You Can't Comb This (24/31)

 

Ext. Entrance to EMC Theaters - Day

It's a sunny but windy day. The weather calls for jeans and jackets, but GREG, 31, African-American, wears cutoff jeans and a t-shirt with a flannel tied around his waist. His hair is bright yellow with black roots, the sides are recently shaved. He paces aimlessly to the right of the ticket booth and entrance while checking his phone. 

Enter TYRONE, 28, African-American, wearing a plain yellow almost a size too small for him and a navy windbreaker and snatchback cap with his work's logo on it.  His stroll is not one of urgency.

GREG

What uuuuup?

TYRONE

Nothin, playa, you know, the usual: workin my fingers to the bone so I can provide food and tuition  for the future of my loins so his mama will get off my fuckin neck.

GREG

Mmm, things not going well in paradise?

TYRONE

What? Oh nah, she moved out.

GREG (choking on saliva)

Nigga, what? I just helped ya'll move into that tiny lil apartment last week.

TYRONE

Yeah well she decided to move back in with her mama instead of dealing with my apparently egregious ass. I dunno. Least I got more room for my stuff.

GREG

Shit no wonder you working so much, paying more in rent and all.

TYRONE

Oh no, that bitch is still on the lease. I gave her a break on utilities, but she still paying half. I just had dinner with her last night. She says hi, by the way.

GREG (under his breath)

I'm never gonna understand this nigga.

TYRONE

Huh?

GREG

Nothin.

TYRONE

Oh, I thought you were complainin about how your shorts are failin to make you look like a white gay.

GREG

Shut up. Ain't nobody trying to look white. Too much ass for that.

TYRONE

Clearly.

GREG

Gayer.... (sasses his voice up) guilty ass charged, your honor.

TYRONE

If you had a car, the license plate would definitely read ASS-MILK.

GREG

Exactly, but I'm trying avoid being hate crimed, so I don't drive.

TYRONE

Is that why you don't drive?

GREG

Maybe... Listen, enough about my trauma, my shorts are cute as fuck.

TYRONE

You sure you not tryna get hate crimed? All press is good press right?

CHAUNCEY (off-screen)

(yelling) Look at dem short ass shorts!

Enter Chauncey, 31, Bajan-American, noticeably taller than the other two gentlemen. He wears a black t-shirt with a character on it with black and white track jacket; his shoes match. 

GREG

Look at this late mothafucka here!

CHAUNCEY

Noooo. I was finding parking.

Greg and Tyrone look at the empty street, two cars are parked.

GREG

Bruh.

CHAUNCEY

Oh, not out here. I ain't even tryna let niggas trip over themselves as they notice my car. I parked in the garage two blocks down.

GREG

I'm surprised you walked that.

CHAUNCEY

You know I'm tryna be healthier... but I didn't; I rented a scooter and parked around the corner.

GREG

You have no shame.

The men walk towards the entrance of the theater.

TYRONE

What up, Chauncey?

CHAUNCEY

Aw shit, what up, Tyrone. I ain't know you was coming.

TYRONE

Yeah no, this is the only time of day that worked for me.

Ent. EMC Theaters Lobby - Day

The ceiling is high and the spotlights barely light up the large room. To the right is a wall of self check-in kiosks for purchasing tickets. Forward is the concession stand, attended by two teenagers. To the left is one teenager taking ticket stubs in front of a hallway that leads to the theaters.

GREG

Shit, fine by me. I hate crowded theaters anyway. People talking over the movie and shit. Now we can do all that for ourselves. Some real Negro Science Theater 3000 shit. Ya'll getting any snacks.

The group pauses, then laughs.

CHAUNCEY

Nigga, I like nice things, but I'm still frugal. 

Chauncey and Tyrone pat themselves to show off their smuggled goods.

TYRONE

The question is where is yo shit, cause I know it ain't in them tight ass shorts.

GREG 

(smugly) Maybe so. 

CHAUNCEY

Nah, it's in that big ass mess he calls hair.

GREG 

(gasps) Excuse the fuck outta me, sir. My hair is very in right now, according to me.

CHAUNCEY

Out here looking like an electrocuted troll doll.

TYRONE

Like Don King dipped in honey mustard.

CHAUNCEY

Like Frankenstein's Rent Boy.

Greg is visibly impressed by Chauncey's queer reference.

TYRONE

Chicken Nugget ass. Lookin like Rupaul in the 80s.

GREG

If that means you think I'd survive the AIDS epidemic, (sarcastically heartfelt) thank you!

CHAUNCEY

Would you though?

GREG

Obviously not. I'd have a rapid, tragic death and you all would moan me!

CHAUNCEY

I'm bout ready to moan the back of yo' head, with that crooked ass shape up.

GREG

You just mad cause I don't have to navigate hills and valleys like you do. My mama taught me well.

CHAUNCEY

Mm,  (smacks lips) how is your momz, by the way?

GREG

She's very well and doesn't say hello to you at all.

Chauncey laughs.

TYRONE

But really though, I'm tryna understand it myself. Cause, for real, the front ain't even that bad, but as you curve around to the back... It's like you threw all of trigonometry out the window. Started with a protractor and said fuck it; had a cheat sheet full of the equations in your pocket but fumbled it before your walked yo ass in the classroom for the test; Pythagoras' theory be damned!

GREG

Doesn't matter; I did very well in the class so I could forget it at will, thank you very much. And what about you? Mad cause I have hair to fuck with? Hmm? Mad cause you and me got revert hairstyles?

TYRONE

First of all, my bald is beautiful. Second, I'm mad cause you got hair and you fuckin it up. You don't deserve that shit. And yo shorts still short.

GREG

As I thought. You just mad cause I'm stylin on ya.

CHAUNCEY

Oyight.

Greg pauses in disbelief.

GREG

Really? In front of company.

CHAUNCEY

Honestly, you did it to yourself.

TYRONE

The fuck just happened.

GREG

We just have too many references. Ignore us.

TYRONE

Ya niggas are weird.

CHAUNCEY

Yeah, and you bald as fuck.

TYRONE

And your scalp gives bitches car sickness. And?!

The trio stops walking as Chauncey and Tyrone exchange glears.

GREG

Hey... hey... but what about my hair? Don't it look like pee-flavored cotton candy?

CHAUNCEY

Shut yo nigga-naps up. You lucky I left my pick in the car. 

GREG (grabbing his head)

You wouldn't dare.

CHAUNCEY

It's what your mother would want.

GREG

But "you can't comb this!"

Greg and Chauncey die of laughter as Tyrone is left in the dark again.

GREG

Shit. My bad. 'nother reference. Basically this kid at our high school had a loopy side afro... it was just really uneven all around. Anyway, long story short, after school we were all in the cafeteria after school and I snuck up behind him with my pick or comb - whatever I had - and from the nape of his neck combed up trying give his hair some life. Manz turned around to me and said "you can't comb this!" Sticks with me and Chauncey to this day.

TYRONE

Yall niggas are terrorists.

GREG

Not me! That was like my one time being a bully, deadass. I was quiet as shit before I met him.

CHAUNCEY

So was I. That school changed us.

GREG

For the better?

CHAUNCEY

Meh.

TYRONE

The fuck are we seeing again?

GREG

Bad Hair.

Word

~~

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Sista, I Can Save Ya Life! (22/31)

 

Sista, sista, so nice to meet ya

hope you can hear me over these speakas

tryna compete for ya peepas.

Look, my Nubian goddess, I ain't no rapper 

but that should let you know I have sense,

ain't up in my momma's bathroom

waiting for one day to take off

Gaze upon me, 

this ain't drip, this is elegance

and I'm here to share my blessings

upon you

You don't hafta wine on that table 

no more, you can be queen of the world

from the humbleness of my kitchen

See, I'm here to protect you

Put you in ya place

Show you the power

of the black man

A true king of this land

all I see belongs to me

No, I'm not saying you're property

but as my support, you'd be under me

Now hush your mouth

can't you see what's good 

when it's in front of ya face

Oh, who's your lil friend?

Almighty, a harlot, a jezebel, guttersnipe

Most men might find this alluring

but this perversion I do not

Again, sista, I beg you

Come away with me

Your father wouldn't want 

to see you like this

Live a better life with me

in service of me, enriched by me

Bitch, don't you see this drip!

Excuse me, my queen,

this white world we live in

has affected my brain

I'd almost never call you out ya name

No, bitch, come back

Aw damn

Hello, my milky maiden.

Word

~~

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Bleacher Report (2/31)

 

        Courtney sat bored with his elbows on his knees, chin in palms. It was a bad posture technique he learned at his last high school in New Jersey sitting in the three-row bleachers during morning prayer. Though he didn’t care for the Proverbs and bible stories he had heard since he was in kindergarten, occasionally things would liven up when the director of music would play seemingly improv-ed call and response songs on a wooden piano that never received the tuning it deserved. It was fun; it was full of comradery, yet he never felt like that showed school spirit. Now, roughly 1400 miles away in Kansas, he pined for the days when he didn’t have to listen to cheerleaders fumble over cheers they wrote themselves.

        Having always been a nerd - but never a dork - Courtney considered himself smarter than the people around him despite his steady A-/B+ at best average. His last school, while being highly dominated by country-renowned HS soccer players and NBA draft hopefuls, never forced sports into any student’s blood stream. Rather they highly encouraged - read: threatened - each young man to join an after school activity. So, Courtney found himself writing and editing the literary magazine only the teachers read, acting in the plays only the parents came to see, and singing in the chorus only judges (and the school during special assemblies) had the privilege to hear. Now he was lucky to enroll in an art class with barely any supplies as an elective.

        He looked at the gymnasium scoreboard to see how much time had gone by. “3:27,” it read. Either it was frozen from a previous game or he really still had over a half hour to go. He stood up in an attempt to fake going to the bathroom. “Sit down, new kid.” Courtney couldn’t remember his name, but it definitely came from the JV football running back or tight end desperately waiting for his turn on Varsity he met in homeroom earlier that day. Sitting next to JV was Mr Anderson who pointed Courtney back to his seat. Like everyone else, they wore the school’s colors while he kept a low profile in all black. Suddenly feeling shackled to the top of the sixteen-row bleachers, he sat down wishing he was tall enough to defy the pair by climbing through the window a foot over his head.

        Meanwhile on the gym floor, the cheerleaders had formed a human pyramid. He checked to see if any guys were at the base, but the only two seemed like straight reject-jocks. The lack of diversity drove him further from buying into this midwestern excuse for passing time. Like a teen-drama wiccan, Courtney tried to use his mind to force the apex cheergal to take a tumble. When she slipped, he let out an audible gasp, but it was choreographed. She fell neatly into one of the beefy cheerguy’s arms, spun out of his grasp and threw her arms in the air. He wanted to hate her for sticking the landing but this was the closest he would get to theatrics at this school, so he supplied the applause with my more fuel.

        “Yaaaaaas, Mine Creek High!” Becca screamed to the stands causing Courtney to gag over the blind appropriation. “Keep that energy going for your team captain - and my boyfriend - Luke Price and the Mine Creek Ringnecks!” Becca and the other cheerleaders quickly cleared the court floor as the lights deemed. Courtney looked above him and the blinds to the window were suddenly drawn close. He could barely see the row of blonde students seated in front of him.

        Strobe lights began to flash over the basketball court. A student in the front row immediately had a reaction, but he was rushed out on a stretcher almost as soon as he fell out like this happened every time. Courtney looked back to the center of the court, but the circle was missing. Then, a hitler-youth haircut rose from the floor followed by the body of a 6’4” adonis, his white and gold helmet under his arm as he rotated on a platform until it locked into place, level with the rest of the floor. He placed his helmet before his New Balance’d feet and dared the student body to make more noise by pumping his left arm in the air. “Ring!” “Necks!” “Ring! “Necks!” Courtney felt his color and popped his collar to protect his neck before anyone got any ideas. Almost as if waiting for his cue, the floor to the right and left of Luke began to flip over. On the other side, the rest of the Ringnecks were strapped down in their starting positions. The crowd went wild! The strobe lights sped up. Courtney looked around for a Sue Sylvester-type to see if this is how the budget for the arts was squandered.

        The remainder of the pep rally wasn’t nearly as eventful. It was an odd ten minutes of each member of the starting line up throwing words together to express how easily they were gonna beat last year’s 7-6 record. The 18-0 soccer team at Courtney’s old school would never have gotten this much attention, but at Mine Creek these mediocre Ringnecks were gods. The confusion and despise for school spirit hit new highs for Courtney once he was finally released from the gymnasium.

        In the parking lot, seniors and juniors sped off in Jeeps while sophomores and freshmen were picked up in their parents’ SUVs, yet they all shared similar bumper stickers: “Mine Creek Athlete on Board, Make Way,” “Make America Great Again!,” “American Pride or Die!” It was all an odd spectacle as Courtney climbed on his bike. Before he could pedal the five miles home, he heard leaves being crunched behind him and turned around to spot a girl with braces begging for his attention.

         “Hey, you almost forgot your team schedule!” the girl waved the Ringnecks Home-Away schedule in front of his face.

         He put his helmet on and strapped it tight. “Yeah… I’m good.” He rode off onto the non-lit road, hoping he’d make it home before sundown at 4:37.

Word

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The Story of Wayne Brady

I don't exactly remember when I realized I was on the verge of becoming an Uncle Tom, but I assure you it was before I graduated college. There wasn't any grand event like a cop singling my out amid my white friends or a profound witchhunt like a proud black woman calling out something problematic I said. No, I was too homely and quiet for either of those to transpire. Besides, being problematic didn't exist in 2007-2011; you were just wrong.

There was never any separation from black classmates as a whole. I had several friend groups during college, one being the extensive multi-cultural underground at my PWI. No, one day I just realized I was an uppity negro.

Though I grew up in a crime ridden city, I definitely grew up privileged. I had two older sisters and divorced parents, but I still got most of what I asked for. I still remember the day I ask my mother if we were poor because we switched from boxed to bagged cereal, yet I was never in danger of not going to private schools. My parents definitely sacrificed and provided for me.

By the time I reached middle school, I realized I was different. I couldn't relate to the other kids at church when they talked about their shenanigans. I would run into elementary school classmates and wonder how we came from the same place. My natural intelligence was budding. I knew better than to do certain things that would make me look "foolish" or ghetto, but I also looked down on those that participated in those reindeer games.

I had never seen the crime I heard about in Newark, but I always knew it was around me, lurking. Eventually it would come for me. And somewhere along the way, I equated lack of education and desperation to my black peers who weren't lucky enough to grow up like me. Newark was too black for me; I didn't know how to relate. So I was happy to leave for college, not realizing it was my gateway drug to caucasity.

Baltimore reminded me of Newark; it felt like home right away. However, there was a light that shined on Baltimore that at the time didn't shine on Newark. I realize now that light was gentrification mixed with quirkiness. The quirkiness is what distracted me, what drew me, what I related to. Besides my immediate family, I didn't know of any black people that were as weird or silly as me. I equated silliness with being carefree, but of course that isn't true. As a now silly 29 year old, I can assure you I am not carefree. I am weary.

Part of this weariness comes from the current state of our nation. It's exhausting, I'd like to report on it from the black perspective, but these days I only have my own. It's not that I've lost touch with black culture, but I've lost touch with the community. Post-college, I surrounded myself with wacky and interesting people, men and women of different cultural and sexual backgrounds. It was my own little bubble from the world, but in it, it's hard to admit white wasn't the default. Sure at the core of the group was a gay black man, an afro-latina lesbian, and an unfortunately-straight Asian men, but our playgrounds were wholly white spaces we inserted ourselves into, proving we could go anywhere.

Along the way, I lost the ability to relate to some black people. Occasionally, a friend would bring over a black person I didn't like because they seemed ignorant through and through. Granted, I held contempt for some of the basic white women my friends would invite over as well, but the unwanted black guests burned hotter in my spirit. Was I disappointed they weren't being "10x as good" but instead fine with the environment they were in? Was I jealous they were so at peace with themselves, that they knew where they belonged? Reflecting on it, it's still hard to tell.

So why am I exposing myself in this manner? Why am I criticizing myself? Why do I feel so lost?

Well, because I thought I had it figured out, but I don't. This year has proved that to me.

Part of me has always believed I had trouble writing because I was writing for the wrong audience, from the wrong experiences. I shifted my audience in college to educate the white and straight majorities about black and queer culture, but I lost myself along the way. I needed to be back among my people if I was going to properly write for them.

Last year, I joined an organization to not only help spread sexual health awareness and LGBT acceptance but to reconnect with black gay men. However in the last 20 months, I froze up during any event were they were the majority. I passed up invitations to black gay events because I didn't know who I would go with, to afraid to dive in on my own. I felt like a phony within my own demographic. Perhaps it's because I'm trying to be something I'm not, but still I yearn to reconnect with them.

In another facet of my life, I moved from the outskirts of the city to the downtown area two and a half years ago. I went from a mixed community to a predominantly black area experiencing an invasion from med students and young white 20-somethings. I had long considered myself a peacemaker between black and white, but that was no longer the case. The people I now live among are more like the people I left behind in Newark.

It's often that I feel the glares of the locals as I walk from the bus stop to my home. It's like they can tell I've abandoned them, that I'd rather sit up under my white friends than talk to them. And it's hard to say they're wrong. As much as I long to have a regular crew of people around me that knows how to play Spades and remembers Moesha, I don't actively seek them out.

I was robbed again at the end of last week, not even a full month after experiencing a home invasion. This time my friend and I were walking around our neighborhood playing PokemonGo, foolishly showing off our phones. We'd done it all summer; we didn't think anything of it. Before we could cross MLK Blvd, not even four blocks from our house, two black guys got us at the corner. I wanted to fight back, but they held my friend hostage with a chokehold. I didn't want to risk him getting hurt. I felt dumb; I felt betrayed; I felt humiliated. I never had much trust in white people as a whole, but living around them, I was starting to trust my own kind again - even if I still silently judged them as they stood on the corner. I would have liked nothing better than to be robbed by a white man for once.

I know I still have Uncle Tom tendencies; I'm working on them. It's still difficult when you don't feel accepted or safe around your own kind, but what have I done to make them feel accepted when they come across me?

My mind is still racing from all that's happened to me this summer, from the experiences of my entire existence. I don't want to feel other-ed anymore. In reality, though, it has to start with me. I have to change my mindset and be more open. That doesn't mean let my guard down; I've done enough of that already. However, I have to stop judging black people so harshly. Other cultures do that for us enough.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to attempt to find a black lesbian on TalkSpace* to listen to all my problems.

Word

*Not a paid advertisement, but it could be.