

"I inspect houses."

Shaq smiles. "I'm a house."

I stare at him.

"Load-bearing."

I laugh again because, unfortunately, Shaq is cooking. I hate that he's funny. If he had no timing, I might be brave. But Shaq knows exactly when to say "load-bearing" while wearing a robe the size of a sail.

He points at my shoes.

"You run in those?"

I say no.

He says, "Good."

He says it like a joke. It does not land like one. Then he laughs, so I laugh, because that seems to be what I am supposed to do.

Shaq leans in.

"Come on, little inspector. Big Diesel just talking."

Just talking. Up to this point, he has not touched me. He has not locked the door. The door is right there. Any idiot could point at it later. What happened? Shaq talked to me. Where? In the Bio Room. Why were you there? He liked my eyes. Why didn't you leave?

My sentence. My old stupid sentence. The hallway sits there behind him. Everybody can see it. That almost makes it worse. Leaving means standing up. Standing up means changing the room. Shaq might get sad. Shaq might get offended. Shaq might laugh. Shaq might stand up too. And if Shaq stands up, I don't know where the door goes.

·

Shaq pats the couch again.

"Slide over."

I slide half an inch before I can stop myself.

Shaq notices.

"Ooooh, he listen good."

I look at the framed jersey. I look at the door. I look at the chair I should have taken.

"I really should go," I say.

Shaq looks hurt. Not fake hurt either. Real enough that my body starts trying to fix it.

"Damn," he says. "I thought you was cool."

If he yelled, I might have found a spine. Hurt was worse. Hurt gave me a job, and the job was keeping Shaq okay with me. So I say, "I am cool," too quickly.

Shaq nods slowly.

"Then don't make it weird."

Don't make it weird. I hear that sentence and my keys become interesting. They are in my pocket: house key, car key, a faded Life's a Beach keychain. I imagine putting them between my fingers.

Shaq sees my hand.

"You gonna key me, little man?"

"No."

"You gonna open a tiny mailbox on me?"

I laugh so hard I almost cry. My hand is still in my pocket.

·

Another knock. The polo guy opens the door.

"Mr. O'Neal, they need you for postgame."

Shaq does not look away from me.

"Tell 'em Big Diesel in a meeting."

The door closes. The hallway goes on without me.

·

Shaq turns on the TV. He is already on it, selling printer ink.

"You print?"

"No."

"You gonna learn tonight."

I don't know what that means. I know exactly what that means. Both are bad.

He picks up the coconut oil and reads the label.

"Organic."

Then he looks at me.

"You organic, little inspector?"

"Mostly."

Shaq laughs. Then he stops.

"Hold on," he says. "I got something for you."

He stands up. I had been afraid of him sitting down. I had not thought about standing. For a second, all I can see is robe. Printer Shaq smiles from the screen while real Shaq crosses to a cabinet beneath the framed jersey. On the shelf is a purple box with a gold ribbon.

A present.

"Stay right there," he says.

I nod. I do not know why. No one asked me anything.

Shaq turns his back. My hand is already on the couch. Then my legs go. I hit the door, find the handle. I forgot about the polo guy. The door hits him. I hit him after it. Something cracks against the wall.

He says, "Sir?" and I am already past him. I run down the concrete hall, past laundry bins, past equipment carts, past doors nobody explained on the way in. Somebody says, "Hey." I hit the wall at the turn and keep going.

Behind me, Shaq calls out.

"Little inspector?"

His voice follows me down the hall. I run harder. Then, farther away:

"I got you something."

I do not stop. I do not look back. I never find out what was in the box.

·

I push through the concourse, through the noise and the purple and gold. I pass the nacho stand, a kid in a Kobe jersey, and two women taking a picture by the exit. Then I am at the glass doors.

Outside, it is raining.

I stop under the overhang with cheese on my hoodie, my phone in my pocket, my keys in my hand, and my original number of holes.

A hand lands on my shoulder. I spin with the keys up.

Dan jumps back. "Jesus Christ, dude. It's me."

I lower my hand. Dan looks at me. Then at the keys. Then back at me.

"What the hell happened?"

I look through the glass. The arena is bright behind us. People are laughing. Someone is yelling about traffic. Somewhere inside, there is a purple box with a gold ribbon.

Dan says, "You good?"

"Yeah."

"What did Shaq want?"

I open my mouth.

He had a box.

No.

He liked my eyes.

Dan laughs because he thinks I am joking. Then he sees my face and stops.

·

We get in the car. Rain beads on the windshield. Dan pulls into traffic and starts talking about the game.

"Diesel was insane tonight," he says. "They had no answer for him down low."

I look out the window.

"He just kept backing that guy down," Dan says. "Back and back and back. Once Shaq got position, it was over."

My hand closes around the keys in my lap. Dan does not notice.

"And that dunk?" he says. "Jesus Christ. I thought he was gonna tear the whole rim off."

I make a small noise.

Dan looks over. "What?"

"Nothing."

He turns back to the road.

"I'm serious," he says. "Nobody that big should be able to move like that. Once he gets his body into you, you're done."

The wipers drag the rain sideways. He means basketball. He keeps going. Diesel this. Diesel that. How loud the place got. How the whole building shook. How the defender had no chance.

Then he says it.

"Honestly, dude should have just gotten out of the way."

I look at him. He means the defender. Of course he means the defender.

Dan is driving his car in the rain. Dan has not been to the Bio Room. He keeps talking, but I do not hear the rest.

I think about the door, the handle, the hallway. My phone in my pocket. My keys in my hand. How nothing was locked. How the room was bright. How easy the sentence is when you are not in the room.

Couldn't you just keep walking?

At the next red light, I look down at my shoes. They are still on. My keys stay in my hand the whole way home.

·

After that, I stopped asking stupid questions about parking lots. Now when a woman says, "Can you walk me to my car?" I don't audit the lighting. I don't ask about cameras. I don't check the crime map. I don't say, "Just keep walking."

I have been to the Bio Room. The Bio Room was extremely well lit.

I just say, "Yeah." I grab my keys. I walk with her.

And every time, somewhere under the arena, Shaq is still patting the couch. Still smiling. Still saying:

"Come on, little inspector. Big Diesel just talking."