When Marco Lost his Mojo.

It was still dark outside, but Marco was wide awake. He was alone in his dorm room at six in the morning and had made it his goal to investigate every corner thereof. He would stand still for a few moments, charge toward a certain corner, thoroughly examine it, then curse his fate. He checked his jackets, under the bed, under the blankets, in the drawers, and even under the pillows. He went as far as to remove the mattress and lift the bed frame. He also hopelessly checked his gym bag. He had been looking for clues for at least thirty minutes. Yet, his missing belongings were nowhere to be found and his room was in complete disarray. He was still in disbelief that his wallet and his phone were missing, but was more irritated about losing his necklace: a gift from his late grandmother, and a generational talisman. He had never taken off the necklace, unless by absolute necessity, since his grandmother placed it there. Yet, it had miraculously vanished from his neck when he woke up an hour ago.

The doors of his closet were both wide open. It was empty. Marco’s clothes were all over the place: on the ground, on the bed frame, and on the desk. In the space between the closet and the bed, there was a large pile of clothes. Marco had to kneel down to rummage the mass once more. He continued to feverishly dig through the pile of clothes in the passage, which was only large enough to allow one to get to the window. He didn’t find anything. He was livid. When he stood up, there was a basketball in front of him. He violently kicked it out of frustration. It loudly banged on the door and then bounced back; an orange flash was all that Marco could see. It missed him by a hair. The ball continued its trajectory and made contact with the window. Loud, shattering sounds were heard across the building. Marco could not recall a worse Wednesday in the twenty-two years he’d been alive.

He sat at his desk, by the door of his dorm room, and joined the dots. His recollection of what happened the night before was at once vivid and disconnected. He could, for instance, remember being at a party that a friend of a friend had invited him to, getting a little too intoxicated, beating someone up, and continuing to drink until someone had to drive him home. Her name was either Laura or Carole, he thought, maybe. But he could not remember anything that happened afterward. He then quickly attempted to turn on his desktop. It wasn’t turning on. Marco let out a loud sigh and placed both of his hands on his fluffy morning Afro. He was still shirtless and had a few bruises on his neck and a few scratches on his back.

The walls of his room were filled with posters of famous basketball stars: There was the famous twenty-three with his signature dunk – tongue out and everything. Most of the posters, however, were those of the infamous number 3 with his signature cross. He was Marco’s idol and role model. Marco wanted to be him: live like him, play like him, even dress and walk like him. During practice, one would hear Marco yell “I’M HIM!” at his opposition. All of Marco’s teammates knew of his obsession with Allen Iverson. Marco was the center forward for his college team, the Kansas Jayhawks – and was a bright prospect, likely to get signed in the upcoming months.

It was seven thirty in the morning. Marco had a calculus class that he needed to attend. It was his least favorite professor and most despised course – one that he would be glad to miss. He thought of going to the police, but his driver’s license was gone along with his ID card, student ID, debit card, and all his cash. He couldn’t take the risk. He would normally call his father, but he didn’t memorize the digits. Marco had to make a decision. He tried to think, but the hangover had made it too difficult. He was in disarray, and his judgment was clouded. He had already missed morning practice. Marco stood up. He was a 6’8”, 225-lbs-built-like-an-ox specimen. He was light brown, the skin tone that women drooled over. His features were soft and delicate, but his personality was the total opposite. He was particularly facially and physically gifted. He had a sharp jaw, broad shoulders, and a visibly muscular frame. Had he not been a basketball star, he could have easily modeled. He hastily threw on a black Nike oversized hoodie, and a white Nike bandanna and left the dorm room in his gray pajama pants and white Air Jordan crocks.

The large fellow then made his way toward the gym, which was about ten minutes away. Each of his steps covered a distance large enough that it would take a normal-sized person two if not three strides to cover. He was obviously in a hurry. He entered the hall and, to his surprise, there wasn’t a single sign of life there. What would normally be a hectic and electrifying hall was deserted and quiet. Replacing the squeaking shoe sounds was the singing of birds who had to greet the newly arrived sun, and the loud sighs of Marco, who had to double-check to see if he was dreaming. He lamented his fate once more before leaving the gym. Marco was beginning to get irritated. He’d decided to find someone who could help.

Marco was in the hall when a severely overweight man started calling for him in a deep, earth-shattering voice. The man was not alone but accompanied by two other people.

“Marco, Marco...wait a minute!” the man yelled while trying his hardest to gallop.

The man Marco recognized as the dormitory janitor. His name was Miguel, a middle-aged Mexican fellow who barely spoke any English. He was in uniform and had attached a bunch of keys to his waistline so that with every step he took, loud clanks echoed across the otherwise quiet dorm hall. Miguel was compact: about 5’3”, with short limbs and a large beer belly. When he walked, his knees caved inwards with every new step, and his protruding belly was the star of the show. His face wore an unusually serious look as he approached Marco, who stopped and waited.

“Good morning Miguel,” spoke Marco in a soft, soothing voice. He had to look down to address him.

“Marco, these people are from the police,” said Miguel, whose usual humor had escaped him that morning, “they are asking for you,” he added.

One of the investigators stepped up.

“Good morning Marco. My name is George and this is my partner Judy. We’d like to have a word with you if you don’t mind,” the man spoke automatically and without much emotion. He had a thick southern accent with a high-pitched, annoyingly loud voice.

“I was about to make my way to the police station! I wanna report something,” Marco excitedly replied.

“Would you mind coming with us? We’d like to ask a few questions about the party last night,” Judy added.

Marco complied and accompanied the two to their vehicle: an inconspicuous black sedan with tinted windows. The two got in the front and Marco was seated in the back. He tried to explain to the officers that his phone, wallet, and necklace were missing, but the two dismissed his comments and refrained from having any meaningful exchanges with Marco. That was the moment his sixth sense started to tingle and anxiety began to settle. The rest of the drive was silent and murky for Marco. When they got to the station, the two detectives lead the taller, stronger Marco to a room. Upon entering, he immediately understood. He had watched enough True Crime to understand. Marco sat down. George asked him if he needed anything. Marco asked for some water. The two detectives then left the room. He was unaware that he was a suspect in a murder case.

The room itself was bland: gray walls, three chairs, a long, wooden table with black metal legs and a window that was too high even for Marco, and a surveillance camera. He had to silently sit in that room for long enough that he began getting agitated. His head was killing him, too. He then began pacing up and down the room with both hands behind his back. He wasn’t handcuffed. Marco wished he had his phone with him. He was running back the tape of what had happened before he blacked out. He remembered that he got in a girl’s car. Could it be that the girl set him up? Marco didn’t know her. He had never met her before. Why would she set him up? He then remembered seeing her with his ex-girlfriend, who was also present at the party.

Jude and George walked in with a bottle of water when Marco was about to remember the girl’s name. They directed Marco to the chair furthest from the door. George sat so that he was directly between Marco and the door and Jude sat to Marco’s right. Marco took a sip from the water bottle before placing it on the table. George’s head shone as a few sunbeams put it in the spotlight. He was pale-skinned, had a goatee, and was overweight. He also wore a serious, threatening look. Everything about him was as uninteresting as the room was bland. He had a tucked-in white button shirt and blue jeans with a thick belt on. He was in the process of writing something. Jude was in much better shape. She was fit and had short, brown hair. She had it in a ponytail. She had a blue button shirt and black jeans on. Her skin tone was a few shades darker than Marco’s. Unlike George, her face was less uneventful and more pleasing to the eye.

Marco could not recall committing a crime. The fight he had been in was a classic case of self-defense, he thought. He didn’t beat the guy up that badly, at least not enough to be charged for it. Marco was beginning to panic.

“Marco Murray. before we proceed, I am legally obliged to read your rights, you understand that, right, Mr. Murray?” Jude broke the silence in a calm, routine manner.

“Yes, I understand,” Marco replied, “But please call me Marco,” he added.

Jude then informed Marco of his rights. She read through the script in a routine, uninspired monotone. Marco then declared that he understood his rights. The investigator informed him of his right to a lawyer. Marco then told the investigator that his father was a lawyer and that he would like to call him but didn’t know or memorize his number; his phone was stolen. The investigator then left the room. Marco waited for a few moments. The two investigators came in and told Marco that his father was on the line. They handed Marco the phone and left.

“Dad, I don’t know why I’m here,” Marco replied and for the first time allowed himself to be vulnerable, “yesterday, someone tried to fight me... he hit me first and I hit him back a few times,” he added, “What did they tell you?” Marco fanatically added, almost out of breath.

“Listen, son, the guy you beat up is dead,” his father replied, “they’re investigating his death...You’re a suspect,” he added, “I’ve been telling you to stay away from that bullshit, why don’t you listen?”

Mr. Murray paused for a few moments, “look, don’t say anything. If they ask, don’t give them nothing. Wait till I’m there. Do you hear me, son? Wait till I’m there. I repeat, wait till I’m there…” his father added in equal parts raspy, rushed and serious tone, “Don’t fuck this up, Marco,” his father added, and hung up.

Marco had never heard his father curse. He knew it was serious. His father was not going to allow his arrest, even if it meant driving from Austin to NYC. Mr. Murray was almost sixty, yet he was speeding down the two-lane road, trying his best to cut the 2 hours to 1. It would be a lie to say that he had any respect for the speed limit. As a lawyer, he knew better than anyone that one mistake could lead to his son losing everything. He had to be there for him. Mr. Murray was doing 120 in an 80. He had overtaken everyone in his way, from trucks to sedans to sports cars. He was pushing his black SUV to its limits. He turned his wheel, this time trying to overtake a white Civic. He accelerated. The Civic accelerated. Mr. Murray was persistent and accelerated more. The Civic was obviously looking for a rival. The two were racing and neither was going to let the other win. But there was a red truck coming in the opposite direction. The road ahead was straight and the truck was still far enough that if either of them abandoned the race, disaster could be avoided. Mr. Murray was the victor, as the Civic decelerated. He turned the wheel to get back to his lane, but he forgot that he was driving at 160 mph. Mr. Murray lost control of the car. He pressed the brakes. The car made a 360 turn before it flew out of the road. It violently flipped many times before hitting a tree and coming to a dead stop. Anyone who had witnessed the accident would assume that everyone in the car is dead. It was flattened. It was contorted beyond recognition. Blood was leaking out of the jumble. Mr. Murray was dead on the spot.

It was ten in the morning and the police had to let Marco out when he refused to answer their questions. He was back on campus. He ran into a few of his teammates. He had told them about his accursed day.

“Marco, I think coach Joe might know a thing or two about your belongings,” one of his teammates told him, “You’ll find him at the gym,” he added, “See you this afternoon at practice,” he said, as he walked away.

Marco walked towards the gym without much of his usual enthusiasm. His steps were labored and his eyes were filled with despair. He hadn’t had much sleep the night before. His stomach was growling, his head was hurting, and his spirit was in disarray. The sounds of the shattering glass played through his head. He could still hear George’s southern accent in his ear. He arrived at the gym to find his coach there. He was on the phone with someone. It was Marco’s phone. He recognized it from the cover – He was the only one who had an Allen Iverson cover. Joe was in the process of expressing condolences to someone while also carrying Marco’s wallet and necklace in his left hand. His face was turned the other way. Joe could not see that Marco was behind him. He continued to express how terrible it is and apologize to whoever was talking.

“I’m heartbroken by the news,” Joe said, “I don’t know how to tell Marco... we took his belongings from his room when his teammates told me what happened,” Joe added, “I didn’t know it will amount to this,” Joe then broke down in tears, “He...he is a great kid. So talented….I hope he finds a way to cope with the news. I’m terribly sorry Mrs. Murray, I…I’ll tell him as soon as I can.”

Joe hung up. He turned around. Behind him stood Marco. His eyes were wide open. His face candidly expressed disbelief. He was not ready to hear the news.

“I’m sorry, Marco... Your father passed away this morning,” only Marco truly heard what Joe said.

Marco could not speak. The words of his coach were like an earthquake. Marco's entire being was shaken and his heart fell and shattered to pieces. Instead of asking questions, he let out a screech and began to weep. The hall wept back. When he fully understood, he could not remain standing. His back against the wall, Marco sat down and cried. Without saying another word, his coach tapped him on the shoulder a few times and opted to leave him alone. To his left, his belongings. His phone kept ringing. His wallet was fat with cash. His necklace was glistening. To his right, a basketball. Marco dipped his face onto his arms and cried.