Lloyd Johnson's Blog
September 20, 2017
The Best Possible Angle
After years of struggling as a working actor in L.A., Kendrick Black's dream of becoming a movie star is finally coming true. With his new movie shaping up to be a blockbuster, Kendrick is within reach of Hollywood's A-list.
When he becomes involved in a hit-and-run, his dream is shattered. Wracked with guilt, he's ready to turn himself in, but those with a stake in his success won't make it easy.
Will Kendrick follow his conscience, and keep his sanity? Or, will his thirst for fame win out in the end?
When he becomes involved in a hit-and-run, his dream is shattered. Wracked with guilt, he's ready to turn himself in, but those with a stake in his success won't make it easy.
Will Kendrick follow his conscience, and keep his sanity? Or, will his thirst for fame win out in the end?
Today Is A Good Day
Prayer does wonders. I prayed to God the last few nights to make me inspired. It's lovely to feel inspired, and to open the gates and allow creativity to pass through unbridled. The last couple of days have been good in that department. Not only have I written, but I've written something that pleases me. And it flowed unobstructed. And I'm grateful for it!
I posted a notice on my Facebook Author page to the readers who volunteered to read The Best Possible Angle in exchange for an honest review. I have yet to see how many of those people will heed the due date. Still, I can't allow myself to be sidetracked should they decide not to honor it. I have a strong feeling that this book will do very well. It's all about fitting the pieces. There's always a way; every piece must fit.
I posted a notice on my Facebook Author page to the readers who volunteered to read The Best Possible Angle in exchange for an honest review. I have yet to see how many of those people will heed the due date. Still, I can't allow myself to be sidetracked should they decide not to honor it. I have a strong feeling that this book will do very well. It's all about fitting the pieces. There's always a way; every piece must fit.
July 23, 2017
Just A Little Something I'm Working On #2
This is from my latest project with a dash of suspense. Working title is "Because Mama Said So..."
PrologueLanelle never thought she would be kidnapped, and locked inside the trunk of a car. After lying in a fetal position, her legs have begun to cramp. The pain is unbearable. She wants to cry out, but knows that to do so will only piss off her captor. Lanelle decides to stay quiet, and tries to breathe through her mouth. The air is thin, and stinks of gasoline and a musty blanket that keeps brushing against her face. The darkness surrounding her scares her worse than not knowing where she’s being taken. Fear trickles like the piss that ran down her legs after she was shoved into the trunk. Her fear of the dark stems from childhood. Of course, it’s a fear many children hold. Lanelle wishes she overcame that fear, just as she wishes she could shake off the leg cramp. To move is agony, and to remain still feels just as bad. None of it matters, because all she can do is replay scenes and conversations leading up to the very reason she’s in the trunk in the first place. The car hits several ice patches, veering from side to side. Lanelle prays that God will be merciful, allowing both she and the driver to crash or tumble to their deaths…anything to prevent what lies in store for her. Lanelle can feel the slight pumping of the breaks, and the driver manages to regain control of the car…her prayers have gone unanswered. They move from the smooth, cleared asphalt to bumpier, unplowed terrain the moment the car turns off the main road. As her captor reduces speed, Lanelle knows they will stop soon. With every passing moment, her doom draws closer. Sweat runs down her filthy face, and settles into the creases of her neck. She smells the urine saturating her pants. For whatever good she thinks it’ll do, she prays for more time.Eventually, the car stops. Despite the eerie quiet and stillness, she listens intently for sounds that might give her clues of where she is. She waits to hear the driver’s door open, but her captor doesn’t get out right way. Lanelle has never learned the virtue of patience. She hates waiting for a cup of coffee, much less her own demise. Not that she wants to die, but she wonders if this is some game her captor relishes playing with her, and will it drive her mad before something far worse happens?Then, a spark of hope renews her spirit, and the pain in her leg dulls. Maybe the reason her captor hasn’t gotten out of the car yet is because they’ve had time during the drive to rethink things. Maybe she can plead her case. She smiles at the possibility of saying just the right thing to inspire sympathy and a reprieve. Lanelle finally hears the trunk release activated, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. Slowly, the trunk door rises open, and she watches her own breath lift into the cold night air. Her captor stands before her, staring with the same wonderment a person might possess when looking at a struggling animal that’s been trapped.“Please don’t do this,” she pleads, searching her captor’s face for any sign of compassion or remorse. “Sooner or later, there’s gonna be a whole lotta people missing me. And they’ll come looking for me.”Unfortunately, one look into the face staring down at her, Lanelle knows that her captor is unmoved. Her faith that all will end well wanes. “Oh, I’m gonna have a really goodtime getting rid of you,” her captor says, leering at the caught prey. “In fact, when I’m done, they won’t be able to find you!”
June 10, 2017
Bill Maher and the N-word
I am prepared to get booed for what I'm about to say. While I found what Bill Maher said to be cringe-worthy, I wasn't offended, because I recognized the context in which he spoke. Should he have said it? No. But it doesn't make me question his integrity as someone who, in my opinion,has stood as an ally on many issues I care about. Frankly, I think we progressives waste a lot of time with the whole knee jerk response to things. Every time you turn around, we're offended by something someone said or did, to the point where people don't take us seriously because we're written off as a bunch of crybabies. This era of extreme sensitivity and political correctness is one of the reasons Trump won. His winning was in part a referendum on political correctness(among other things). I have a feeling that most of the outcry came from people who either don't know who Bill Maher is, or don't even watch his show. But, I think those who actually watch the show on the regular know that while the joke wasn't the least bit funny, Bill meant no harm. And I found Ice Cubes argument that the N-word is our word exclusively and we have claim to it and all derivatives to be rather silly. Either the word is offensive and egregious and nobody should use it, or perhaps we should work at not giving words such power. Personally, I don't think anyone should use the word. At least then when racists use it there's no question as to the intent of its use.
February 16, 2017
Thank You, President Trump!
I remember in the days leading up to the election, watching as pundits gleefully handed the election to Hillary Clinton. Even people like John King over at CNN and Steve Kornacki at MSNBC stood by their virtual electoral college maps showing the various combos in which Hillary would win, and how the unlikely Donald J Trump could still squeak out a win if only in his dreams. And I recall thinking at one point, "people are getting a little a head of themselves." However, considering that this anti-establishment candidate was the most disruptive creature to the political process many of us had seen up until that point, with a list of egregious behaviors and scandals that probably ran the length of the city block Trump Tower sits on, one can hardly blame the talking heads and SNL writers for proclaiming that Hilary had this one in the bag.
Even Hilary hopped aboard the boat of early prediction, deciding to gracefully ride out the process, letting the Don have his moment to pontificate nonsense and imbue intolerance. After all, it would all be over soon; despite growing division in the country, the United States would come to its collective senses and elect the first woman president November 8, 2016.
However, by late afternoon election day, I had an uncomfortable stirring in my gut that told me this would not end well; by mid to late evening, as the voting precincts continued to report, and the people on cable news feverishly worked and re-worked the virtual electoral college maps to pull out even the most remote path to a win for Hilary, I began proclaiming Donald Trump the winner. I went to bed that night feeling as though I had witness something transpire that I could not unsee.
The next day, the mood for much of the country was somber. While Trump supporters were jubilant, many others wondered what happened. Later, as the shock dissipated, and was replaced with anger, the blame game commenced. It was the fault of the blacks who didn't rally behind Clinton with the same verve as they had with Obama; it was the disengagement of the millennials--namely the ones too sour after Bernie losing the nomination to support Hilary. Or was it the fault of the activist voter who expressed their displeasure with both candidates by staying home altogether? And lastly, did Hillary lose because she simply ran a bad campaign? Did she approach this with the same sort of calculation, void of any humanity as she's known for? Was there a sense of entitlement on her part? Did she think that Trump was such a clown of an opponent that she didn't really have to roll up her sleeves and campaign in the states Obama carried twice?
The reason Donald Trump was elected the 45th president of the United States is a combination of all those things, and one other...we brought this on ourselves. Meaning, ever sense August of 2015, beginning with the Republican debates, we have devoted all of our time to Donald Trump. We talk about him, and we think about him. And because we've given this man all of our energy, we have continued to attract into our lives the very thing we have dwelled upon.
Now, only weeks into a Trump administration, there seems to be one quagmire after the next in the White House. From cabinet appointee choices, to leaks, to Michael Flynn, Trump has given us much to keep himself relevant in our lives. But there is one good thing that has sprung up from the narcissism and divide and conquer tactics...Trump has inadvertently sparked something. People are coming together in ways they have not in many years. There is a galvanization of people who refuse to accept Trumps dystopia, who believe that despite our challenges, America IS great and our best days are in front of us. A fire has been set under people, who maybe in another election cycle would have been content with merely complaining to anyone who will listen. No, these fired up individuals are informed and involved. They are willing and ready to question, protest, and BE the sort of change they wish to see in our country. And for that I say, thank you, Mr. President!
Even Hilary hopped aboard the boat of early prediction, deciding to gracefully ride out the process, letting the Don have his moment to pontificate nonsense and imbue intolerance. After all, it would all be over soon; despite growing division in the country, the United States would come to its collective senses and elect the first woman president November 8, 2016.
However, by late afternoon election day, I had an uncomfortable stirring in my gut that told me this would not end well; by mid to late evening, as the voting precincts continued to report, and the people on cable news feverishly worked and re-worked the virtual electoral college maps to pull out even the most remote path to a win for Hilary, I began proclaiming Donald Trump the winner. I went to bed that night feeling as though I had witness something transpire that I could not unsee.
The next day, the mood for much of the country was somber. While Trump supporters were jubilant, many others wondered what happened. Later, as the shock dissipated, and was replaced with anger, the blame game commenced. It was the fault of the blacks who didn't rally behind Clinton with the same verve as they had with Obama; it was the disengagement of the millennials--namely the ones too sour after Bernie losing the nomination to support Hilary. Or was it the fault of the activist voter who expressed their displeasure with both candidates by staying home altogether? And lastly, did Hillary lose because she simply ran a bad campaign? Did she approach this with the same sort of calculation, void of any humanity as she's known for? Was there a sense of entitlement on her part? Did she think that Trump was such a clown of an opponent that she didn't really have to roll up her sleeves and campaign in the states Obama carried twice?
The reason Donald Trump was elected the 45th president of the United States is a combination of all those things, and one other...we brought this on ourselves. Meaning, ever sense August of 2015, beginning with the Republican debates, we have devoted all of our time to Donald Trump. We talk about him, and we think about him. And because we've given this man all of our energy, we have continued to attract into our lives the very thing we have dwelled upon.
Now, only weeks into a Trump administration, there seems to be one quagmire after the next in the White House. From cabinet appointee choices, to leaks, to Michael Flynn, Trump has given us much to keep himself relevant in our lives. But there is one good thing that has sprung up from the narcissism and divide and conquer tactics...Trump has inadvertently sparked something. People are coming together in ways they have not in many years. There is a galvanization of people who refuse to accept Trumps dystopia, who believe that despite our challenges, America IS great and our best days are in front of us. A fire has been set under people, who maybe in another election cycle would have been content with merely complaining to anyone who will listen. No, these fired up individuals are informed and involved. They are willing and ready to question, protest, and BE the sort of change they wish to see in our country. And for that I say, thank you, Mr. President!
September 29, 2016
Manifesting...
Back in March 2015, I was let go from my job. The short answer is that I was no longer willing to meet company expectations. I take 100% responsibility for that. I worked there for just over ten years, so I'd seen the direction my former employer was heading in, and I knew that included caring less and less for their employees. Now, at anytime I could have said, "You know what? Enough is enough! I quit!" But I didn't do that. Instead, I became locked into the same behavior millions of people find themselves exhibiting. I stayed in a job that I hated, because I thought a crappy job was better than no job. After all, there were so many people who didn't even have jobs...I should be counting my blessings, right?
The truth is, I had grown bitter working for people who I felt didn't appreciate me, and while I knew that narrative would not change, I stayed, finding comfort in having the routine of getting up early five days a week to go to a job I loathed. Sadly, each morning, I'd have to give myself pep talks to start my day, and usually fifteen to twenty minutes into my day, something annoying would happen, and I would choose to be miserable for the rest of my shift.
To make it through the day, I'd find myself daydreaming of the day when I could go in there and tell certain people to kiss my ass, or if I chose to show a bit more class, I'd work the shift and politely tell them at the end that I would not be returning. I envisioned working from home, making a living doing what I loved to do.
Well, in January of 2015, I had a breakdown at work that was so bad that a colleague was concerned for my mental state. But it was in that moment I declared, "I've had it! I don't care how it will happen, but I'm giving this place six more months and then I'm done!" By March my dream manifested itself because I had let go of the rigid idea I'd had that I was going to walk out of that place of my own volition. When in fact, God's universe found a path of least resistance to get me out of there.
Was it ideal? No. But once my ego healed, I realized that I'd gotten exactly what I asked for. I wasn't happy, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I could no longer do the job expected of me with any sincere effort to do it well. Had I not been let go, and left to my own devices, I'd probably still be there, bitching and moaning. But I think in that moment in January, I was able to align my vibrational frequency with what I wanted.
Since then, I am happier than I've ever been. I work from home, making a living doing what I love. I've traveled around the world, and have realized that all of the supposedly elusive freedom I knew was out there, I have been holding in the palm of my hand all along. Once I was willing to divorce myself from all of the preconceptions of how I thought my desires would come to me, they were able to manifest. It has been so wonderful, sitting in God's grace and watching as miracles happen, and answers to problems present themselves at the right time. And this is only the beginning...
The truth is, I had grown bitter working for people who I felt didn't appreciate me, and while I knew that narrative would not change, I stayed, finding comfort in having the routine of getting up early five days a week to go to a job I loathed. Sadly, each morning, I'd have to give myself pep talks to start my day, and usually fifteen to twenty minutes into my day, something annoying would happen, and I would choose to be miserable for the rest of my shift.
To make it through the day, I'd find myself daydreaming of the day when I could go in there and tell certain people to kiss my ass, or if I chose to show a bit more class, I'd work the shift and politely tell them at the end that I would not be returning. I envisioned working from home, making a living doing what I loved to do.
Well, in January of 2015, I had a breakdown at work that was so bad that a colleague was concerned for my mental state. But it was in that moment I declared, "I've had it! I don't care how it will happen, but I'm giving this place six more months and then I'm done!" By March my dream manifested itself because I had let go of the rigid idea I'd had that I was going to walk out of that place of my own volition. When in fact, God's universe found a path of least resistance to get me out of there.
Was it ideal? No. But once my ego healed, I realized that I'd gotten exactly what I asked for. I wasn't happy, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I could no longer do the job expected of me with any sincere effort to do it well. Had I not been let go, and left to my own devices, I'd probably still be there, bitching and moaning. But I think in that moment in January, I was able to align my vibrational frequency with what I wanted.
Since then, I am happier than I've ever been. I work from home, making a living doing what I love. I've traveled around the world, and have realized that all of the supposedly elusive freedom I knew was out there, I have been holding in the palm of my hand all along. Once I was willing to divorce myself from all of the preconceptions of how I thought my desires would come to me, they were able to manifest. It has been so wonderful, sitting in God's grace and watching as miracles happen, and answers to problems present themselves at the right time. And this is only the beginning...
August 5, 2016
Something I'm working On...
This is what I've been working on. Please feel free to constructively tell me what you think...
May 1994We’re cruising around in Brice’s maroon jeep. It was brand-spanking-new, a high school graduation gift courtesy of his wealthy father the chiropractor, details that Brice is all too happy to share with anyone who will listen.It’s our eighth loop through the town center of York, Nebraska. The song “There She Goes” from the So I Married an Axe Murderer soundtrack is playing. Brice turns up the volume to full blast. Although I like the sunshininess of the song, my ears feel assaulted. Aaron, who’s sitting in the back seat is more concerned with his product-laden hair becoming mussed by the afternoon breeze. Aaron has no idea that he needn’t worry, that every strand of the thick hair on his head is sufficiently frozen in place. As we enter our ninth go-around, it occurs to me that absolutely no part of the scenery has changed between the first eight times and now. The cobbled streets are the same; the scanty, thin trees lining the sidewalks are the same. Even the floating aroma of pizza coming from the local pizza joint is the same. What if anything are we expecting to be different this time? Actually, I had asked myself that question a few times throughout the year. The answer was a simple one, we were bored. We were just three college freshmen who managed to fill our weekends, circling the square of the provincial town of 8,124. To be honest, I feel embarrassed, but not enough to give me pause from participating. Driving around in circles doesn’t mean half as much as the brotherhood I’m a part of. Brice turns off onto a side road that winds us back to the start of our route. “There She Goes” has just finished, and I’m suddenly aware how much I appreciate the quiet. I only have seconds to enjoy it because Brice rewinds the cassette back to the beginning. I turn to the open window and expel a sigh into the air; after all I can’t complain---it’s not my car. I know that Brice means nothing by it; he’s trying to keep things upbeat and light, although he’s well aware that things haven’t always been good between us. They still aren’t, but neither of us want to end the year bitter, so we play along to get along.Brice is turning the corner again, driving past Joe’s Pizza. Aaron sticks his head out the window like a puppy. He’s trying to be inconspicuous, but I can tell he’s inhaling the food-scented air. He’s hungry. Aaron’s always hungry. Makes me think how uncomfortable he must be sitting directly behind me. Aaron is stout, and despite my having brought the seat forward as much I comfortably can, I know he’s uncomfortable. Aside from Aaron’s extra pounds, he is quite handsome. He dresses up both nicely and expensively. One would think if you shelled out a fortune for clothes that they would look nice, but the two don’t always go hand-in-hand. Aaron would tell you that his hair is his best asset, though I would argue that his luminous, saucer-like eyes, full lips and goatee are what give his baby face character. Brice is the one with the conventional Hollywood it-boy looks. Square-jawed with perfectly trimmed five-0’clock shadow, piercing blue eyes all under a mop of shiny, dishwater blond curls. He has an athletic build with an odd indentation in the middle of his chest. Looks-wise, I think that he will be in perfect company if and when he decides to follow his dream of becoming a special-effects make-up artist out to L.A. “There She Goes” is playing again. I so badly want to push the stop button, but I don’t. Instead I stare forward, wondering where I fit into this menagerie. Anytime Brice is around I feel grossly inadequate. I’ve never told him this, so I don’t necessarily blame him. I’m not bad-looking. Thin before heroin chic was a thing. My face is both weathered and angular. I have cheek bones and eyelashes many women envy. With my hair having been freshly cut to the scalp, I happen to think I look the way R. Kelly looks in a picture hung on my dorm room wall. There aren’t too many black students on campus, and absolutely zero in the town of York. The seven of us black students are exotic just by existing.When I glance over at Brice, his eyes are beyond happy, almost manic. He doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s got life in Wichita, Kansas to look forward to, and that life is a good one. His on-again-off-again girlfriend, Emily, called to say she wants to give their relationship another go. Brice knows that it’ll only be for the summer. First time I ever saw Brice not get exactly what he wanted. But I’m not worried for him. He’s got daddy’s money to numb any sting the real world can give him. And I’m jealous. I doubt Brice will look beyond his own excitement to care that I wish I had someone to offer me their summer. “Anyone besides me hungry?” Aaron shouts over the music. Brice turns the volume down, and I am glad for this. “I could eat something,” I say. “What do you guys want?” Brice asks. “Well, you’ve driven past Joe’s about a hundred times now. Safe to assume I could go for a slice.” “I dunno, guys. I sorta had a hankering for tacos.” Brice says, smiling suddenly. I know this smile. The smile says that since Brice is driving, he’s running the show. “Dude, you can’t possibly drive past a pizza joint a thousand-frickin’ times and not want pizza,” Aaron reasons. “Yeah, but dude, you can get pizza anywhere. This is the last time we can get those fried potato thingies. They don’t have those in Wichita.” Brice looks at me for support. But I continue staring forward. “Buddy what do you wanna eat?” he asks me, trying to make me part of the conversation whether I want to be or not. Truthfully, I couldn’t care less what we eat, but I know Aaron is set on pizza, and I know that Brice has an entire summer in Wichita of getting what he wants to look forward to. “I’m with Aaron,” I say, proud to be the deciding vote. But I know that in the end, Brice’s asking me is merely a courtesy. He’s ultimately going to do whatever the hell he wants to do. We’re driving down the street. The taco place comes into view. I hear Aaron grunt behind me. I imagine him petulantly folding his arms over the width of his chest. Brice looks at Aaron through his rearview mirror. He must have received visual confirmation of what I envisioned. “I tell you what, guys. I’ve really gotta have those potato thingies. Why don’t we stop here first, and I’ll take you guys to get your pizza on the way back to the dorm? Promise.” I decide to disconnect from the conversation. Brice pulls into the long line of cars snaking up to the drive-thru. Now that Brice is getting what he wants, he’s more than happy to wait in line. We’re still far enough from the menu and microphone that I can see there is virtually no customers inside the restaurant. “Why don’t you get out and order inside? There’s no line.” “No, we’re fine right here. Look, the cars are moving.” Each car moves a fraction of a pace. “You guys should start thinking about what you want so we can just order when we get to the menu,” Brice instructs us. He’s somehow forgotten his earlier promise to swing by Joe’s Pizza on the way back to the dorm. Sitting in this line is his way of rubbing our noses in it. “I believe we told you what we want to eat,” Aaron says. “Yeah, I know, but we’re right here. And anyway, I really need to get back to the dorm. I still have a boatload of packing to do. I’m sure you guys still have things to pack up.” Aaron punches the seat behind me. Though the fabric and stuffing act as a buffer, I can feel his knuckles in my back. “Do what you want, Brice,” Aaron says, refusing to conceal his anger. “You always do.” We finally make it to the menu. Brice brings the music down again, and leans out toward the microphone.. “Okay, my treat, you guys. What do you want?” I can’t decide whether Brice hears what he wants to hear or if he’s deaf. I’m staring at an oversized glossy picture of las papas deliciosas, and have to admit that they look scrumptious. They don’t exist back in Minneapolis either. The scent of seasoned taco meat drifts inside of the jeep. My stomach has begun to eat itself because I’m so famished. But Aaron is pissed, resenting how Brice seems to make up the rules as he goes along. When Brice finally pulls a white, greasy bag into the jeep, the smell kills me a little. Aaron didn’t order anything, and despite the fact that I’m starving, neither did I out of solidarity. Those potato thingies Brice just had to have aren’t even the first thing he pulls from the bag. His bite into a soft shell taco takes off half the taco. Lettuce and cheese disappear into his mouth like a paper shredder. Brice takes a different way back to the dorm in order to avoid passing Joe’s Pizza. He doesn’t turn the music on. I can feel Aaron’s anger smoldering in the backseat. I, too, have nothing to say, so the three of us sit in awkward silence. Though I doubt anything is too awkward for Brice. He has nothing to be upset about. And why should he? He just got what he wanted. When Brice pulls into his parking spot behind the dorm, I wait until he shuts off the car to get out. I get as far as opening the door when I feel a tug on my arm. I turn toward him only because he’s still holding on to me. I hope my look of scorn conveys that I don’t appreciate being touched by him. He lets go of my arm, but he’s wearing a baffled expression on his face. “Guys wait. I mean, come on. You’re not gonna let the year end on a sour note are you?” he asks. “Well, you seem perfectly okay with it,” Aaron says. “I am not,” Brice says incredulously. I wonder if this is all you get when ordering the Brice special---he gets to behave entirely the way he wants to, then gets to act as though he has no idea why you could possibly be pissed with him. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but it didn’t take me a frickin’ year to realize that you know exactly what you’re doing,” Aaron says unashamedly. Brice’s face contorts. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look unattractive. He looks like a small child who thinks he’s being picked on. It’s a rare morsel of realness from a guy who’s always pretending and trying to convince everyone that he has his shit together. “You can speak for me, Aaron, because I agree with you,” I say. “I don’t believe this. I try and have a moment with the people that I thought were my friends and you dog me.” “Yeah, something like that,” Aaron says, completely checking out. “May I get out now?” I unbuckle my seat belt and climb out. I push the lever on the side of the seat that allows it bend forward. I take a glimpse of Brice, as he sits with his head bowed. I can still make out a look that’s both miffed and mystified through the shadows on his face. He clutches the rumpled, greasy, white bag of half-eaten food sitting between his legs. “That it, then?” he asks. I stand to the side, allowing Aaron space to exit the car. Neither of us answer him. “All righty then,” he says as I close the door in his face. We continue on, the two of us. In my head, I’m waiting to hear the sound of his jeep door opening and closing. But I never do. He’s probably waiting for one or both of us to turn back to show we care. I’ve never been so happy to return to my room, though by tomorrow afternoon it will no longer be mine. I sit on my bed. A rush of exhilaration passes through me, like someone grateful to have barely escaped with their life. My eyes dart about the room, my brain races to take inventory of everything that’s left to be done before whoever is coming to take me and my things back to Minneapolis shows up. Maybe it’s a good thing that Brice brought us back as early as he did. Brice. The name lingers like a burn on the tongue. And I’m disappointed with myself that I’ve allowed it to. The guy has a way of getting into the nooks and crannies of my mind.Both he and I began the year as ardent children of God. Well, my faith was shaky by the time I showed up. But I looked towards Brice’s bright light to show me the way back to Christ. As soon as I began to feel stable in my spiritual walk, Brice began to question his faith--- probably for no other reasons beyond intellectual boredom and enjoying the attention he got from people who thought he was “falling away.” Thus began our spiritual ebb and flow. Today, I’m spiritually crippled, while he’s got his mojo back. Suddenly, he’s sitting on top of a mountain of sanctimony, wagging his finger in the face of everyone else’s iniquity. As far as his brush with the dark side and personal challenges, he acts as if he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.My head hurts, as it often does when my encounters with Brice don’t go well. I lie back on my bed. Dinner is in a couple hours. A nap is the perfect exit.I’m awakened by a knock at the door. Hardly seems that I slept as long as I did.I sit up, swing my legs out so that my feet touch the floor. “Yeah?” I call out, trying to shake off my discombobulation.Aaron opens the door. “Hey, man. Was wondering if you wanted to grab some chow.”I’m tickled that anyone actually uses the word “chow.” I rub my index finger and thumb between the inner corners of eyes. I look at Aaron. He looks clearer to me. Crisper. I notice his hair is wet. It’s no longer the stiff helmet it was before, rather, now it falls naturally on his head. He’s changed his clothes, too.“Sure. Looks like you went to a lot of trouble just to go to the cafeteria.”Aaron shrugs nonchalantly. “Took a shower,” he says before hitting me with, “Brice been by your room?”“Not unless I slept through it.”“Consider yourself lucky.”
“Okay. Why?”“he showed up about fifteen minutes after we got back. Figure he thought he should give me some time to calm down.”“And did you?”“Fuck no!”It’s my first time hearing Aaron curse. He sounds as though he’d been holding it in like a belch the whole year and needed to let it out. Tension left his face like a slowly deflating bicycle tire. “Wow.” Is all I can offer.“The guy’s a jerk. Can’t believe I put up with his shit for an entire year. Tell you what, next year, I’m making a better effort to make new friends.” Aaron always looked so intense. Now, he looked as though he’d just been set free. His rant was accompanied with a smile. I can’t remember the last time before that I saw him smile. “You decided whether or not you’re coming back in the fall?” he asks me. It hits me out of the blue. I don’t have the heart to tell Aaron that the decision isn’t up to me. “The deal was that my grandparents paid the first year. I already know my ma hasn’t saved up any money.” I feel bad lying to Aaron. He deserves the truth, and I think he’s man enough to take it. But the reason why I came to Friend Christian College in the first place isn’t something I’m ready to share with anyone. I’m still bitterly swallowing it all myself. “You go ahead. I’ll meet you over there,” I say finally.“Okay. I’ll save you a seat.”I wait for Aaron to leave before I give in to wreck this conversation is doing to my body. My heart is palpitating. I place my hands on my head. I can feel my brainwaves rippling like waves; like the time I smoked some weed that tripped off my paranoia. Right now, I’m panicking in the worst way.I didn’t want to start thinking about what brought me here. But thanks to Aaron, I’ve got no choice. Accepting the flood of memories that breach my mind, I close my eyes. Unfortunately, I can remember it all like it was just yesterday…
May 1993Pastor Elrick Cotton knows what he’s walked into. However, a rumor has traveled through the church with such ferocity he has no choice but to address it. His wife, Lorelle, is noticeably absent. She chose to return to Atlanta. As far as she was concerned, the good pastor was on his own.He stands before his congregation, clutching his bible, drawing strength from it. As he peers out at the stretch of faces, he’s met with looks of disappointment and disgust.“Brothers and sisters of the church, I have sinned.”Hisses and groans erupt throughout the auditorium. Summoning courage, Pastor Cotton plants his feet firmly and stands tall.“For the last six months, I’ve been engaged in a consensual, yet, inappropriate relationship.” “And don’t forget homosexual?” Someone yells.An older woman; a respected beacon of wisdom in the church, pushes on to her feet. Even with her frail frame, she holds a bulky purse, which swings in her grasp as though she wants to hit the pastor with it. “And you call yo’self a man of God? You need to be ashamed of yo’self!”. She has the entire crowd with her. “Leviticus 18: 22!” the woman’s Sunday wig shakes as she stomps up and down through cheers of familiarity with the verse. “‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination!’ Read your bible, Mistuh!”Pastor Cotton looks as though someone has spit in his face. But he regains composure to say, “In light of what’s happened, I can’t effectively pastor this congregation. Starting today Deacon Matthews will act as your pastor until a permanent replacement is found.”Ma stands up. “You just had to choose my baby, didn’t you?”I recoil in embarrassment. I feel every eye focusing on my mother and I. I feel heat crawling up my neck, sweating my back. I want to grab her by her arm and yank her down to her seat. But I don’t have the nerve. “He’s still a baby!” Someone exclaims. “You should be trying to show him the right way to live, but instead you over here trying to tangle him in your web of sin!” “Yeah!” the worshipers scream, sounding increasingly like a lynch mob.Elrick puts his bible on the podium and lifts his hands to the crowd, palms out. Tears fall from his eyes in thin, neat streams. I begin to cry on his behalf. I warned him not to do this. Now he’s up there, vulnerable. Judgments and cheap shots are being fired from every direction. He flinches with each hit. I want to go up there and hold him. Maybe all the hate in the room will ricochet off of us. It’s not our fault we fell in love. I stand up and look at him. Our eyes meet. Ma tries to yank me down in the way I wanted to yank her earlier. But I too stand firm. “He was old enough to consent. He wasn’t a baby,” he says.“He’s my baby!” Ma yells.Elrick closes his eyes, puts his hands to his aching temples. He expected this; to lose the church he helped build and grow in membership. He expected to lose the respect of its members. That must hurt worse than the financial loss.But it will all be over soon enough.He looks frustrated; there’s a desperate need to finish what he wants to say. It won’t change their minds, but at least he will have gotten to say his piece. “I have shamed God. I have shamed this church. I have shamed my wife. And I have shamed the young man I’ve grown to love over these past months.”There is hissing and groaning from the congregation.“I’ve shamed myself. I apologize with all of the love I have for each of you as your brother in Christ…”More hisses. More groans.Elrick walks from behind the podium. He faces the angry crowd, outstretching his arms as though he’s given all he can to them. The noise coming from the twenty-five hundred members sounds venomous. Both Elrick and I have already been bitten. He slowly descends the pulpit. Each step seems to take longer than it should.Midway through the aisle, he turns to face my mother and I. They lock eyes before I get what’s left of his sad gaze. It’s a brief moment; his eyes are puffy, wet, and apologetic. Ma eyes us both with a stare that’s cold enough to bring down the temperature in the auditorium. He reaches out to me. I long to absorb his distress. But the congregants standing nearest to us swipe their hands at him; like they’re shooing away flies. They shield Ma and I from him. They have no clue that I want to feel his touch or that I t’s vital to me. Elrick continues on his way. He makes it through and out the church. I want to go after him. Sensing my intent, Ma grabs hold of my shirt arm, pinching the skin beneath. The look in her eyes chills me. “I wish you would,” she sneers.My heart thumps and my brow sweats. The air inside feels like it’s going to dry me up until I shrivel into nothing. I try to step away, but Ma won’t let go, and my feet feel like massive cinder blocks. Time passes slowly. Each second drips by. All I can do is watch everyone lose their minds around me. I watch the members of the church pile against themselves in the doorway; shaking their fists, seemingly foaming at the mouth, then slowly return to their seats. This army Elrick had sought to build for Christ has turned on him.The Deacon finally comes forward to try and calm everyone down. I receive a tap on my left shoulder from someone in the pew behind me. I turn around to find my grandmother glaring at me. She beckons me with her index finger to come closer. “I just want you to know that you and that man did this. I hope you both are satisfied,” she whispers directly to me. Granddaddy, who’s sitting next to her, won’t even look at me. I turn forward to find Ma giving me side-eyes, before she rolls them. Time still moves glacially. I try to drown out the nonsense being said from the pulpit. I just want to figure out how I will see Elrick again.Before the benediction, I begin to rise. Ma pulls me back down before I have the chance to fully stand up. I feel like a five-year-old being kept from running off.“Where are you going?” she asks.“To the bathroom. Am I allowed?” I quietly hiss.I get up and make my way down the aisle toward the exit. I do my best to ignore every single stare. But, instead of veering off to the right to go downstairs to the restroom, I continue out the front door, on my way by foot to meet Elrick at his house.By the time I get to Elrick’s I’m sweaty. The entire walk I imagined his car parked out front as the perfect reward for making the trek. I’m disappointed to find that car isn’t there. I look around, hoping to see it turn the corner. My impatience fuels my steps as I walk to the corner to peer down the block. There’s nothing of interest to see. More importantly there’s still no sign of Elrick. I return to his front step. I have no choice but to sit and wait. In the time I sit there, all I can do is think of the bedlam we created. I wonder if I had been the other woman as opposed to the other man if the church would have responded as vehemently. I sincerely doubt it. After some time, I recline against the screen door and fall asleep. I’m awakened by a gentle tap. “You shouldn’t be here, Lawrence,” Elrick says to me. I have no idea how long I’ve been out waiting in front of this man’s door, but he’s a welcomed sight. “I can’t help it,” I say, rising to stand. “I had to see you.”Elrick stands there. I notice a glassiness in his eyes. There’s a slight sway and a gust of booze coming from his breath. I didn’t know he drinks. Didn’t know pastors were allowed to.I’m scrutinizing Elrick hard. Uncomfortable, he moves to open the front door. “I understand that you only did what we talked about, but I still don’t understand why you let these people dictate your life. You saw for yourself how little they care about you. They obviously will never understand!”Once we’re both inside, Elrick turns to look at me. He smiles at what he perceives to be my naiveté. “You know what? I think I’m seeing for the first time just how young you really are.”“But, you told me age doesn’t matter. You said what matters is how we feel about each other.”“You don’t get it, do you?” Elrick asks. He looks emotionally spent, like he’s too wound-up to have this conversation with me.“So what are we going to do now?” I ask.“We aren’t going to do anything. You’re going to go home and try and patch things up with your mother.”“I ain’t got shit to say to her!”“She blames me for all of this. That’s why you still have a chance to fix things with her.”“I’m staying right here with you.”“Sweetheart, Angel, now isn’t the time.”“Elrick, we have nothing to be ashamed of. We fell in love. If people can’t understand that then tough shit. They’ll be all right.”Elrick smiled. “You know, you’re much too intelligent to have such a dirty mouth. There’s plenty of other ways to get your point across.”“Do I look like I came here for a lecture?”“No, you look like you’re going home.” Elrick kisses me on the forehead. A long sigh pushes through his lips. “Listen, now isn’t a good time for me. I’ve lost a lot. I can’t be bothered with your mess, too.”“My mess?”“Yes, Lawrence, you’re not helping. I just want to be alone.”“Will you call me later?”“I don’t know. Probably not.”“Are you breaking up with me?”Elrick’s eyes begin to tear up again. “As much as it breaks my heart to say…yes, I’m breaking up with you. We had no business getting involved in the first place.”“Yeah. Okay. Whatever. Go ahead…spend the rest of your life trying to make everyone else happy. You’re ridiculous!”“I can’t give you what you need. Especially now. But I know there’s someone out there who can.”My eyes fill with tears off my own. Right now I don’t just want Elrick to hold me. I want him to take me into his bedroom and make love to me. I know it’s not going to happen. “You better call me later,” I say, my voice trembling. I head towards the door and open it. I want him to tell me to stop. I want him to fight for us.“I’m not going to promise that.”“Fine. Go fuck yourself!” I scream before slamming the door behind me. I stand outside, staring at the door. I’m giving him one last chance to come through that door and beg me to come back in. I need him to show me that all we went through this morning isn’t for nothing. But, the door never opens, so I back away. There’s nothing left to do except head home.As I open the door I find Ma standing there. She’s probably been waiting there the entire time, still wearing her church outfit. She greets me with a slap across the face.“I have never in my life been more embarrassed than I am now to call you my child!” Her words have slapped me a second time. I utter a feeble, “Ma..”“Get the hell outta my face!”I didn’t think what my mother had to say or thought would matter as much as it does. I feel shaken. Another second and she’ll strangle me with her contempt. I have no fight left in me. Elrick gave up on us and so do I. I do as I’m told and walk away. My brother Plez Jr. shakes his head as I passed him on my way to my room. I close the door and change into some jeans and a t-shirt. Then, I crawl into bed, not knowing what to do next.Later, I can hear Ma talking angrily. I pick up the extension to see who she’s talking to, praying that she doesn’t catch on that I’m listening.“I don’t know, Mama. Maybe Plez was right. Maybe I was doing the wrong thing by accepting Lawrence that way. Watch, he’s gonna mess around and catch AIDS just like my friend Clayton did. You mark my words.”“Well, why in the hell are you just sittin’ around actin’ like you have no control over this situation?”“What am I supposed to do, Mama? He’s eighteen!”“I already told you what to do. Let your daddy and me pay for Lawrence’s first year. But if we do this, he’s going to Friend Christian College. Being around God’s people is where he needs to be if you want to rid him of this demon.” “Where is it again?”“It’s in York, Nebraska. As heartland as you’re gonna get. I doubt it’s the kind of place he’s gonna find anybody to act out with.” Ma sighs in a way that lets me know she’s not fully on board. “I don’t want him to get out there and feel like he’s in prison or something.”“So what if he is? He’s already shown you that he can’t behave on his own. Now, that’s my grandchild, so I’ve tried to be understanding. But I told him to at least be discreet. He couldn’t even do that! Embarrassed our family by flaunting that way of livin’ as he pleases.”“I know it.”“Look, Cheryl, you’re his mama. I’m sure you’ll do what you think is best. But I already know that you don’t have the money to send the boy off to college. I’m saying that if you expect us to pay for his schooling, then the boy is going to Friend Christian College. Now, ain’t no two ways about it!”A call-waiting click interrupts the call. “Mama, I gotta go. Someone’s on the other line.”“All right, I’ll let you go. Just make sure you think long and hard about what I said.”“I will,” Ma says before clicking over. “Hello?” “May I speak to Cheryl Greene, please?”It’s Elrick. I try to maintain my composure so that Ma doesn’t get wise to me listening in.“This is she.”“Hello. This is Elrick Cotton.”“Why are you calling my house? I have nothing to say to you!”“I was just calling to see if you were home. I’m glad that you are. I wanted you to hear this…”Both my mother and I hear the sound of a gun going off in our ears. Then, we hear nothing at all.
May 1994We’re cruising around in Brice’s maroon jeep. It was brand-spanking-new, a high school graduation gift courtesy of his wealthy father the chiropractor, details that Brice is all too happy to share with anyone who will listen.It’s our eighth loop through the town center of York, Nebraska. The song “There She Goes” from the So I Married an Axe Murderer soundtrack is playing. Brice turns up the volume to full blast. Although I like the sunshininess of the song, my ears feel assaulted. Aaron, who’s sitting in the back seat is more concerned with his product-laden hair becoming mussed by the afternoon breeze. Aaron has no idea that he needn’t worry, that every strand of the thick hair on his head is sufficiently frozen in place. As we enter our ninth go-around, it occurs to me that absolutely no part of the scenery has changed between the first eight times and now. The cobbled streets are the same; the scanty, thin trees lining the sidewalks are the same. Even the floating aroma of pizza coming from the local pizza joint is the same. What if anything are we expecting to be different this time? Actually, I had asked myself that question a few times throughout the year. The answer was a simple one, we were bored. We were just three college freshmen who managed to fill our weekends, circling the square of the provincial town of 8,124. To be honest, I feel embarrassed, but not enough to give me pause from participating. Driving around in circles doesn’t mean half as much as the brotherhood I’m a part of. Brice turns off onto a side road that winds us back to the start of our route. “There She Goes” has just finished, and I’m suddenly aware how much I appreciate the quiet. I only have seconds to enjoy it because Brice rewinds the cassette back to the beginning. I turn to the open window and expel a sigh into the air; after all I can’t complain---it’s not my car. I know that Brice means nothing by it; he’s trying to keep things upbeat and light, although he’s well aware that things haven’t always been good between us. They still aren’t, but neither of us want to end the year bitter, so we play along to get along.Brice is turning the corner again, driving past Joe’s Pizza. Aaron sticks his head out the window like a puppy. He’s trying to be inconspicuous, but I can tell he’s inhaling the food-scented air. He’s hungry. Aaron’s always hungry. Makes me think how uncomfortable he must be sitting directly behind me. Aaron is stout, and despite my having brought the seat forward as much I comfortably can, I know he’s uncomfortable. Aside from Aaron’s extra pounds, he is quite handsome. He dresses up both nicely and expensively. One would think if you shelled out a fortune for clothes that they would look nice, but the two don’t always go hand-in-hand. Aaron would tell you that his hair is his best asset, though I would argue that his luminous, saucer-like eyes, full lips and goatee are what give his baby face character. Brice is the one with the conventional Hollywood it-boy looks. Square-jawed with perfectly trimmed five-0’clock shadow, piercing blue eyes all under a mop of shiny, dishwater blond curls. He has an athletic build with an odd indentation in the middle of his chest. Looks-wise, I think that he will be in perfect company if and when he decides to follow his dream of becoming a special-effects make-up artist out to L.A. “There She Goes” is playing again. I so badly want to push the stop button, but I don’t. Instead I stare forward, wondering where I fit into this menagerie. Anytime Brice is around I feel grossly inadequate. I’ve never told him this, so I don’t necessarily blame him. I’m not bad-looking. Thin before heroin chic was a thing. My face is both weathered and angular. I have cheek bones and eyelashes many women envy. With my hair having been freshly cut to the scalp, I happen to think I look the way R. Kelly looks in a picture hung on my dorm room wall. There aren’t too many black students on campus, and absolutely zero in the town of York. The seven of us black students are exotic just by existing.When I glance over at Brice, his eyes are beyond happy, almost manic. He doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s got life in Wichita, Kansas to look forward to, and that life is a good one. His on-again-off-again girlfriend, Emily, called to say she wants to give their relationship another go. Brice knows that it’ll only be for the summer. First time I ever saw Brice not get exactly what he wanted. But I’m not worried for him. He’s got daddy’s money to numb any sting the real world can give him. And I’m jealous. I doubt Brice will look beyond his own excitement to care that I wish I had someone to offer me their summer. “Anyone besides me hungry?” Aaron shouts over the music. Brice turns the volume down, and I am glad for this. “I could eat something,” I say. “What do you guys want?” Brice asks. “Well, you’ve driven past Joe’s about a hundred times now. Safe to assume I could go for a slice.” “I dunno, guys. I sorta had a hankering for tacos.” Brice says, smiling suddenly. I know this smile. The smile says that since Brice is driving, he’s running the show. “Dude, you can’t possibly drive past a pizza joint a thousand-frickin’ times and not want pizza,” Aaron reasons. “Yeah, but dude, you can get pizza anywhere. This is the last time we can get those fried potato thingies. They don’t have those in Wichita.” Brice looks at me for support. But I continue staring forward. “Buddy what do you wanna eat?” he asks me, trying to make me part of the conversation whether I want to be or not. Truthfully, I couldn’t care less what we eat, but I know Aaron is set on pizza, and I know that Brice has an entire summer in Wichita of getting what he wants to look forward to. “I’m with Aaron,” I say, proud to be the deciding vote. But I know that in the end, Brice’s asking me is merely a courtesy. He’s ultimately going to do whatever the hell he wants to do. We’re driving down the street. The taco place comes into view. I hear Aaron grunt behind me. I imagine him petulantly folding his arms over the width of his chest. Brice looks at Aaron through his rearview mirror. He must have received visual confirmation of what I envisioned. “I tell you what, guys. I’ve really gotta have those potato thingies. Why don’t we stop here first, and I’ll take you guys to get your pizza on the way back to the dorm? Promise.” I decide to disconnect from the conversation. Brice pulls into the long line of cars snaking up to the drive-thru. Now that Brice is getting what he wants, he’s more than happy to wait in line. We’re still far enough from the menu and microphone that I can see there is virtually no customers inside the restaurant. “Why don’t you get out and order inside? There’s no line.” “No, we’re fine right here. Look, the cars are moving.” Each car moves a fraction of a pace. “You guys should start thinking about what you want so we can just order when we get to the menu,” Brice instructs us. He’s somehow forgotten his earlier promise to swing by Joe’s Pizza on the way back to the dorm. Sitting in this line is his way of rubbing our noses in it. “I believe we told you what we want to eat,” Aaron says. “Yeah, I know, but we’re right here. And anyway, I really need to get back to the dorm. I still have a boatload of packing to do. I’m sure you guys still have things to pack up.” Aaron punches the seat behind me. Though the fabric and stuffing act as a buffer, I can feel his knuckles in my back. “Do what you want, Brice,” Aaron says, refusing to conceal his anger. “You always do.” We finally make it to the menu. Brice brings the music down again, and leans out toward the microphone.. “Okay, my treat, you guys. What do you want?” I can’t decide whether Brice hears what he wants to hear or if he’s deaf. I’m staring at an oversized glossy picture of las papas deliciosas, and have to admit that they look scrumptious. They don’t exist back in Minneapolis either. The scent of seasoned taco meat drifts inside of the jeep. My stomach has begun to eat itself because I’m so famished. But Aaron is pissed, resenting how Brice seems to make up the rules as he goes along. When Brice finally pulls a white, greasy bag into the jeep, the smell kills me a little. Aaron didn’t order anything, and despite the fact that I’m starving, neither did I out of solidarity. Those potato thingies Brice just had to have aren’t even the first thing he pulls from the bag. His bite into a soft shell taco takes off half the taco. Lettuce and cheese disappear into his mouth like a paper shredder. Brice takes a different way back to the dorm in order to avoid passing Joe’s Pizza. He doesn’t turn the music on. I can feel Aaron’s anger smoldering in the backseat. I, too, have nothing to say, so the three of us sit in awkward silence. Though I doubt anything is too awkward for Brice. He has nothing to be upset about. And why should he? He just got what he wanted. When Brice pulls into his parking spot behind the dorm, I wait until he shuts off the car to get out. I get as far as opening the door when I feel a tug on my arm. I turn toward him only because he’s still holding on to me. I hope my look of scorn conveys that I don’t appreciate being touched by him. He lets go of my arm, but he’s wearing a baffled expression on his face. “Guys wait. I mean, come on. You’re not gonna let the year end on a sour note are you?” he asks. “Well, you seem perfectly okay with it,” Aaron says. “I am not,” Brice says incredulously. I wonder if this is all you get when ordering the Brice special---he gets to behave entirely the way he wants to, then gets to act as though he has no idea why you could possibly be pissed with him. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but it didn’t take me a frickin’ year to realize that you know exactly what you’re doing,” Aaron says unashamedly. Brice’s face contorts. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look unattractive. He looks like a small child who thinks he’s being picked on. It’s a rare morsel of realness from a guy who’s always pretending and trying to convince everyone that he has his shit together. “You can speak for me, Aaron, because I agree with you,” I say. “I don’t believe this. I try and have a moment with the people that I thought were my friends and you dog me.” “Yeah, something like that,” Aaron says, completely checking out. “May I get out now?” I unbuckle my seat belt and climb out. I push the lever on the side of the seat that allows it bend forward. I take a glimpse of Brice, as he sits with his head bowed. I can still make out a look that’s both miffed and mystified through the shadows on his face. He clutches the rumpled, greasy, white bag of half-eaten food sitting between his legs. “That it, then?” he asks. I stand to the side, allowing Aaron space to exit the car. Neither of us answer him. “All righty then,” he says as I close the door in his face. We continue on, the two of us. In my head, I’m waiting to hear the sound of his jeep door opening and closing. But I never do. He’s probably waiting for one or both of us to turn back to show we care. I’ve never been so happy to return to my room, though by tomorrow afternoon it will no longer be mine. I sit on my bed. A rush of exhilaration passes through me, like someone grateful to have barely escaped with their life. My eyes dart about the room, my brain races to take inventory of everything that’s left to be done before whoever is coming to take me and my things back to Minneapolis shows up. Maybe it’s a good thing that Brice brought us back as early as he did. Brice. The name lingers like a burn on the tongue. And I’m disappointed with myself that I’ve allowed it to. The guy has a way of getting into the nooks and crannies of my mind.Both he and I began the year as ardent children of God. Well, my faith was shaky by the time I showed up. But I looked towards Brice’s bright light to show me the way back to Christ. As soon as I began to feel stable in my spiritual walk, Brice began to question his faith--- probably for no other reasons beyond intellectual boredom and enjoying the attention he got from people who thought he was “falling away.” Thus began our spiritual ebb and flow. Today, I’m spiritually crippled, while he’s got his mojo back. Suddenly, he’s sitting on top of a mountain of sanctimony, wagging his finger in the face of everyone else’s iniquity. As far as his brush with the dark side and personal challenges, he acts as if he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.My head hurts, as it often does when my encounters with Brice don’t go well. I lie back on my bed. Dinner is in a couple hours. A nap is the perfect exit.I’m awakened by a knock at the door. Hardly seems that I slept as long as I did.I sit up, swing my legs out so that my feet touch the floor. “Yeah?” I call out, trying to shake off my discombobulation.Aaron opens the door. “Hey, man. Was wondering if you wanted to grab some chow.”I’m tickled that anyone actually uses the word “chow.” I rub my index finger and thumb between the inner corners of eyes. I look at Aaron. He looks clearer to me. Crisper. I notice his hair is wet. It’s no longer the stiff helmet it was before, rather, now it falls naturally on his head. He’s changed his clothes, too.“Sure. Looks like you went to a lot of trouble just to go to the cafeteria.”Aaron shrugs nonchalantly. “Took a shower,” he says before hitting me with, “Brice been by your room?”“Not unless I slept through it.”“Consider yourself lucky.”
“Okay. Why?”“he showed up about fifteen minutes after we got back. Figure he thought he should give me some time to calm down.”“And did you?”“Fuck no!”It’s my first time hearing Aaron curse. He sounds as though he’d been holding it in like a belch the whole year and needed to let it out. Tension left his face like a slowly deflating bicycle tire. “Wow.” Is all I can offer.“The guy’s a jerk. Can’t believe I put up with his shit for an entire year. Tell you what, next year, I’m making a better effort to make new friends.” Aaron always looked so intense. Now, he looked as though he’d just been set free. His rant was accompanied with a smile. I can’t remember the last time before that I saw him smile. “You decided whether or not you’re coming back in the fall?” he asks me. It hits me out of the blue. I don’t have the heart to tell Aaron that the decision isn’t up to me. “The deal was that my grandparents paid the first year. I already know my ma hasn’t saved up any money.” I feel bad lying to Aaron. He deserves the truth, and I think he’s man enough to take it. But the reason why I came to Friend Christian College in the first place isn’t something I’m ready to share with anyone. I’m still bitterly swallowing it all myself. “You go ahead. I’ll meet you over there,” I say finally.“Okay. I’ll save you a seat.”I wait for Aaron to leave before I give in to wreck this conversation is doing to my body. My heart is palpitating. I place my hands on my head. I can feel my brainwaves rippling like waves; like the time I smoked some weed that tripped off my paranoia. Right now, I’m panicking in the worst way.I didn’t want to start thinking about what brought me here. But thanks to Aaron, I’ve got no choice. Accepting the flood of memories that breach my mind, I close my eyes. Unfortunately, I can remember it all like it was just yesterday…
May 1993Pastor Elrick Cotton knows what he’s walked into. However, a rumor has traveled through the church with such ferocity he has no choice but to address it. His wife, Lorelle, is noticeably absent. She chose to return to Atlanta. As far as she was concerned, the good pastor was on his own.He stands before his congregation, clutching his bible, drawing strength from it. As he peers out at the stretch of faces, he’s met with looks of disappointment and disgust.“Brothers and sisters of the church, I have sinned.”Hisses and groans erupt throughout the auditorium. Summoning courage, Pastor Cotton plants his feet firmly and stands tall.“For the last six months, I’ve been engaged in a consensual, yet, inappropriate relationship.” “And don’t forget homosexual?” Someone yells.An older woman; a respected beacon of wisdom in the church, pushes on to her feet. Even with her frail frame, she holds a bulky purse, which swings in her grasp as though she wants to hit the pastor with it. “And you call yo’self a man of God? You need to be ashamed of yo’self!”. She has the entire crowd with her. “Leviticus 18: 22!” the woman’s Sunday wig shakes as she stomps up and down through cheers of familiarity with the verse. “‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination!’ Read your bible, Mistuh!”Pastor Cotton looks as though someone has spit in his face. But he regains composure to say, “In light of what’s happened, I can’t effectively pastor this congregation. Starting today Deacon Matthews will act as your pastor until a permanent replacement is found.”Ma stands up. “You just had to choose my baby, didn’t you?”I recoil in embarrassment. I feel every eye focusing on my mother and I. I feel heat crawling up my neck, sweating my back. I want to grab her by her arm and yank her down to her seat. But I don’t have the nerve. “He’s still a baby!” Someone exclaims. “You should be trying to show him the right way to live, but instead you over here trying to tangle him in your web of sin!” “Yeah!” the worshipers scream, sounding increasingly like a lynch mob.Elrick puts his bible on the podium and lifts his hands to the crowd, palms out. Tears fall from his eyes in thin, neat streams. I begin to cry on his behalf. I warned him not to do this. Now he’s up there, vulnerable. Judgments and cheap shots are being fired from every direction. He flinches with each hit. I want to go up there and hold him. Maybe all the hate in the room will ricochet off of us. It’s not our fault we fell in love. I stand up and look at him. Our eyes meet. Ma tries to yank me down in the way I wanted to yank her earlier. But I too stand firm. “He was old enough to consent. He wasn’t a baby,” he says.“He’s my baby!” Ma yells.Elrick closes his eyes, puts his hands to his aching temples. He expected this; to lose the church he helped build and grow in membership. He expected to lose the respect of its members. That must hurt worse than the financial loss.But it will all be over soon enough.He looks frustrated; there’s a desperate need to finish what he wants to say. It won’t change their minds, but at least he will have gotten to say his piece. “I have shamed God. I have shamed this church. I have shamed my wife. And I have shamed the young man I’ve grown to love over these past months.”There is hissing and groaning from the congregation.“I’ve shamed myself. I apologize with all of the love I have for each of you as your brother in Christ…”More hisses. More groans.Elrick walks from behind the podium. He faces the angry crowd, outstretching his arms as though he’s given all he can to them. The noise coming from the twenty-five hundred members sounds venomous. Both Elrick and I have already been bitten. He slowly descends the pulpit. Each step seems to take longer than it should.Midway through the aisle, he turns to face my mother and I. They lock eyes before I get what’s left of his sad gaze. It’s a brief moment; his eyes are puffy, wet, and apologetic. Ma eyes us both with a stare that’s cold enough to bring down the temperature in the auditorium. He reaches out to me. I long to absorb his distress. But the congregants standing nearest to us swipe their hands at him; like they’re shooing away flies. They shield Ma and I from him. They have no clue that I want to feel his touch or that I t’s vital to me. Elrick continues on his way. He makes it through and out the church. I want to go after him. Sensing my intent, Ma grabs hold of my shirt arm, pinching the skin beneath. The look in her eyes chills me. “I wish you would,” she sneers.My heart thumps and my brow sweats. The air inside feels like it’s going to dry me up until I shrivel into nothing. I try to step away, but Ma won’t let go, and my feet feel like massive cinder blocks. Time passes slowly. Each second drips by. All I can do is watch everyone lose their minds around me. I watch the members of the church pile against themselves in the doorway; shaking their fists, seemingly foaming at the mouth, then slowly return to their seats. This army Elrick had sought to build for Christ has turned on him.The Deacon finally comes forward to try and calm everyone down. I receive a tap on my left shoulder from someone in the pew behind me. I turn around to find my grandmother glaring at me. She beckons me with her index finger to come closer. “I just want you to know that you and that man did this. I hope you both are satisfied,” she whispers directly to me. Granddaddy, who’s sitting next to her, won’t even look at me. I turn forward to find Ma giving me side-eyes, before she rolls them. Time still moves glacially. I try to drown out the nonsense being said from the pulpit. I just want to figure out how I will see Elrick again.Before the benediction, I begin to rise. Ma pulls me back down before I have the chance to fully stand up. I feel like a five-year-old being kept from running off.“Where are you going?” she asks.“To the bathroom. Am I allowed?” I quietly hiss.I get up and make my way down the aisle toward the exit. I do my best to ignore every single stare. But, instead of veering off to the right to go downstairs to the restroom, I continue out the front door, on my way by foot to meet Elrick at his house.By the time I get to Elrick’s I’m sweaty. The entire walk I imagined his car parked out front as the perfect reward for making the trek. I’m disappointed to find that car isn’t there. I look around, hoping to see it turn the corner. My impatience fuels my steps as I walk to the corner to peer down the block. There’s nothing of interest to see. More importantly there’s still no sign of Elrick. I return to his front step. I have no choice but to sit and wait. In the time I sit there, all I can do is think of the bedlam we created. I wonder if I had been the other woman as opposed to the other man if the church would have responded as vehemently. I sincerely doubt it. After some time, I recline against the screen door and fall asleep. I’m awakened by a gentle tap. “You shouldn’t be here, Lawrence,” Elrick says to me. I have no idea how long I’ve been out waiting in front of this man’s door, but he’s a welcomed sight. “I can’t help it,” I say, rising to stand. “I had to see you.”Elrick stands there. I notice a glassiness in his eyes. There’s a slight sway and a gust of booze coming from his breath. I didn’t know he drinks. Didn’t know pastors were allowed to.I’m scrutinizing Elrick hard. Uncomfortable, he moves to open the front door. “I understand that you only did what we talked about, but I still don’t understand why you let these people dictate your life. You saw for yourself how little they care about you. They obviously will never understand!”Once we’re both inside, Elrick turns to look at me. He smiles at what he perceives to be my naiveté. “You know what? I think I’m seeing for the first time just how young you really are.”“But, you told me age doesn’t matter. You said what matters is how we feel about each other.”“You don’t get it, do you?” Elrick asks. He looks emotionally spent, like he’s too wound-up to have this conversation with me.“So what are we going to do now?” I ask.“We aren’t going to do anything. You’re going to go home and try and patch things up with your mother.”“I ain’t got shit to say to her!”“She blames me for all of this. That’s why you still have a chance to fix things with her.”“I’m staying right here with you.”“Sweetheart, Angel, now isn’t the time.”“Elrick, we have nothing to be ashamed of. We fell in love. If people can’t understand that then tough shit. They’ll be all right.”Elrick smiled. “You know, you’re much too intelligent to have such a dirty mouth. There’s plenty of other ways to get your point across.”“Do I look like I came here for a lecture?”“No, you look like you’re going home.” Elrick kisses me on the forehead. A long sigh pushes through his lips. “Listen, now isn’t a good time for me. I’ve lost a lot. I can’t be bothered with your mess, too.”“My mess?”“Yes, Lawrence, you’re not helping. I just want to be alone.”“Will you call me later?”“I don’t know. Probably not.”“Are you breaking up with me?”Elrick’s eyes begin to tear up again. “As much as it breaks my heart to say…yes, I’m breaking up with you. We had no business getting involved in the first place.”“Yeah. Okay. Whatever. Go ahead…spend the rest of your life trying to make everyone else happy. You’re ridiculous!”“I can’t give you what you need. Especially now. But I know there’s someone out there who can.”My eyes fill with tears off my own. Right now I don’t just want Elrick to hold me. I want him to take me into his bedroom and make love to me. I know it’s not going to happen. “You better call me later,” I say, my voice trembling. I head towards the door and open it. I want him to tell me to stop. I want him to fight for us.“I’m not going to promise that.”“Fine. Go fuck yourself!” I scream before slamming the door behind me. I stand outside, staring at the door. I’m giving him one last chance to come through that door and beg me to come back in. I need him to show me that all we went through this morning isn’t for nothing. But, the door never opens, so I back away. There’s nothing left to do except head home.As I open the door I find Ma standing there. She’s probably been waiting there the entire time, still wearing her church outfit. She greets me with a slap across the face.“I have never in my life been more embarrassed than I am now to call you my child!” Her words have slapped me a second time. I utter a feeble, “Ma..”“Get the hell outta my face!”I didn’t think what my mother had to say or thought would matter as much as it does. I feel shaken. Another second and she’ll strangle me with her contempt. I have no fight left in me. Elrick gave up on us and so do I. I do as I’m told and walk away. My brother Plez Jr. shakes his head as I passed him on my way to my room. I close the door and change into some jeans and a t-shirt. Then, I crawl into bed, not knowing what to do next.Later, I can hear Ma talking angrily. I pick up the extension to see who she’s talking to, praying that she doesn’t catch on that I’m listening.“I don’t know, Mama. Maybe Plez was right. Maybe I was doing the wrong thing by accepting Lawrence that way. Watch, he’s gonna mess around and catch AIDS just like my friend Clayton did. You mark my words.”“Well, why in the hell are you just sittin’ around actin’ like you have no control over this situation?”“What am I supposed to do, Mama? He’s eighteen!”“I already told you what to do. Let your daddy and me pay for Lawrence’s first year. But if we do this, he’s going to Friend Christian College. Being around God’s people is where he needs to be if you want to rid him of this demon.” “Where is it again?”“It’s in York, Nebraska. As heartland as you’re gonna get. I doubt it’s the kind of place he’s gonna find anybody to act out with.” Ma sighs in a way that lets me know she’s not fully on board. “I don’t want him to get out there and feel like he’s in prison or something.”“So what if he is? He’s already shown you that he can’t behave on his own. Now, that’s my grandchild, so I’ve tried to be understanding. But I told him to at least be discreet. He couldn’t even do that! Embarrassed our family by flaunting that way of livin’ as he pleases.”“I know it.”“Look, Cheryl, you’re his mama. I’m sure you’ll do what you think is best. But I already know that you don’t have the money to send the boy off to college. I’m saying that if you expect us to pay for his schooling, then the boy is going to Friend Christian College. Now, ain’t no two ways about it!”A call-waiting click interrupts the call. “Mama, I gotta go. Someone’s on the other line.”“All right, I’ll let you go. Just make sure you think long and hard about what I said.”“I will,” Ma says before clicking over. “Hello?” “May I speak to Cheryl Greene, please?”It’s Elrick. I try to maintain my composure so that Ma doesn’t get wise to me listening in.“This is she.”“Hello. This is Elrick Cotton.”“Why are you calling my house? I have nothing to say to you!”“I was just calling to see if you were home. I’m glad that you are. I wanted you to hear this…”Both my mother and I hear the sound of a gun going off in our ears. Then, we hear nothing at all.
Rediscovering My Passion
It was the summer of 2005, and I was still reeling from having turned thirty the previous fall. Not that turning thirty qualified me as an oldster, but I knew my life could not continue as it had up till that point.
To be honest, I felt as though I'd squandered my twenties---the entire ten years worth. I'd spent the ages nineteen and twenty devising ways to get into bars without being carded. Then, when I reached the magical age of twenty-one, I found my home away from home, a place I could drink and shake my insecure ass till my hearts content. I did that until I was twenty-nine, and found in that time that my heart never became content.
Fast forward to 2005, I was washing my face one afternoon when a song, written by Gilbert Bécaud, entitled "What Now My Love?" popped into my head. I finished washing and drying my face and looked into the eyes of my reflection and began singing the song out loud. However, I wasn't merely trying to croon a tune, I was asking myself the question, what now my love? Suddenly, I became aware how trivial my life seemed. I was thirty-years old and still working a job rather than settling into a career. I'm not even sure by whose standard I was attempting to live, I just knew that I wanted to do more. It was then that I decided, whether anyone cared or not, to leave some sort of legacy. That would take the form of some kind of writing, whether a screenplay, a theater play or a novel. After much back-and-forth, the decision to write a novel won out.
I remember the day I told my mother I'd decided to write a book. She was visiting me here in New England and we were having lunch at an outdoor bistro. She was thrilled to hear about my latest endeavor, the happiest she'd ever been with any of my creative decisions.
"I was wondering when you'd come to your senses and do what you're meant to do!" she exclaimed.
She then went on to tell me about the time when I was in elementary school. My memory took over from there...
We students had to take a standardized test called the Benchmark, to show our proficiency in reading, writing and arithmetic.
There was a section on the writing portion of the test that gave us three options. Two were topic specific, but the third option gave the most creative latitude. I don't remember what I wrote, but I do recall that at one point, as I was writing my little story, I paused because I knew that my writing was going in the direction of macabre . I even asked myself if I was sure I'd picked the correct thing to write about because I had a feeling it might be received differently than I intended.
Weeks passed and I came home from school to find my mother standing by the door, like she'd been waiting for me.
"So, I hear you took some test called the Benchmark." There was an edge to the way she spoke.
"Yes," I said, unsure where she was going with the question.
"Well, I just received a call from the people at Benchmark."
Butterflies went crazy in my stomach. "You did?"
"Yeah. Apparently you wrote some story?
My eleven-year-old throat had dried up, making it difficult to speak. I could only nod.
"They called to say that because the story was so dark they felt you must be depressed and are trying to hurt yourself."
At eleven, even I knew that was ridiculous, and it showed on my face.
"I told them, no, my son is not depressed, nor is he trying to hurt himself. He just happens to have a vivid imagination."
I was glad to hear that my mother didn't believe them.
"But, after I got off the phone, I started thinking. You must be one heck of a writer if you had these Benchmark people so concerned that they felt it necessary to call my house."
The look on her face was of pride. I've seen that look two more times to date...the second time was when I was going off to college, and the third time was when I told her I was writing a book.
It was then that I realized this thing I would return to after other ventures didn't pan out, this thing I always ran towards that had become my default creative release, was the thing I was supposed to be doing, because I loved to do it.
And it is for this reason that I enjoy the journey I'm on to get to the place I want to be as a writer. The success will come. I know that like I know the back of my hand. It takes time, sweat and headache, but it is worth it. It is a price I am glad to pay.
To be honest, I felt as though I'd squandered my twenties---the entire ten years worth. I'd spent the ages nineteen and twenty devising ways to get into bars without being carded. Then, when I reached the magical age of twenty-one, I found my home away from home, a place I could drink and shake my insecure ass till my hearts content. I did that until I was twenty-nine, and found in that time that my heart never became content.
Fast forward to 2005, I was washing my face one afternoon when a song, written by Gilbert Bécaud, entitled "What Now My Love?" popped into my head. I finished washing and drying my face and looked into the eyes of my reflection and began singing the song out loud. However, I wasn't merely trying to croon a tune, I was asking myself the question, what now my love? Suddenly, I became aware how trivial my life seemed. I was thirty-years old and still working a job rather than settling into a career. I'm not even sure by whose standard I was attempting to live, I just knew that I wanted to do more. It was then that I decided, whether anyone cared or not, to leave some sort of legacy. That would take the form of some kind of writing, whether a screenplay, a theater play or a novel. After much back-and-forth, the decision to write a novel won out.
I remember the day I told my mother I'd decided to write a book. She was visiting me here in New England and we were having lunch at an outdoor bistro. She was thrilled to hear about my latest endeavor, the happiest she'd ever been with any of my creative decisions.
"I was wondering when you'd come to your senses and do what you're meant to do!" she exclaimed.
She then went on to tell me about the time when I was in elementary school. My memory took over from there...
We students had to take a standardized test called the Benchmark, to show our proficiency in reading, writing and arithmetic.
There was a section on the writing portion of the test that gave us three options. Two were topic specific, but the third option gave the most creative latitude. I don't remember what I wrote, but I do recall that at one point, as I was writing my little story, I paused because I knew that my writing was going in the direction of macabre . I even asked myself if I was sure I'd picked the correct thing to write about because I had a feeling it might be received differently than I intended.
Weeks passed and I came home from school to find my mother standing by the door, like she'd been waiting for me.
"So, I hear you took some test called the Benchmark." There was an edge to the way she spoke.
"Yes," I said, unsure where she was going with the question.
"Well, I just received a call from the people at Benchmark."
Butterflies went crazy in my stomach. "You did?"
"Yeah. Apparently you wrote some story?
My eleven-year-old throat had dried up, making it difficult to speak. I could only nod.
"They called to say that because the story was so dark they felt you must be depressed and are trying to hurt yourself."
At eleven, even I knew that was ridiculous, and it showed on my face.
"I told them, no, my son is not depressed, nor is he trying to hurt himself. He just happens to have a vivid imagination."
I was glad to hear that my mother didn't believe them.
"But, after I got off the phone, I started thinking. You must be one heck of a writer if you had these Benchmark people so concerned that they felt it necessary to call my house."
The look on her face was of pride. I've seen that look two more times to date...the second time was when I was going off to college, and the third time was when I told her I was writing a book.
It was then that I realized this thing I would return to after other ventures didn't pan out, this thing I always ran towards that had become my default creative release, was the thing I was supposed to be doing, because I loved to do it.
And it is for this reason that I enjoy the journey I'm on to get to the place I want to be as a writer. The success will come. I know that like I know the back of my hand. It takes time, sweat and headache, but it is worth it. It is a price I am glad to pay.
July 16, 2016
G.I.T---Gettin' It Together
I want to write again. I miss it. Suppose the only real way to do so is to just do it. No magical force will come upon me. No special permission granted. My problem is not putting the bullshit down on paper, and accept that it is bullshit I can polish later. I become too busy trying to polish as I go. Many said it doesn't work. I think they are right. So why do I have to be so hard-headed?
Should be reading a lot more too. Writers read. And I have been reading. A little here and a little there. Wasting valuable time "trying books on." I'll get an idea in my head of what book I want to read and then when I start to read it, it doesn't fit. None of them seem to fit. I guess I have to be in the right mood for certain books. Why is it that some books seem like a good idea at the time, but I falter when I attempt to read them? I'm expecting them to be massive feats in literature. JD Salinger's Catcher in the Rye and Larry Kramer's Faggots. I expect them to be massive feats in literature, and fancy myself as the last of a generation that's even capable of appreciating the work.
Already brimming with ideas. Probably would be better served to write them down. Especially the good ones, because they always show up when I have no intention of writing them down. Of course when I start writing, a slight breeze blows through my head where the ideas should be forming. Silly me, I knew it was going to happen; like there's something noble in staring into a blank computer page. There isn't anything to be cherished from being devoid of creativity. I'd prefer to return to my desk every writing day with a word count to reach for. I'd rather my fingertips went numb from pounding computer keys into sentences that might actually fill pages.
Right now, my editor has my current novel The Best Possible Angle. I should be using that downtime to work on a first draft for my next novel. All sounds great in my head. But none of it matters without action. I think the problem is that I lack discipline. I think I'm giving the middle finger to convention; never mind the fact that serious writers plant themselves in a chair everyday. They aren't above staring endlessly into that white page until something comes.
Perhaps my problem is that I need to put myself on a schedule. So, I propose this...Mondays and Tuesdays are reading and marketing days. Wednesday-Friday are full writing days. Saturday is a short writing day and Sunday is off. I think I can handle that. If any other writers have a schedule that works for them, please let me know. I'm all ears...
Should be reading a lot more too. Writers read. And I have been reading. A little here and a little there. Wasting valuable time "trying books on." I'll get an idea in my head of what book I want to read and then when I start to read it, it doesn't fit. None of them seem to fit. I guess I have to be in the right mood for certain books. Why is it that some books seem like a good idea at the time, but I falter when I attempt to read them? I'm expecting them to be massive feats in literature. JD Salinger's Catcher in the Rye and Larry Kramer's Faggots. I expect them to be massive feats in literature, and fancy myself as the last of a generation that's even capable of appreciating the work.
Already brimming with ideas. Probably would be better served to write them down. Especially the good ones, because they always show up when I have no intention of writing them down. Of course when I start writing, a slight breeze blows through my head where the ideas should be forming. Silly me, I knew it was going to happen; like there's something noble in staring into a blank computer page. There isn't anything to be cherished from being devoid of creativity. I'd prefer to return to my desk every writing day with a word count to reach for. I'd rather my fingertips went numb from pounding computer keys into sentences that might actually fill pages.
Right now, my editor has my current novel The Best Possible Angle. I should be using that downtime to work on a first draft for my next novel. All sounds great in my head. But none of it matters without action. I think the problem is that I lack discipline. I think I'm giving the middle finger to convention; never mind the fact that serious writers plant themselves in a chair everyday. They aren't above staring endlessly into that white page until something comes.
Perhaps my problem is that I need to put myself on a schedule. So, I propose this...Mondays and Tuesdays are reading and marketing days. Wednesday-Friday are full writing days. Saturday is a short writing day and Sunday is off. I think I can handle that. If any other writers have a schedule that works for them, please let me know. I'm all ears...
September 23, 2015
Just a little something I'm working on...
ProloguePastor Markus Stone knew what he’d walked into. He stood before his congregation, clutching his bible, hoping to draw strength from it. As he peered out at the members of the church, the stretch of faces were stained with disbelief, disappointment, and disgust. But, the rumor had buzzed with such frenzy that he had no choice but to address it. Absent was his wife, Dottie, who had chosen to take the first plane back to Los Angeles, than continue her role in any sham of a display of solidarity. “Brothers and sisters of the church, I have sinned.” There were audible hisses and groans floating throughout the auditorium. Pastor Stone planted his feet firmly, erecting himself tall. “For the last year and a half, I’ve been engaged in a consensual relationship outside the confines of my marriage.” “Consensual?” Someone spat. “Don’t you mean homosexual?” An older woman, a beacon of wisdom to the congregation rose, her frail frame trembling. Her bulky purse swung in her grasp as though she wanted to hit the pastor with it. “And you call yo’self a man of God? You need to be ashamed of yo’self!” Amens spattered the auditorium. No one would dare defend him. She had the entire crowd with her. “Leviticus 18: 22,” the woman stomped up and down through cheers of familiarity with the verse. “‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination!’ Read your bible!” Pastor Stone looked as though he’d been slapped in the face. But he regained composure to say, “Deacon Matthews will act as your pastor until a permanent replacement is found.” The mother of his lover stood up. “Was it worth it? You mean to tell me you couldn’t go after somebody else’s baby?” “Baby?” another person exclaimed. “Aw, man! He ain’t no better than those nasty-ass priests!” “Yeah!” the crowd screamed, sounding less like a group of worshippers and more like a lynch mob. Pastor Stone placed his bible on the podium and lifted his hands to the crowd, palms out. Tears streamed from his eyes. “He was 18. He wasn’t a baby,” he said to no avail. “He was mybaby!” the woman spat. Pastor closed his eyes, his temples aching. He expected this, but it would all be over soon enough. He needed to finish what he wanted to say. It wouldn’t change the many minds of the members, but at least he would have gotten to say his piece. “I have shamed God. I have shamed this church. I have shamed the young man I’ve grown to love over this past year and a half. I’ve shamed my wife. And…” “Boo!” from the congregation. “I’ve shamed myself. I apologize with all of the love I have for each of you as your brother in Christ…” Again, “Boo!” Pastor Stone walked from behind the podium. He stood toward the angry crowd, outstretching his arms as though he had done the best he could. He wished someone would’ve shot him dead right then, rather than continue his walk of shame through the auditorium and out the door. But that relief never came. He slowly descended the pulpit. Each painstaking step seemed an eternity. Midway through the aisle, he turned to his left and saw the mother of his lover, who stood with folded arms; void any forgiveness in her eyes. He shook his head before continuing outside. He made it through and out the church. The carrying on would continue, of that he was certain. He made it to the car before members of the church piled against themselves in the doorway; shaking their fists, seemingly foaming at the mouth. He turned and looked at them one last time before driving off. Instead of feeling weight lift from his shoulders, he felt as though he were pelted lower than low. He sought to relieve himself with the one vice he knew, though it had been years since he had partaken. Long ago before he’d given his life to Christ, Markus Stone had battled the bottle. It was one of the stories he used to tell to show examples of deliverance. Now, with nothing left, he pulled in front of the first bar that came into view. After two hours of drinking vodka tonics he removed his wedding band that he’d still worn for no good reason. He placed it on the fifty dollar tip he left the bartender. Once home, he saw the object of his forbidden love sitting on his steps. “What’s wrong with you?” the eighteen year old asked. “You shouldn’t be here,” Markus said, opening the door to the house. “You did it, didn’t you? You got up there and confessed.” Markus turned and looked at his lover before entering the house. He smiled at the young man’s naiveté. “You know what? I think for the first time I’m really seeing how young you are. I had to do it.” “Bullshit!” the young man yelled, pushing past Markus to enter into the house first. Markus wearily entered behind him. “You don’t get it, do you? I just hope that you will…someday,” Markus said. “So what are we going to do now?” “We aren’t going to do anything. But, you’re going to go home and try and patch things up with your mother.” “I ain’t got shit to say to her!” “She doesn’t blame you. She blames me. That’s why you still have a chance.” “I’m staying right here with you.” “Sweetheart, Angel, now isn’t the time.” “Markus, we have nothing to be ashamed of. We fell in love. If they don’t understand it then tough shit!” Markus smiled. “You know, you’re much too intelligent of a young man to have such a dirty mouth. There’s plenty of other ways to get your point across.” “You’re just going to stand there and lecture me?” “No, you’re going home.” Markus kissed his lover on the forehead. A long sigh escaped his lips. “Listen, today isn’t a good time for me. I’ve lost a lot. I can’t be bothered with your mess, too.” “My mess?” “Yes. You’re not helping. I just want to be alone.” “Will you call me later?” “I don’t know. Probably not.” “Are you breaking up with me?” Markus’s eyes began to tear up. “As much as it breaks my heart to say…yes, I’m breaking up with you. We had no business doing this in the first place.” “Yeah. Okay. Whatever. You’re an asshole! Go ahead; spend the rest of your life cooped up in here. And I thought I was the kid.” “You’ll meet someone who’ll give you what you need.” “You better call me later,” the young man said, walking toward the door. “I’m not going to promise that.” “Fine. Go fuck yourself!” and he slammed the door behind him. Markus stood there, looking at the door as if the young man were going to bust through it again. He stood there, only half hoping that he would, before heading toward his bedroom. He took a piece of notebook paper from his sermon notebook and scribbled something on it. Then he walked a few paces outside his bedroom, looked at the paper, and let it fall from his grasp. Then, he went into his bedroom and closed the door. He lay on his bed, still dressed from top to bottom and pulled out the church directory.
The woman who had told everyone about the pastor and her son was microwaving a Hot Pocket. She wasn’t even sure she’d be able to eat it; not after the day she’d had. As soon as the microwave beeped the phone rang. “May I speak to Cheryl Greene please?” “This is she.” “Hello. This is Markus Stone.” “Who in the hell do you think you are calling my house?” “I was just calling to see if you were home. I’m glad that you are. I wanted you to hear this…”
