He is like a balloon to my eyes and heart. He is a balloon with helium or nitrous oxide, floating above my head, just out of reach of my grasping hands, outstretched fingers, needy palms. When I jump, leap, lunge upwards, every sinew straining into long lean strands of wanting, he bobs and weaves, dancing away, always just out of arms reach. But when I finally do grab hold of the string that ties him to the ground, I will slowly unwrap it from where it is attached to the protruding bottom, soft and flared like a baby’s belly button, place the little rubber tip gently between my waiting lips, and take in the precious, reality shattering air, letting it explode my lungs.
He is like a balloon shimmering in gauzy shades of gold and blues, dazzling the eye; reds and purples sliding across the dance floor with other, less colorful, less buoyant, earth-bound orbs. His laugh, that trickles through the door that opens and closes with the arrival or leaving of customers, is like blue raindrops falling upon my ears, soaking my senses with it's sound.
The room, through the big, wide glass window, glows with a preternatural rainbow radiance, and even from a distance, the shine of his pearly white teeth blinds. His hands, sleeping under a sheen of perspiration, sleepwalks, caressing the wood grain of the bar absentmindedly bumping into half empty glasses of gin, scotch and cheap wines. His body invites glances of would-be lovers and surreptitious touches that linger longer and longer, waiting for a further invitation to pleasure.
**** **** ****
A voice, jarring like the bullet train at midnight, cuts through the otherwise silence of the kitchen, sending him pinball whirling out of his reverie.
“What time you gonna be home tonight? Boy, you better be at Donnell’s house. I got half-a-mind to call and see if you’re really there tonight. Every weekend always the same thing, you over at that boys’ house. I bet his parents are wondering if you got a home, and why you ain't never there. I say again, what time you gonna be home tonight?”
His mama stood beside the stove turning hot water cornbread in a skillet of hot grease. He could see her body slightly rocking from side to side, her smooth, brown-skinned face shining like tigers-eye, crinkling and radiating in the kitchen’s heat as she waited for an answer.
“I’ll be home before midnight Mama. And don’t sweat it, D’s parents ain't tripping ‘bout my being over there so much. They cool.” His big giraffe eyes taking in the landscape of the kitchen, helplessly unable to focus on just one single image.
Mama stands, next to the stove, hands gently riding her fragile hips, all the while staring intently at her son who, in her eyes is beauty and peace and righteousness all swaddled together in white linen cloth and hung around her heart; her own sacred piece of heaven. The thought mamas’ baby, papas’ maybe suddenly crosses his mind and he flinches, his shoulders reaching upwards to comfort his ears jerking him away from her steady gaze.
The microwave clock flashes seven thirty, and she watches his feet to start to move in their now all too familiar, I-gotta-be-going-now, restless manner. “Lately,” she thinks to herself smiling worriedly, “that boy always looking to go somewhere.” A chuckle of concern slips harshly from her mouth.
He watches as his mother, now done cooking, drains the grease from the skillet into the grease can kept under the sink, and then runs cold water in it to cool it down. Laying the skillet in the sink, she turns to face him a smile gently playing across her easy demeanor.
“It’s been a while since I seen Donnell, what that boy up to? And stop all that fidgeting and tapping, that’s working my last nerve.”
He grunts out a unintelligible repsonse and she shrugs it away. Her own restless energy sends her through the kitchen wiping down counters and straightening fixtures and bric-a-brac. Suddenly she stops and turns to face him, her chin set with a determination he has never before seen, her mouth opens as if to issue forth words, but nothing comes out. The serious look that clouds her eyes scares him, he thinks to himself, “not tonight, any night but not tonight.”
“Well somebody gotta clean these dishes before your step-father comes home. I kind of recall that it’s your night since your sister did them yesterday. Better get to work if you plan on going anywhere tonight.”
With her speech made, she whisks around and heads for the kitchen door and out into the living room. He nods in her direction, his head bob hitting her back and releases the stale air from his lungs. The air as it rushes from his body, and falls to the floor in slow, ever shrinking spirals, he realizes he had trapped inside of himself causing his lungs to ache, and his heart pound.
Washing dishes was always his most hated chore, he is too tall for such work, “and I have to bend too far over to reach the sink”, he thinks to himself inside of his restless head, he grumbles quietly to himself, his hands fully immersed in hot sudsy water, and continues scrubbing out food-caked pans. “ I ain't but started and already I wanna sit my ass down and rest.” This time he complains loudly to the empty room.
Bending his long frame over the sink, and moving to a tune sequestered safely within his head, he rocks from foot to foot wetly tapping out time with the soapy sponge on the ceramic tile of the counter. His eye is drawn to the window over the sink, and his wandering thoughts catch the reflection of the headlights of a passing car somewhere in the distance. His mind hanging onto the rear bumper, zips him away from where he stands in the kitchen, until he can see Him superimposed with the face of his best friend, both floating effortlessly, vying for space, before his eyes.
**** **** ****
“D, man, stop tweaking. Ain't jack gonna happen to me. There’s a bunch of us hanging out, we just kick it for a while, then go home.”
Donnell’s hands swat at the air chasing away the fly that just buzzed him, his squat body bumping his friend’s, a friendly wake up gesture.
“Man, come on, you’re hanging outside of a club waiting for a dude twice your age and who don’t even know you alive. Shoot, he’s probably trade, a cheap, fine-ass whore, swapping jobs for a few quarters. Hell, he’s probably doing it for the thrill of it, you ever think of that? He ain't nothing but a hoe! Boy, if anybody comes up to you and asks you ‘what’s up,’ you better get your ass out of there.”
Donnell’s bed squeaks as he turns to face his friend where he lounges, resting on his elbows at the head of the bed. The friendly tension in the air coughs and breathes as it makes it way through the dusty air, across the pictures of Rap, Pop and R&B singers that line the walls. Lil’ Kim, Cisqo, DMX and Janet, stare down at the two boys as they stare into each other.
“Yeah, Donnell whatever.” He speaks haltingly at first, then in a more light and airy tone.
“And darn, monkey-boy, what you know about hanging out, and what type of guys I should avoid. You rarely ever leave this damn room. What, you tipping on the side or somethin’? And here I am thinking that I was schooling you about The Life. Tramp!”
**** **** ****
The blaring of a car horn breaks the reverie he was in, trapping it within a soap bubble, sending it floating away. Rinsing soap from the last plate, he racks it and quickly dries his hands. He walks across the kitchen and retrieves his jacket from where it hangs across the back of a metal dinette chair.
Passing through the door that separates the kitchen from the rest of the apartment, he looks towards the back room where the flickering of a television screen and occasional laughter, lets him know that his sister and mother are watching t.v. A grunt, a goodbye, or something like it is yelled to his mother as he passes through to the front door, and out into the night.
“His smile pulls in all directions, gathering tenderness, sucking it in from outside on the cold sidewalk where, the cars rushing by, paints me, and illuminates my thoughts with their headlights placed on high. He pulls me in through glass, and wood, and metal struts to where He stands amidst heated bodies that bump Him and each other, all the while smoking, talking, and dancing slow. And my heart; small, plain, covered with the pox-marks of an abandoned childhood, yearns to be in there smiling it’s own radiant, stunning glow. My heart that has only seen sixteen summers and winters, aches to be feeling the warmth, and looking at His long-distance love close-up, through nothing but the low illumination of the hazy club.”
“I pull back from the window, and rub my cold, numb fingers together, placing them firmly into my pants pockets where they sit cold and lifeless. I am a statue, one that nightly leaves lip-marks, red and dripping with heart’s blood, on the glass of the dance club.”
“Others watch me and roll, and bounce seductively into my legs wanting me to play with them; wanting me to join them in a game of one-on-one. I kick them away, afraid of their lustful panting, and desperate touches, instinctively knowing they cannot feed my hungers, only momentarily subdue them.”
“He is a balloon, and I think out loud to stares, whispers, and laughs, ‘I am a damned red rubber ball used for four square; a kick ball.’ And I roll away knowing that I will return once again tomorrow, and like every other night stare through the finger scarred window at Him, my circus balloon.”
He is like a balloon shimmering in gauzy shades of gold and blues, dazzling the eye; reds and purples sliding across the dance floor with other, less colorful, less buoyant, earth-bound orbs. His laugh, that trickles through the door that opens and closes with the arrival or leaving of customers, is like blue raindrops falling upon my ears, soaking my senses with it's sound.
The room, through the big, wide glass window, glows with a preternatural rainbow radiance, and even from a distance, the shine of his pearly white teeth blinds. His hands, sleeping under a sheen of perspiration, sleepwalks, caressing the wood grain of the bar absentmindedly bumping into half empty glasses of gin, scotch and cheap wines. His body invites glances of would-be lovers and surreptitious touches that linger longer and longer, waiting for a further invitation to pleasure.
**** **** ****
A voice, jarring like the bullet train at midnight, cuts through the otherwise silence of the kitchen, sending him pinball whirling out of his reverie.
“What time you gonna be home tonight? Boy, you better be at Donnell’s house. I got half-a-mind to call and see if you’re really there tonight. Every weekend always the same thing, you over at that boys’ house. I bet his parents are wondering if you got a home, and why you ain't never there. I say again, what time you gonna be home tonight?”
His mama stood beside the stove turning hot water cornbread in a skillet of hot grease. He could see her body slightly rocking from side to side, her smooth, brown-skinned face shining like tigers-eye, crinkling and radiating in the kitchen’s heat as she waited for an answer.
“I’ll be home before midnight Mama. And don’t sweat it, D’s parents ain't tripping ‘bout my being over there so much. They cool.” His big giraffe eyes taking in the landscape of the kitchen, helplessly unable to focus on just one single image.
Mama stands, next to the stove, hands gently riding her fragile hips, all the while staring intently at her son who, in her eyes is beauty and peace and righteousness all swaddled together in white linen cloth and hung around her heart; her own sacred piece of heaven. The thought mamas’ baby, papas’ maybe suddenly crosses his mind and he flinches, his shoulders reaching upwards to comfort his ears jerking him away from her steady gaze.
The microwave clock flashes seven thirty, and she watches his feet to start to move in their now all too familiar, I-gotta-be-going-now, restless manner. “Lately,” she thinks to herself smiling worriedly, “that boy always looking to go somewhere.” A chuckle of concern slips harshly from her mouth.
He watches as his mother, now done cooking, drains the grease from the skillet into the grease can kept under the sink, and then runs cold water in it to cool it down. Laying the skillet in the sink, she turns to face him a smile gently playing across her easy demeanor.
“It’s been a while since I seen Donnell, what that boy up to? And stop all that fidgeting and tapping, that’s working my last nerve.”
He grunts out a unintelligible repsonse and she shrugs it away. Her own restless energy sends her through the kitchen wiping down counters and straightening fixtures and bric-a-brac. Suddenly she stops and turns to face him, her chin set with a determination he has never before seen, her mouth opens as if to issue forth words, but nothing comes out. The serious look that clouds her eyes scares him, he thinks to himself, “not tonight, any night but not tonight.”
“Well somebody gotta clean these dishes before your step-father comes home. I kind of recall that it’s your night since your sister did them yesterday. Better get to work if you plan on going anywhere tonight.”
With her speech made, she whisks around and heads for the kitchen door and out into the living room. He nods in her direction, his head bob hitting her back and releases the stale air from his lungs. The air as it rushes from his body, and falls to the floor in slow, ever shrinking spirals, he realizes he had trapped inside of himself causing his lungs to ache, and his heart pound.
Washing dishes was always his most hated chore, he is too tall for such work, “and I have to bend too far over to reach the sink”, he thinks to himself inside of his restless head, he grumbles quietly to himself, his hands fully immersed in hot sudsy water, and continues scrubbing out food-caked pans. “ I ain't but started and already I wanna sit my ass down and rest.” This time he complains loudly to the empty room.
Bending his long frame over the sink, and moving to a tune sequestered safely within his head, he rocks from foot to foot wetly tapping out time with the soapy sponge on the ceramic tile of the counter. His eye is drawn to the window over the sink, and his wandering thoughts catch the reflection of the headlights of a passing car somewhere in the distance. His mind hanging onto the rear bumper, zips him away from where he stands in the kitchen, until he can see Him superimposed with the face of his best friend, both floating effortlessly, vying for space, before his eyes.
**** **** ****
“D, man, stop tweaking. Ain't jack gonna happen to me. There’s a bunch of us hanging out, we just kick it for a while, then go home.”
Donnell’s hands swat at the air chasing away the fly that just buzzed him, his squat body bumping his friend’s, a friendly wake up gesture.
“Man, come on, you’re hanging outside of a club waiting for a dude twice your age and who don’t even know you alive. Shoot, he’s probably trade, a cheap, fine-ass whore, swapping jobs for a few quarters. Hell, he’s probably doing it for the thrill of it, you ever think of that? He ain't nothing but a hoe! Boy, if anybody comes up to you and asks you ‘what’s up,’ you better get your ass out of there.”
Donnell’s bed squeaks as he turns to face his friend where he lounges, resting on his elbows at the head of the bed. The friendly tension in the air coughs and breathes as it makes it way through the dusty air, across the pictures of Rap, Pop and R&B singers that line the walls. Lil’ Kim, Cisqo, DMX and Janet, stare down at the two boys as they stare into each other.
“Yeah, Donnell whatever.” He speaks haltingly at first, then in a more light and airy tone.
“And darn, monkey-boy, what you know about hanging out, and what type of guys I should avoid. You rarely ever leave this damn room. What, you tipping on the side or somethin’? And here I am thinking that I was schooling you about The Life. Tramp!”
**** **** ****
The blaring of a car horn breaks the reverie he was in, trapping it within a soap bubble, sending it floating away. Rinsing soap from the last plate, he racks it and quickly dries his hands. He walks across the kitchen and retrieves his jacket from where it hangs across the back of a metal dinette chair.
Passing through the door that separates the kitchen from the rest of the apartment, he looks towards the back room where the flickering of a television screen and occasional laughter, lets him know that his sister and mother are watching t.v. A grunt, a goodbye, or something like it is yelled to his mother as he passes through to the front door, and out into the night.
“His smile pulls in all directions, gathering tenderness, sucking it in from outside on the cold sidewalk where, the cars rushing by, paints me, and illuminates my thoughts with their headlights placed on high. He pulls me in through glass, and wood, and metal struts to where He stands amidst heated bodies that bump Him and each other, all the while smoking, talking, and dancing slow. And my heart; small, plain, covered with the pox-marks of an abandoned childhood, yearns to be in there smiling it’s own radiant, stunning glow. My heart that has only seen sixteen summers and winters, aches to be feeling the warmth, and looking at His long-distance love close-up, through nothing but the low illumination of the hazy club.”
“I pull back from the window, and rub my cold, numb fingers together, placing them firmly into my pants pockets where they sit cold and lifeless. I am a statue, one that nightly leaves lip-marks, red and dripping with heart’s blood, on the glass of the dance club.”
“Others watch me and roll, and bounce seductively into my legs wanting me to play with them; wanting me to join them in a game of one-on-one. I kick them away, afraid of their lustful panting, and desperate touches, instinctively knowing they cannot feed my hungers, only momentarily subdue them.”
“He is a balloon, and I think out loud to stares, whispers, and laughs, ‘I am a damned red rubber ball used for four square; a kick ball.’ And I roll away knowing that I will return once again tomorrow, and like every other night stare through the finger scarred window at Him, my circus balloon.”
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