Gary Neal was chillaxing on the couch, wearing his comfy PJ’s and watching some Price is Right, when his phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and, without a glance at the incoming number, answered, “Sup. This is Gary.”
He almost dropped the phone when the responding voice came not from the phone, but instead, from the very walls of his condo. “Yo Gary. This is your former teammate Stephen Jackson.”
“Stephen! Sorry you got waived man. But what you callin’ me fo’? And why yo’ voice comin’ from everywhere and nowhere at once?”
There was laughter. “I called you to get your initial attention. You can hang up the phone so we may converse normally.” Gary ended the call and replaced the phone in his pocket. Stephen’s bodiless voice continued, “Most people thought I was merely waived, but coach Pop did much more than waive me; he ended my life. Yes, it is true. He did not, however, destroy my spirit, so I am still able to interact with those who remain in the earthly realm.”
Gary was unsure where to look when he responded. He decided to talk at the TV, which was presently showing an elderly woman struggling to spin the giant wheel thingy. “So, what you sayin’ is, coach Pop murdered you, and you decidin’ to haunt me?”
“The term ‘haunting’ has so many negative connotations. Consider this a ‘visitation’.”
“Okay, so why you decidin’ to ‘visitate’ me?” Gary responded testily.
“I’m here to give you some guidance.”
Gary laughed. “What do I need yo’ guidance fo’? You played like a bucket of ass yo’ whole career, and especially this last year with us. Yo’ play this season probably cost us five wins. I’s glad you dead.”
There was now malice in Stephen’s voice. “Do not trifle with me. I, as a being of the outer-world, am now in possession of powers that your brain cannot even begin to comprehend. You can close your eyes and plug your ears, but you will receive my guidance regardless. And it is this: the Spurs need somebody on the team who chucks a disproportionate amount of shots. Patty Mills cannot do it on his own. For the team to flourish, you must execute all manner of crappy spin-moves in traffic and shoot every shot that is even remotely open. It is only in this way that Duncan will get his deserved fifth ring.”
“I can get behind that,” Gary said. “There’s only one thing I enjoy more than shootin’, and that’s shootin’, but a ring ain’t bad neither.”
Gary could almost see Stephen nodding in agreement. “I don’t think Pop is aware of this tenet of basketball. As he put the knife through my heart repeatedly, he called me a ‘locker-room cancer’ and ‘an insult to the concept of efficiency’. He cannot have been aware of my vital, unseen contributions to the team. So you must make those contributions in my stead. Has this been made adequately clear to you, Gary?
“Yeah man. Crystal.”
“I see into your heart, Gary. You are willing to shoot the required shots, but you doubt my words. Here, let me make it a little clearer for you.”
The TV suddenly burst forth a shower of sparks. When the smoke cleared, the TV was intact, but the screen showed a large image of Stephen’s face. Gary attempted to change the channel by all available means, and even unplugged the whole setup, but Stephen’s face was now a permanent fixture in his living room.
Gary sounded a little scared now. “Okay dude, I got it. I’ll be a chucker.”
“Good. Remember, Gary, I’m in da streets. Goggle me slime. Goggle me slime, Gary.”
Silence.
“Goggle me slime.” This time, the mouth on the TV was the one saying the words. Later that night, as Gary tried in vain to sleep, he could hear the TV whispering those words, over and over, a spectral reminder of Stephen’s lasting legacy on this earth.