Birth of a Dark Nation (3 page)

I didn't really feel like talking, but I
forced myself to make sounds come out of my mouth when the white
people I didn't know asked me questions they didn't care about.

Computer science
, when asked my
major.

For about eight years
, when asked how
long I'd lived in DC.

Yes
, I remembered Tasha-Lynn Williams,
the African American president of the Student Association and the
only other black student they personally knew.

No,
I didn't know where she was
now.

No,
I didn't know where any of the
basketball players ended up.

I hurriedly downed my first and second beers
and contemplated a third micro-plate of Spanish food.

Just when I thought the evening couldn't get
any more vapid, in strolled the hosts from BET's 106 and Park.

Okay, not really. But it was just as bad.

I never connected closely with my African
American classmates at 'Cuse. I mean sure, I had my close friends
and suitemates. But I wasn't that dude who joined the Black Student
Alliance or waged protests. That was fine for some. I just wanted
to graduate, play some video games, and maybe smoke a little
weed.

But these other people, the ones who put on
full faces of makeup and carried leather satchels just to go to
class, had morphed into a shiny black buppy class that did happy
hours and brunch and spent money they couldn't afford on galas for
causes they didn't care about, just in the name of being seen.

These were not my kind of people.

"Hey Justin man, how you doing!"

"Long time no see!"

"Where you been?"

"You still work in the nonprofit sector?
Oh."

"You need to come visit my spot on U
Street!"

"Come to our ski trip!"

"Come to homecoming!"

Yes, because the first thing of my to do list
would be to spend more time with people who judged my blackness
based on how well I could keep up with them financially, whether my
political beliefs were the same as theirs, and whether I talked
like them.

To hell with all that. I was going home.

I made up some excuse about having to feed a
dog that I didn't have and I jetted out of there without having
exchanged a single business card. That was quite alright with
me.

The bus would get me home just as quick as
the train would, without any transfers, so without hesitation, I
hopped on the northbound Georgia Avenue bus to take me back
uptown.

The sun had already set and it was pretty
dark by the time I got to Georgia and Kennedy. I couldn't believe I
had wasted so much time at that stupid happy hour. All I wanted to
do now was take off my work clothes, eat some real food, watch
television, and go to sleep.

The bus let me off at the liquor store and I
walked toward my apartment.

The street was empty, which was odd for
Kennedy Street at any time of day. Suddenly, the path to my
apartment building felt miles long rather than blocks, and I could
hear a pin drop.

I looked to my left; nothing. I looked to my
right; still nothing. I quickened my pace.

There was a rustling in the bushes next to
me. I turned sharply to face them, but saw nothing. I walked
quicker.

My heart began to race and I coughed. My
mouth was dry. I needed water immediately.

I heard more rustling and I turned around.
Nobody was there. I ran.

My hands shook. I reached in my pocket for my
keys.

Finally, I reached my doorway amid what
sounded like thousands of dry leaves shaking around me. I fumbled
with the key for a second, but finally got it in the door. I ran up
the stairs to the third floor and again fumbled with the locks on
my old, blue metal door.

I got the door open, slammed it behind me,
locked both locks, and ran to my bathroom. I closed the bathroom
door, locked it, and ran the water in the sink.

I sat on the toilet lid and tried to catch my
breath. Both of my hands still shook. I grabbed a cup, filled it
with water, and sipped.

Slowly, I regained control of my nerves.
There was nothing out there that could have harmed me, but I was
deathly afraid, like the world was going to end; like the two
covers of a book were closing in on me and I was trapped in the
middle.

I'd never had a panic attack before, but
later, when I looked up the symptoms, I convinced myself that's
what had happened.

We leaned on the edge of the reception desk,
the only two people in the office.

"Why are we even open on Fridays?" I asked
Steve.

"Man, I don't know. And why am I the only
case manager here on Fridays?"

"We suck."

I had already run every scan known to man on
the server. Everything was fine. The website had been updated from
top to bottom. Ernie was out on another vacation. The office was
quiet.

"I bet you're gonna have a client try to come
in at 4:30 to get some services," I said nonchalantly to Steve.

"Fuck you, nigga. I hope you get a virus on
your hard drive."

I laughed.

"Where Ernie at this time?" I asked
Steve.

"Some place in Canada. Like Toronto. Some
shit."

I shook my head just as the doorbell
rang.

Steve and I walked to the other side of the
reception desk, where even Lana was gone for the day. It was 4
p.m.

Steve looked at the black and white image on
the security monitor.

"Can I help you?" he asked through the
intercom.

"Yeah, uh… I'm lookin' for dude that work
here. Uh… I don't know his name. He jive brown skin, a li'l
thick."

Steve was puzzled. "Is he talking about
you?"

"Let me look at this dude," I said. I went to
the monitor and could tell immediately who it was by his
stance.

"Oh, that's that dude from the other day.
Buzz him in."

"The bootleg man?" Steve asked. I nodded. "Oh
lawd. We finna have the bootleg man all up and through here."

I smiled. Steve buzzed the dude in and he
walked straightaway to the reception area.

"What's up man?" I said.

"Chillin'. You good?" he asked.

"Yeah man, I'm good. I'm sorry I didn't
introduce myself last time. My name is Justin. Justin Kena."

"Dante," he replied. I stretched my hand out
to his and he accepted my handshake.

"This is my coworker, Steve. He's a case
manager." They shook hands.

"What a case manager do?" Dante asked.

Steve glanced at me.

"A case manager is like a social worker that
helps people get the things they need or are entitled to. It's like
somebody who helps people that can't help themselves because they
don't have a network or support."

"Oh, okay." Dante put his book bag on the
reception desk and unzipped it. "You a case manager, too?"

"Nah, I do computers," I answered.

"What kind of place is this?" Dante neatly
arranged his white envelopes of DVDs on the desk while he
listened.

"Magdalene House basically provides housing
for women with HIV," I replied.

"Oh, okay. That makes sense."

"So what kinda flicks you got?" Steve
asked.

"Well, your man here tried to play me earlier
this week, tommbout he ain't want no G-rated movies up in this
camp. So I got a whole bunch of that good shit fo' dat ass. I got
that Pinky, Jada Fire…some Cherokee…"

"Damn man, you weren't playing!" Steve
exclaimed. He pawed at the disks, picking them up to look closer at
the titles.

"That's cool," I said. "But do you have any
Brian Pumper?"

"B. Pumper? Hell yeah!" Dante dug deeper into
his bag and pulled out two disks. "Phatty Rhymes & Dimes…and
Black Ass Master. Here you go man."

He placed them in my hand. I raised my
eyebrow.

"He's good," I told Steve.

"Man, I knew not to come half-steppin' when
you said you wanted some flicks."

"How much?" Steve said.

"One for five. Buy two, get one free."

"What's 'The Candy Shop' about?" I asked.

"Oh, that's all girls," Dante said. I
wrinkled my nose.

"I don't know if you could tell, but I like
dudes," I said, pushing 'Candy Shop' back toward him. "So anything
you get with Brian Pumper, Mr. Marcus, or Lex Steele-we good.
Anything, really. But it's gotta be some dicks involved."

Steve laughed and Dante was unfazed.

"I gotcha," he said. "Well take these two B.
Pumpers and this jont right here—Mr. Marcus is in that one. And I
will throw in an extra one for your boy."

"That's a deal," I said, peeling a ten off my
slim wad of cash. "Whatchu want, Steve?"

"Yeah… I'll go ahead and take that Candy
Shop."

"Nasty bastard," I said with a smile. I gave
Dante my ten and he placed the DVDs in my hand. For a split second,
our fingers touched.

"Enjoy the movies man," he said. Steve
immediately took his out of my hand and ran back to his desk.

"Your man really likes his flicks, huh?"
Dante asked, zipping up his bag.

"Yeah man, I guess we both do." As he slung
his bag on his back, our eyes met for a moment.

"Aight man, I'm out," Dante said. He abruptly
turned around and headed toward the door. I followed him.

"Thanks for coming by," I said. "You know, I
didn't really think I'd see you again."

"Why you think that?" He placed his hand on
the handle of the front door.

"I mean, you know… I never really saw you
around here before."

His hand left the door handle.

"I live on Thayer Street. A block from the
Masonic hall. I lived there for a while."

"I didn't realize that."

"Justin's the name, right?" I nodded. "Well,
Justin, let me give you some advice. If you take your head out of
the clouds and, you know, actually look around sometimes, at the
things right there in front of your face, the people, maybe you'll
notice a whole lot of things you been missin' out on."

"I didn't mean to offend you, man."

"I ain't offended," he said, opening the
doorway to the porch. The summer heat spilled into the foyer.

"And I ain't mad that I been out there for a
few months and the first time you looked in my eyes is when you saw
that I had pornos."

My dark skin blushed.

"But that don't mean nothing. Now I know you.
And now I'll speak. And I hope you do the same."

I nodded and extended my hand to him. He
smiled, exposing perfectly white teeth contrasting sharply with his
deep brown skin.

"I'll do that. Thanks for coming by, Dante,"
I said.

"My pleasure," he said, firmly shaking my
hand and then walking away. His jean shorts sagged slightly and his
blue boxer shorts peeked out. I stared at him through the glass
door until he disappeared around the corner.

Steve walked up next to me.

"Uh…so… Dante, huh?" he asked.

"I mean, whatever. He's cute," I said,
avoiding Steve's gaze.

"He aight," Steve said.

"I mean yeah, he's not like super fine or
anything."

"You like him."

"No I don't."

"Yesssss yoooooou doooooo."

"I don't know him. I only just found out his
name."

"Nigga, you are about to skip down the street
singing show tunes, I can see it in your eyes."

"Shut up."

"Just be careful. This dude is a corner boy.
If he'll sell bootlegs to a stranger, you know he's reckless. You
got too much to lose messin' around with a boy like that."

"Dude, I don't like him."

"Okay man. I gotcha."

Steve walked back to his desk while I walked
upstairs to my office. I sat down in my chair, adjusted the back,
and reclined. As I stared at the ceiling, I made an admission to
myself.

Fuck. I
am
attracted to this dude.

Even though I hadn't had a panic attack since
the night of the happy hour, I decided to drive to and from work
every day afterward. And on each day, I noticed Dante. He wasn't
always just posted up at the corner. Sometimes he'd be walking to
the Dollar General or the carryout. Sometimes he'd be waiting at
the bus stop to head to parts unknown. And, of course, there were
the days that he'd be sitting out in the shade of the Masonic hall,
selling his bootleg movies and music.

What he said had resonated with me. I was
usually too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice anything going
on around me. I didn't used to be that way, but the past few years
at Magdalene House seemed to suck the life right out of me. I'd
become reclusive and detached from social life. The few friends I
had from college were scattered across the country and I hadn't
managed to make new ones. In fact, I wasn't even sure how to make
friends outside of work.

I knew my mom was worried about me. I made
sure I spoke to her every Sunday night, after dinner and before 60
Minutes. She and my dad were enjoying the retired life but always
made sure I was doing okay.

They knew I was gay. They were fine with it.
My four older siblings had already begun to give them
grandchildren, so nobody was upset that I probably wouldn't. At
least not the old fashioned way.

I never caused my family any problems.
Syracuse was a breeze for me. And nobody so much as batted an
eyelash when I left Hamilton, New York, to come down to DC to work.
I was responsible. I was
good
.

My mom worried if my goodness prevented me
from taking romantic risks. She loved me and wanted me to be happy,
but she didn't quite understand just how hard it was to meet
quality guys, even in a city as gay and as black as DC. Men didn't
seem to get me. They didn't seem to be attracted to me. So, I
suppose I made the decision to stop being hurt and start focusing
on me. My career. My small little corner of this world.