Tell Your Story (20/31)

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The Mac screen reflected Jake’s scruffy, pale face back at him. He had been at the kitchen table so long, his device chose to conserve what little energy it had left. His camera hid behind his laptop, ashamed of his lack of inspiration and creativity. The notebook to the left of him displayed a list of crossed out topics with comments like “boring” and “contrived” next to single lines. He ran his aqua-nailed finger over the topics, attempting to salvage them. At this point, Jake heard a depression nap calling his name. 

A jingle at the door finally broke his unintentional, self-absorbed trance. He tried to power his laptop back on as Leiomy walked through the back entrance into the kitchen with her hand covering her face, bonnet over her hair. When he failed to conceal his own embarrassment, he started to notice hers. “Hey, back already?” he asked.  

She froze with her back facing him seven feet away. Having been compromised, she rolled her shoulders back and placed one foot behind the other to slowly turn around. Her gaze met the floor. In her endeavor to avoid judgment, she noticed the amount of dust and crumbs piling up. Did they really live like this? She scrunched her face.

“That bad, huh?” Jake misjudged. “Let me see.” He stood up as he started to reach for her bonnet. 

“Boy, if you don’t!” She slapped his hand away. Readjusting herself, she prepared her reveal. She untied the knot around her chin and pulled the cloth from the top of her head, quickly throwing it in his face. She tried to beat feet out of the room, but Jake was a better athlete than he ever let on.

“Aht aht! Come back.” He chased her to the hallway but was met with ringed fingers that pushed him back into the room.  

            When Leiomy turned the corner back into the kitchen, he noticed her hair was still in a bun. “I didn’t get anything done. The place wasn’t for me,” she said, darting her eyes away from him.

            Sensing a compelling story if he asked the right questions, Jake pointed his camera and flicked it on while he resumed his seat. With a remote in his pocket, he started the recording. “That’s not what really happened? I mean, Flounce is cool, trendy. Shit, I go there.” He rubbed the back of his head to judge how soon he needed to make his next appointment. 

            “Yeah, but…” she started to be sensitive but decided she was at home, “it was so mothafuckin white in there. Like, I think I saw one black girl in the back under the dryer but like… parecía peligroso, I dunno.”

            Jake tried to hone his high school level Spanish classes. “Pinot Grigio? But I tho--”

            “No, stupid. Sketchy. Keep up. I dunno, I just… I’m used to feeling like this bad bitch, as confident, making people quake when I walk past ‘em. But in there, I didn’t feel threatened or nothing, but I felt like an other, even more than usual, you know. So like with that and then not even knowing what to ask for cause it’s my first time in a salon--”

“Wait, you never went with your aunties?” 

Leiomy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, they loved me and I was they favorite and all, but they weren’t gonna take who they thought was their sobrino with them to the salons. They wanted to gossip in peace.” She paused. “Maybe I should call them up. They haven’t seen me in years.” She stretched her mouth as if to convey doubt. “I wonder if mommy told them.” A hush fell over the room.

Jake, feeling they had only scratched the surface, wanted more. This was exactly the kind of diversity he couldn’t drum up from within. Sure, he just kicked two guys out of his bed this morning, but his exploits barely seemed interesting compared to this hair journey. “But shouldn’t you try to face your fears here first? Confront the gentrification of your scalp?”

“Wait, what? Who said anything about…” her finally looked his direction, the camera obviously pointing at her. As she noticed the red light blinking, Jake fumbled frantically in his pocket. “Jacob! You mothafucker, how many times do I gotta tell you to stop recording me without my consent? You lucky I don’t throw that fuckin camera across the room.”

“I can explain. I was just gonna look at this test footage first and then ask if--”

“I thought we were friends, but it feels like you’re just interested in making me your lil muse or some shit. You got a curse on me or something?” she stared him down.

Jake’s reaction speed got the better of him. “Ew, no.” He paused with fear as he closed his mouth.

“Ew?! So now your trans muse is disgusting. Ok, you cis bitch. Fucking white gays, I swear ya’ll worst than the straights cause ya’ll think you can get away with shit.” She started to storm out of the room.           

“Leiomy, wait! I just… you’re so interesting. I wanted to tell your story!”

She stood by the staircase, posing dramatically. Turning only her head, she replied, “I tell my story when I’m gotdamn ready. But for now it’s still unwritten; word to my girl Natasha!” With that, she stomped up the stairs to her room.

“Well she can’t be that mad at me if she’s quoting British girls at me,” Jake whispered to himself.

“Shut up!” she yelled down at him. Slamming her door, she ran to her makeup desk and collapsed. She wanted to cry, but she was exhausted. Looking above her mirror at her collection of wigs, she wondered how long she’d resign herself to these substitutes. She pulled her favorite one off the wall and positioned it on her head. She stared at her reflection, and after a few seconds she smiled. “Hey, excuse me, miss,” she practiced. “Yeah, I want this,” pointing to her head, “but for real,” and de-wigged herself. She started laughing at herself. “What, bitch? I’m serious! Make it work.” 

 

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Death of a Snob (19/31)

 

The year was 2012. 2013? One of the two. The TV rested on MTV because in my early 20s I was still a creature of habit. Though I had developed a very distinct yet appreciated music preference - Childish Gambino, Vampire Weekend, Janelle Monae, you know, the alternative shit - I'd like to know what was popular just so I could scoff at it. It was easy then. EDM-influence Pop was on the rise. FloRida and Pitbull ruled the airwaves; Ne-Yo and Usher were just beginning to sale out for streams. It felt quality was no longer appreciated by the masses unless it came from a melancholy British lady. 

I must have been deep in conversation with a friend, because when a lull occurred I recognized a slightly nasally voice coming from the screen. I turned to see Ke$ha on my screen. My instincts told me to change the channel, but I knew my roommate was fond of her, so I decided to quell my distaste. It was only ten minutes until this particular episode of her self-titled docu-series that she said something so simple yet so profound to me. Kesha tearfully spoke on how people called her trash and not a real artist making real music, but then she said something to the affect of, "I know I'm garbage. I like being trash. I'm just tryna let people have fun and give them something to dance to." 

How could I have been so dense as to not realize different music serves different purposes in our lives? Not everyone was Nas or Nina Simone or Simon & Garfunkel. Did I really find a deeper meaning to Juvenile's Back Dat Ass Up or did I just like it as a club banger? Then I, too, could find Your Love is My Drug worthy of at least a two step. It was at that point that I decided I liked Kesha. I decided to welcome a whole cast of pop and dance artists into my life. 

I didn't rank albums at the time, but if I were to go back to 2009 and create a top 9 list... honestly I'd have to include LMFAO's Party Rock. I'm sorry, but it does exactly what it sets out to accomplish. So if you ever ask me for an eclectic playlist, and I sandwich Fiona Apple between Cardi B and Ariana Grande, don't act surprised. It's all music; and it's all lovely. ...except the sounds of that 1989 rattlesnake. She can still kick rocks with no shoes on. 

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The Circuits Beneath (18/31)

[photo cred: Michael Crowe] 

            Oil ran down the side of the fire hydrant as the manufactured puppy lifted its leg. Francis watched in delight as its cyborg owner pulled on its lease. The puppy barked, sounding out each letter. When he laughed, the owner looked back at Francis. He prepared his organic feet for chase, but the cyborg with a mustache instructed him to follow. Just a block down the street and around the corner, a festival was taking place. Robot and cyborg couple laughed and cuddled while others enjoyed frozen yogurt or liquid nitrogen shakes. Tents for various attractions like Build-a-Friend and Clank-O were available. Francis could barely contain himself when the mustached cyborg nudged his shoulder. He directed the visitor’s attention to the Borg Me tent; his head was already nodding yes when Francis looked back to him. Before he could say thank you, his feet ran towards his wildest dream. When he reached the tent, he drew back the folds and felt something push him forward. He tumbled forward into darkness, falling until his eyes got tired.

            Francis shot up in his bed. His eye stung as a bead of sweat tried to wash the sleep out. Vivi rolled off of his sheet-covered legs and trotted up to greet their master. Annoyed he was back to reality, he couldn’t stay mad for long when his favorite black terrier was there to ask for more food after being fed his husband on his way out earlier that morning. He turned to his nightstand on his left and noticed he was up one minute before his phone alarm. It began buzzing as soon as he took his eyes off it. Cancelling the alarm, he noticed he had a message from Gino: Running late for work, feed V. sorry!

Vivi nudged his freelancing owner’s right arm. Slightly annoyed again, Francis swatted his dog away and sent them flying across the room. They let out a yelp as they  hit the wall and again plopping down to the floor. “Shit! Sorry, Vivi! The hell?” he looked at his arm. Something was off. He held both of his arms in front of him; his left arm was hairy all the way up to his back of his hand. His right, however, was smoother than Gino’s butt after a day at the spa. Rubbing his arm, he tried to recall when or why he might have shaved it when he felt an odd bump on his forearm. His birthmark protruded. Not one to stop short on a mystery, he pressed it.

His elbow hissed as his forearm split into two pieces and his hand rounded itself into a barrel. A subtle neon-cerulean light complemented his golden complexion. Vivi, having enough surprises for one day, exited the bedroom and waited patiently by their bowl. Francis followed a soft red light from his former hand to the wall in front of him. A little red dot moved as he waved his arm of newfound destruction around. Not wanting to test it out in his rent-controlled and small Harlem apartment, he shook his arm to reset it but instead activated what looked like a grappling hook. “Oh, get the fuck out.” He could not contain his excitement. He banged his feet against his mattress in glee; then it hit him. 

Grappler still drawn, he slid himself out of bed and looked at his legs. Both were still covered in dark, coarse hair. Inspecting his chest and stomach, the same were true of them too. He stood up and walked to the full length mirror in the bathroom for a full inspection. Oddly enough he could see everything clearly. He turned to the mirror over the sink and saw his bearded face looking back at him. Opening the cabinet, he withdrew his contact case. With his left hand, he carefully fingered his right contact and raised it to his eye. On instinct, he pulled his head back. He didn’t need these anymore. Placing it back in its case, Francis blinked and drew his head closer to the mirror for a better inspection. Absentminded, he touched his grapple to his right temple and heard a click inside his head followed by the sound of winding and whizzing. “No fucking way.” His phone dinged.

Running back out to the bedroom, he flopped onto the mattress and fumbled around for his phone. In his attempt to find it, he bumped his knee against his right arm and triggered the return of his hand. The neon light dimmed as his arm closed. Pausing to watch the process, he spotted his phone right under him. It was a notification from his camera app. He opened it to find a deer-in-headlight style selfie of him marked as two minutes old. He slid his hand down across his face, dragging his cheeks down. When his fingers scraped his right temple, another click sounded. “I’m gonna have to get used to that.” He rolled over on his back and kicked into the air. He froze. “But how?” he wondered.

Finally deodorized - he wasn’t sure if he could shower - and dressed in an-on the nose Cyborg 009 t-shirt and jeans, Francis finally fed Vivi as he tried to assure them that they were still friends. The kibble with half a stick of jerky did the trick. As he chewed the other half, he stared out his 12th floor balcony window. The building across the street didn’t seem that far away, and traffic seemed slow for a Wednesday. 

He slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony as the wind brushed past him. He thought his right arm felt cold, but it felt like nothing, just a lukewarm static. He tapped it against the railing and the grappling hook reemerged. Closing his left eye, he lifted the grappling arm and rested his left hand on it for support. He focused his right eye on a stretch of brick between two windows across the street about as high up as he was. Calculations and targeting circled appeared in his retina like he hoped. Three seconds later, he was locked onto his target. Taking a deep breath, he looked back at Vivi who watched from the kitchen. Francis clenched his buttcheeks and heard a firing noise. His shoulder jerked back as his grappling hand launched in a slight arc across the street. The cord was wire thin, but he inspected as it shot out of his arm. Would it be strong enough to support his weight? Before getting a chance to test out a few theories, he arm yanked him over the railing and across the street. It would seem his hook had finally met its destination. 

Trying to be brave in the face of adventure, Francis failed and yelled as he swung across the two buildings and slammed his body between the windows on the fourth floor. Dangling in pain, he realized he didn’t know how to retract his new accessory. As a crowd started to draw below him, he covered his face with his left arm in an attempt to conceal his identity. “Hey, asshole, we can still see you!” someone shouted below him. Perhaps he should have waited until nightfall to experiment. 

Thinking it was due to his body weight - even though he had just lost five pounds - Francis began to lower to the street level. Around the second floor, he grabbed his forearm and accidentally converted his hand back to its original form. He crashed onto three onlookers as he finally met the pavement, his hand whirling back to his wrist before anyone could realize he was without equipment.

“Who tha fuck do ya think ya are? Spidaman?”

“I’ve never seen that kind of parkour before.”

“Young man, can you please get off of me?”

“Fran, fuck, are you alright?”

After rolling off a middle aged black woman, Francis looked up to find the last question came from Gino. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I’m pretending to take a smoke break,” he responded. “I didn’t think I’d still find you in front of the house.”

“I’m not in front of the house; I’m across the street.”

Gino rolled his eyes. “How late did you feed Vivi?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Francis withheld for less than two seconds. “It was like five minutes ago.”

His husband laughed. “I thought you’d be down by Christopher St taking pics of the community by now.”

“You know I only do that on my birthday.”

“...happy birthday, bitch!” Gino finally blurted.

“Wait, what?” Francis stood as the crowd dispersed. “What day is it?”

“Mm, you didn’t check your phone. You’ve been out for five days. They said it’d take about that long, but I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up.”

Francis stared at his slightly shorter husband as he tried to play Nancy Drew a little faster. He looked at his arm. “Did you..?”

“Again, happy birthday, bitch.” He smiled. The new cyborg hurled himself onto this partner. Gino gasped as Francis’ new strength crushed him. “I take it you’re happy then.”

“I don’t know how you snuck this past me,” Francis released his husband, “ or how you paid for this… but fuck it, yeah. Duh. I love it. Best five days I ever lost. You coulda left a card or at least an instruction manual around for me.”

“And miss coming home to this? That was my gift to myself.”

 

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Monologue for Young Adults 5: Eustace (17/31)

 

[This is an installation in a series I began in 2017. Each stands alone as its own piece.]

Monologue 1: Housing --  Monologue 2: Green Thumb -- 

Monologue 3: Secession -- Monologue 4: Thirty More

Listen, I don't mean to be unoriginal, but literally the flames... burning... on the sides, sides of my face... I could dunk my head in a bucket of antidepressants and I wouldn't cool down. It's just a constant pressure -- a vice grip. Yeah, that bitch Eustace - you remember my imaginary bully Eustace - that cunt, just taking my head and slamming it on his work bench and strapping me down and twisting the little spinny thing on the side that tightens the vice grip? Yeah, he's just spinning that bitch hoping my brain just bursts. But it never does. It's resilient, my brain; props to her, I don't know how she does it. Yet she doesn't know how to convey to me... how to help me out of it, how to give Eustace the Jazzy Jeff sendoff after we've left the door unlocked for him to creep in.

I deal with this pressure, though, this burning on a daily basis. And you know, it's not always so bad. Usually I can ignore it until I have to think critically or someone says something that wakes Eustace up. Like, "Your hair looks great today, man." What does it normally look shitty, cause I didn't do anything out of the usual; maybe I actually woke up in time to take a shower that morning? Like, the fuck? Without fail, that mothafucka gets back to stomping on my brain like he's tryna make whine.

[his friend tries to acknowledge the pun, but Thomas pushes on] 

So when you say to me, "Thomas, just write the damn novel already?" my mental response to you almost everytime is, "Bitch, how?!" Like, I don't want to be tragic. I don't want to have to get drunk everytime I want to write, high everytime I have to edit myself, but you know what? Sometimes I'm just funnier that way. Sometimes it's easier to drown my oppressor than confront him. If there's money in the budget to find a therapist I can actually relate to instead of some boring old white man, great. Fantastic. I welcome it. Otherwise, you'll get the book when I can find the mental capacity to finish it. OR you can set me free. ...actually, don't do that, I need money. I don't need Eustace calling me a broke bitch, too.

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Drinks and Opportunity (16/31)

 

A pair of light snores fill the room. I stir as sunlight fails to penetrate Tim’s suede blackout curtains, my dark skin blending into the shadows. It’s better not to be seen right now anyway. His Etsy-purchased paintings of shows we love-in-common catch what little light enters the room and reflects back at me. For once, his TV isn’t buzzing from Netflix asking if he’s “still watching” causing his XBOX to conserve power from inactivity. I wish his TV was as turned on as I was last night. As still as the air is in this bedroom, I can’t stay put much longer. Throwing off Tim’s Grandmother’s quilt into a pile of questionably clean clothes, I push myself up off his carpeted floor, attempting not to anger the creaky floorboards hidden underneath. I glance over to Tim sleeping with Diego in his bed, his slim body barely in reach of Diego’s long, burly arms. Tim must have gotten too hot again, because he knocked both his boyfriend and his sheets off of him exposing their boxers. Odd, he usually talks a big game about sleeping nude. My left hand starts to reach out to wake them, but my right hand - ever the wiser - has already acquiesced our role in this scenario. Using what little night vision I have, I exit the bedroom.

            The rest of the apartment is filled with light from the glass doors leading to the balcony as it bounces off the barren white walls and linoleum floor paneling. I walk past the two wooden chairs and floral loveseat I rejected as sleeping surfaces last night in a contrived drunken stupor, but one that they both bought into. My head starts to ring as the fridge calls out to me. I bless Diego for being the patron-provider of Tim’s apartment – unlike me – as I reach for the open bottles of orange juice and one of the plethora of cheap champagnes named after me. With bottles in hand, I scan the kitchen. No doors on the cabinets let me see a box of pancake mix. Even without glasses, I spotted a carton of eggs and milk in the fridge. There might even be bacon in the lunch meat drawer. Without Diego, we would starve.

            Before I begin clanking around in the kitchen and raising the temperature, I place the bottle on the counter and retrieve three glasses from the cabinet over the sink. I pause and hover; I grab a fourth glass. Pushing two of them aside, I pour healthy amounts of Andre into each stout glass, topping it with enough orange juice to count as one-eighth the recommended daily allowance of Vitamin C. I return to the living room to search for a pen and pad while making sure the snores are still audible.

            Finding what I need, I draw a hand using the upper third of the page as if it were reaching for the glass of mimosa I positioned at the top of it. I add a few more lines and squiggles that wouldn’t mean much to anyone passing by before I start the message. “Dear Friend, I write to you in complete deference as I do every Sunday. I fear I may have overstepped last night. It seemed good to go, but you know how the mind justifies in the moment. I hope I stopped myself bef-- ”                       

 Before I can finish, an essence swirls out from the top of the pen culminating on the opposite side of the kitchen island. Before me stands a 7’4” Mesopotamian god with rich green skin, a horned hat cocked to the side, a tunic starting beneath his v-line. “My dearest Nabu, care for a libation? I’ll need one myself to save myself the embarrassment.” Never letting me drink along, he unclasps his hands and joins me, trying his best not to down the mimosa in one gulp.

            Drink still in hand, Nabu mentally writes a response to me, the words burning indigo flames while his many voices recite them in my head. “Lust is complicated, my disciple. At times disastrous. What exactly did you do?”

As his words extinguish, I write my reply…

“I decided to be independent for once, give them some space. A friend invited me over for some party games that obviously turned into heavy drinking. Honestly, no, that’s a lie. I would have invited Tim but I feel like he would have made a scene. Or maybe I feel like Soraya doesn’t like him. Either, I ventured into drunkness alone. I got drunk enough to be frisky. But in a room full of lesbians, the only thing I would get is drunker.” I pause to take a sip of my mimosa.

Nabu took his turn to tease, “You and your lesbians.”

I give him an eyeroll. “ALL my friends being nocturnal, I banked on Tim and Diego still being awake. As luck would have it, they were almost back home from their get together at one of Tim’s friend’s place. I asked if I could come over to post-game since I was only three blocks away. A hail mary in a way, but when you spend five out of seven days with someone, you’re used to them saying yes. He explained that Diego had finally met his match shot-wise, but I was welcome to come over.

“I bid farewell to my lumber of lesbians and associates and started my delightful but dangerous way through the downtown Baltimore streets. I beat them to the steps of Tim’s parent-funded condo, but only sat for two minutes before I heard a slurred but familiar voice behind me. ‘Andreeee!’ Diego screamed in excitement. He bearhugged me as I looked as Tim signing ‘It was better as a surprise.’

“After riding the elevator up five floors, I headed to the bathroom after Tim opened the door. Stopping in the mirror once I’d finish my business –“

“Ew,” Nabu interrupts.

“Fine! When I came out, Tim said, ‘Hey, we’re probably gonna go to bed actually.’

“I almost panicked having lost the twenty minutes I thought I had, but I recovered quickly. ‘I mean, do you mind if I just sleep on the floor like usual?’ Tim paused, knowing I would come up for an excuse not to Uber home and looked towards his living room. ‘Oh come on, that’s hardwood and someone you haven’t convinced your parents to buy you a full couch yet. I can’t stretch-out out there.’

“’Yeah, he can’t stretch-out out there. Don’t pr-persecute against us tall people,’ Diego called out from the bedroom. I nodded in agreement.

“’He’s barely four inches taller than me, ‘Go.’ Tim turned his brunette head and green eyes to reason with his boyfriend but he kept whining. ‘Okay, fine. Slumber party in my room.’ I thanked my friend and rushed passed him into his room. I looked for my usual blanket, but Diego was already half wrapped in it. He waved at me as I stood there ready to mingle but confused. I felt something suddenly drape over me. ‘Here, you can use my grandmother’s quilt; just don’t puke in it, ok?’ I assured him everything would be fine as I dropped to the floor at the foot of their bed. I couldn’t see much, but it was nice to be that close to them.

“’So… how was y’alls night?’ I asked. As Tim turned off the lights and slipped into bed next to his thicker half, he turned on a playlist of mellow white girl pop as he recounted the events of the night. As he bored himself out of the story, I saw Diego’s hairy-toed foot pop out found under the covers. I figured it would be better to start with Tim, since we have our… non-existent history, but drunk Andre took what he got.

“I slid my left foot from under the quilt and raised it high enough to start to play footsy with him. It only took two seconds before Diego let out a snicker or Tim became alert and raised his head because the next thing I heard was, ‘Andre, what are you doing?’ I never snatched my foot back and pretended to snore quicker in my life.”

“What is a ‘footsy?’” Nabu asks in his most cartoonish chorus of voices, I can’t help but to laugh as I cover my mouth.

“Basically, I tickled his foot with mine… to test the waters before I initiated anything.”

Understanding, the god replies, “So you did nothing wrong.”

“I mean, I tried it.” Without looking up, I can feel Nabu’s blank stare again. “Tim will find it offensive that I even attempted to sleep with them.”

“And what will Diego think?” The words burned brighter than the last. I start to blush. Diego’s a man of few words, but I always managed to get more out of him than Tim ever could. He was half-asleep and drunk, but surely he felt my toes against the bottom of his feet. Did he flinch or was he still? I can’t remember. Before I could look up to Nabu with worry in my eyes, he vanishes, his mimosa glass empty.

            A creak from the bedroom door causes me to panic and almost hurl the used glass into the sink. Finding the time to place it gently in the basin, I turn around to find Diego in a t-shirt and boxers making his own mimosa as strong as mine, standing just a foot shorter than the god. “Excuse me, I was going to pour that for you,” I protest.

            “You took too long,” he says in his low, gruff voice as he smirks. He takes a moment to brush his slightly-salted black hair out of his eyes. “Liquid brunch?”

            I laugh. “Actually, I was about to make pancakes and bacon but I got lost in thought.” I pause to see if he’ll say anything, but his glass is already to his lips. “Tim awake yet?”

            “Nah. Just the two of us for a while as usual,” his eyes survey the counter as he takes his first sip. He starts to reach for my pages to Nabu, but I slap his hand with a spatula. “Oww. Rude.” I gather the pages up and fold them into my back pocket. “Not like I can read your handwriting anyway, especially upside down. I might still your style when I start writing prescriptions.”

            “Yeah okay, Mister Med School. Not like you’ll be here in a year anyway.”

            “You never know, with some luck maybe.” We lock eyes for a moment. Diego takes a gulp and slams down an empty glass. “Now you can make me one.”

            “You just had to catch up to me, didn’t you?” I joke.

            “Nothing else to do,” he says.

            We share a glance, a cheers, a drink, a laugh. A chance.

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Life With Laverne (15/31)

            “Alright, now. Bless you, too. And may God rain his mercy and love upon you.” Laverne pressed “end call” and reclined in her office chair with her phone on her lap. Growing up in the ‘60s, she would have never imagined this to be her life: trapped in her two bedroom - one bathroom - one office apartment with no companionship besides her plants. It was nearing year two of the quarantine, and the air itself was a risk to anyone above a certain age. Laverne thanked her benefits package - and of course, the Lord - that she was able to retire early three years ago. She was mostly settled into the (still new to her) gated community. Though most of her neighbors were her age, she didn’t particularly care for them. There was also no true way to tell how seriously they took this quarantine, even at this stage. Some people just couldn’t bear to have their privilege slowly stripped away.

            Her solace during those years was the prayer line. Even as a minister, she had no interest in stepping foot in the sanctuary. God would protect her, but God also gave her sense. Luckily, the congregation agreed. So, every day around noon, she would field calls from her church members and prayer with them. Occasionally, if she was close with the caller, they’d take a moment to catch up or she’d listen to a small bit of church gossip until she felt the devil creeping in. But this only lasted an hour, 90 minutes at best. It was now 1:08PM.

            Laverne stood up, phone still in hand, and walked out of her office into the living room. She inspected the bottle of water still on the coffee table and decided it was full enough to ease into her good living room chair. She already knew there was nothing good on TV, but she turned it on anyway. A rerun of a 00s black sitcom that she lightly remembered played. If she didn’t watch this then who did? A quick process of elimination gave her an answer and how to preoccupy herself throughout the afternoon.

            She checked her messages to see if her son finally responded to her 9am good morning glitter greeting card text. “Howdy,” the phone displayed. She didn’t know where he got the idea to be southern from; he was living in Baltimore these days. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather and their days, which she knew he had no interest in, but it was a good excuse to stall for a topic even if she already had one. Consistency was key.

            “Do you remember that one show with that girl you used to like?” she included the thinking emoji for good measure.

            “With the father and the nice but kinda messy apartment?”

            “Yup.”

            “Oh, you’re watching One on One! So you’re finally watching the old shows on Netflix like I told you. I woulda thought you’d go for Girlfriends.” He must have informed her about them six times over the last three months but forgot everytime.

            “Actually, no. I was just flipping through the channels,” she admitted.        

            “Ah,” her son responded. “You know, I had a crush on her blonde light skinneded boyfriend, too.” He liked to spell words out like he would actually say them.

            She chose to ignore him. “So, what have you been up to?” He mentioned he finished lunch and was about to head back to work. She pried into his eating habits to see if he was eating decently. Even if he lied, at least he knew what he should be putting into his body. “I haven’t eaten anything yet. I’ve just been too busy.”

            “No you haven’t. You just don’t feel like getting your kitchen dirty yet,” he teased.

            “I am gonna make some salmon and brown rice with sauteed spinach later,” she teased back.       

            “Just remind me of my ailments, why don’t ya? Bad enough I’m around all these crabs as it is. Sounds healthy though.” Laverne got caught up in what turned out to be a “very special” episode of the show. By the time she remembered to check her phone, Trevon had started a new topic. “By the way, I’m doing another drag show if you wanna tune in tonight. Shirley Turner would love it you even got some of your friends to tip her.” He added a winking emoji.

She sighed and then smiled. It was nice that he was starting to let her back in after her mistake almost a decade ago. Still, she wasn’t fully comfortable with it. But for the sake of keeping her son in her life, she’d play along. “You and your hobbies.” 

            “Hey, it’s not like I quit my day job or anything… yet.”

            Trevon Marquise, she thought, you better stop playing. “[Frown emoji] Well… if you do, just make sure you have insurance or another reliable job lined up.”

            “Mmm hmm. Sure, mum.” His texting voice was multi-dialected. “Anyway, let me get back to work before I get out of the mood. Working from home is funny that way.”

            She knew he was lying to get off the phone, but she has done enough pushing. “Alright, well have a good day, alright. And maybe we can facetime later?”

            “It has been a while. ...I’ll check with my secretary and get back to you?”

“Sure, my son. I love you, and God bless you.”

“I love you, too. Byeeee.”

Laverne laid her phone on the arm of her chair. By this point in the episode, she was lost. With her stomach starting to churn, it was time to get up anyway. She flipped to her usual gospel music channel on cable. With the remote still in her hand, she stopped before she stepped into the kitchen. Checking the channel guide, she selected the disco channel. She could live secular again for a day.

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Prologue of a Player (14/31)

The wind howled as it whipped around Rufus’ olive trenchcoat. The tail of his coat slapped his calves as he waited in the rain, beads of water stopping inches shy of hitting his bare head before rolling off to the side of him. Half a joint-dangled out the right side of his lips. Usually there would be an advertiser of private goods or underground activity accompanying him on the corner, but the storm scared them away. Most people didn’t share his love for shitty weather, but most didn’t have his knack for editing destiny.

            Hand in his left pocket, he fingered a deck of 54 cards, each time shocking himself a little. Whatever was calling him in the middle of the night wasn’t ready yet. His gray eyes darted around the raindrops trying to spot any odd movement in an alley or oncoming traffic. Nothing. Noteven a sad looking dog or drowned cat around to beg for his protection. 

 With a moment to himself, the son of Robert Caldwell looked at his reflection in the puddle before him but did not see his own dark skin. Rather, the green-eyed tempter of his youth gazed back, begging him to join on the other side. Reluctant to waste a perfectly fine jazz cigarette, Rufus kicked at the puddle and turned away. He pinched the joint until it went out and shook his fingers off in the rain, pocketing it for later.

A pain struck his temple. He looked back to the puddle, but nothing was there. Someone else lingered; Rufus kept his guard up but closed his eyes. He quieted his thoughts and focused outward. “I need that jacket!” rang in his mind. It echoed around until he felt a warm sensation between his left eye and ear. 10 o’clock. Rufus pivoted to the right and threw a figure onto its back. He opened his eyes. A pocket knife clanked over a drain and a teenager with torn clothes and no shoes laid trapped under Rufus’ left wingtip shoe. 

“You look wet,” he said to the kid. “Follow me.” He released them and walked down the block until he reached an alley. The teen watched as Rufus stopped before disappearing. They rolled themselves over, grabbed their knife, and followed. Once they were close enough, Rufus introduced them to his office: a small gaming station made of scrap wood with a chair that didn’t match the other on opposing sides. “Sit. Relax. I’m gonna figure out how to help you.” Rufus claimed his seat, back to the brick wall behind him. “I said, sit, damn. I ain’t gonna tell you but twice now.”

The teen sat, unaware of how dry their chair was because they were soaking and shivering. They barely noticed Rufus slip out a deck of cards from his left pocket; it wasn’t until they heard the sound of shuffling that they looked up. “The fuck,” they wondered.

“Watch your profanity,” Rufus said aloud. “What if your mother suddenly appeared?” He laid down his first card: the Queen of Hearts. A zap of light blinded the teenager, accompanied by a loud crack that deafened them. “Or at least someone to keep you warm at night?” 

The teen shook off the crippling effects and looked to their left. A contained trash fire danced next to him. They stuck out their arms and dried their hands, bringing them back in to feel the warmth against their face.

            “I’m sure that’s a more useful spot than wherever it originally was going to hit. Best I can do with short notice; I ain’t no conjurer.” Rufus smiled as the kid was too occupied to pay attention to him. He shuffled the queen back into his deck and started to shuffle again when another pain struck. Slipping the deck into its rightful place, he tried to scout the alley, but the smoke obstructed his view. Suddenly he felt a burning toward the back of his head. 6 o’cl-- but something blunt beat the back of his head from the outside. Woozy, he felt a force grab under his armpits and drag him into the brick wall. “Fuck,” he whimpered.

            “You watch your profanity,” the kid tried to retort, but their kind stranger was gone. And once again, they were alone.

 

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