Birth of a Dark Nation (5 page)

"Not really. Po-pos ain't thinking about
nothing less than weed. Bootlegging shit ain't hurting nobody.
Niggas in the hood ain't got no money for shit no way, so these
studios ain't missing no loot." He shoveled a helping of rice into
his mouth.

"That's true. And plus, the Internet
practically put shit you want right in your lap."

"Yeah, true that."

"You ever thought about using USB drives for
movies instead of CDs and DVDs?"

"How dat work?"

"Like, say you sell your…clients, I
guess…sell them a USB drive for cheap, and then whenever they want
something new, you upload it to their drive from a laptop or
something."

"That could work. But I still gotta have
discs for the niggas that ain't got no computers."

"True," I said. "I guess you got this under
control, you don't need my advice."

"I like how you think, though."

"Thank you man. Hey, you ever thought about
doing a job that, you know, has benefits?"

"Like a nine to five?"

"Yeah."

"You hiring?"

"No."

"Then no."

"Damn, just like that?"

"I got my income man, I'm good. For now at
least. And I got some experience doing construction and shit like
that. Landscaping. Even worked on a trash truck for a little bit.
But I'm good right now. I can pay my bills."

"I feel you. It's cool."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"I get the feelin' you ain't into yo job all
like that, either. When you gonna move on?"

"You hiring?"

"Naw."

"Then I'm good." I winked.

"You funny."

We talked more, about a lot, but at the same
time, nothing big at all. It was nice just getting to know the
basics from somebody who was so simple and uncomplicated. He was
just a dude making his own way. Nothing special.

But he was very handsome, and even through
the thick DC slang and accent, I could tell he was also very smart.
He had a way with words that was intriguing.

By no means am I saying that he was beneath
me, or that I was better than him in any way. All I am saying is
that he was different from anybody else I had ever had an interest
in. He shared things without saying them explicitly and provoked me
without being spiteful.

He was cool. And I could tell he felt the
same way about me.

We talked so long into the night that I fell
asleep right there on the sofa. Like a perfect gentleman, he put a
blanket over me and walked up the stairs, letting me sleep
alone.

Although I slept rather fitfully, plagued by
dreams that I couldn't remember once I woke up in the morning, I
still woke with a sense that I was in a safe place, with someone
who cared about me just up the stairs.

Cissy did her best to cultivate donors for
Magdalene House. Her latest venture was a happy hour at a venue on
U Street. The corridor had once been a burned out strip where no
business would thrive, but with the addition of a metro station,
the once dead street became something of a young professional
hotspot in DC.

Steve and I committed to helping Cissy man
the event when the rest of the staff shied away. It didn't surprise
us. When it came to the staff, they didn't do anything beyond
regular work hours unless something was in it for them.

The three of us walked up to the venue with
its soft neon lights and tiny windows that were too high to peer
into, in stark contrast to the other lounges and restaurants on U
Street which practically invited the public in through their wide
windows.

"Aye… Is it true this place is a swinger's
club after ten?" Steve asked.

Cissy remained silent.

"Oh my God, it's true!" I exclaimed. "You got
us doing a fundraiser at a swinger's club!?"

"Listen, I don't care what they do after we
leave. All I know is that the owner is letting us use this place
for free."

"That's what's up," Steve said. "Well,
hopefully, this will be a huge success."

Despite Steve's hopes, the happy hour wasn't
much of a success. It wasn't exactly a flop, but only about ten
people came through, and most were Cissy's friends. I sat at the
table next to Steve, collecting donations and logging them on
Cissy's laptop while she made small talk with people she'd
obviously already known for years.

All of our promotion on Facebook and Twitter
meant nothing at the end of the day. Magdalene House just wasn't
the kind of place that would get its fundraising success doing
happy hours. Magdalene didn't have enough political cachet for the
vapid DC buppies to even consider supporting us. To them, and to
many, we were the equivalent of a mom-and-pop store trying to
compete with Target.

I felt bad for Cissy, who smiled through the
entire evening, even after it became apparent that Ernie wasn't
going to bother to show up. Her friends didn't stay long, and only
one or two actually bought a drink. Most just dropped off their
donations and left within 20 minutes.

As we packed up our promotional materials
four hours later, a young Asian woman came into the bar, dressed in
all black. Her black hair was full and bouncy, with one blond
streak just right of the center of her head.

"Oh, hello! You must be from the Magdalene
group, right?"

"Yes, we are," I smiled. "We were just
packing up."

"Oh, I'm sorry I missed you guys. My name is
Chiyoko. I'm the bartender for the late night crowd."

"I'm Justin," I said, shaking her hand
firmly. It was slightly cold.

"Oh, sorry about that," she laughed, noticing
my reaction. "I've got bad circulation, so my hands are always
cold!"

"Not a problem," I smiled. "This is Cissy,
she's the director of development. And this is Steve."

"Pleased to meet you," he said. He was
practically salivating over the young woman.

"You guys are welcome to stay as my guests,
if you want. That is, you know, if you're into the clientele
here."

"Maybe next time," Cissy said quickly. "I've
got to get home to my kid."

"Same here," I said. Steve looked at me from
the corner of his eye.

"I think I'll stay," he said. "Watch you work
for a little while."

"Fine with me," Chiyoko laughed. She then
turned her attention to Cissy. "Oh yeah, I was hoping to give you
this. I was going to mail it if I didn't catch you here."

She dug deep into her purse and pulled out a
wallet. She peeled a hundred dollar bill off of a stack of bills
and handed it to Cissy.

"Here you go. I read up on Magdalene House
when the boss said you would be having an event here, and I just
wanted to support."

"Wow!" Cissy exclaimed. "Thank you so much!
Would you like a receipt?"

Chiyoko threw a hand up and shook her head
vigorously. "Please, take it. It's the least I could do."

Cissy took the bill and gave Chiyoko a
hug.

"Thank you so, so much."

Chiyoko smiled back.

"Have a good evening. It was nice meeting
both of you. And as for you, Mr. Steve, let me fix you a drink.
Bloody Mary?"

"Works for me!" Steve said excitedly. As they
disappeared back into the bowels of the club, Steve turned around
and gave Cissy and me a thumbs-up sign. We laughed and left the
club.

"That Steve. What are we gonna do with him?"
I wondered aloud.

"Pray. Women are his Achilles' heel."

"Where are you parked?" I asked.

"Right here. Got really lucky finding a
space. Are you okay getting home?"

"Oh yeah, I'll be fine. I'm parked a few
blocks down. See you at work tomorrow!"

I began walking down 13
^th
Street
in the direction of my car. I laughed to myself again as I thought
about Steve and his new friend, Chiyoko. He was one smooth player,
even at 50.

The street felt still. No wind blew, no cars
moved, and everything felt oppressively immobile. My car seemed
miles away and the muscles in my chest began to contract and
tighten over my lungs.

No, not again.

I felt like the world was going to end if I
didn't get to my car right then and there. The rustling noises
began again and I picked up my pace. I reached into my pocket and
tried to get a grasp on my keys but my hand kept shaking and
sweating.

I looked around. No one was there. But I knew
somebody was. Somebody had to be.

I broke into a sprint, finally getting my
keys in my hand. My car was in sight, and if I could just get
inside, everything would be okay.

I ran, sweat falling off my brow, stopping
only when I got to the car door. I hit the auto-unlock button,
threw the door open, and hurled myself inside. I slammed the door
shut and stuck the key in the ignition. I turned the volume up on
the radio and tried to forget that I was panicking. In the
passenger seat was a bottle of water—I grabbed it, fidgeted with
the cap, and finally got the bottle to my lips.

I finally began to calm down in the safety of
my car.

"This shit has got to stop," I thought.

It was way too early to be awake on a
Saturday morning, but these were the things we did for the guys we
liked.

"You lived in DC this long and ain't never
been to Carnival? Shit, you live
two blocks
from Georgia Ave
and you ain't
never
been to Carnival? Whatchu got against
Carnival?" he asked me that week.

"I ain't got nothing against Carnival!" I
said. "I just…never made a point to go before."

"Well, we going."

I stood on Georgia Avenue and Kennedy Street
in front of a pink and black brick building, in the oppressive heat
of the early morning. The building had been a barbecue place once,
but it was now a Chinese carry out.

It was also the landmark where I'd met Dante
so that we could enjoy the DC Caribbean Carnival. It was to be our
first date, even though we had spent practically every day together
for the past two weeks. One day, he might surprise me with lunch
from the carryout. Another day, if the weather was cool enough, we
would walk around the block and just talk. And of course, some days
I would just spend the evening with him watching television and
talking.

I was digging him. So it was no big deal when
he asked me if I would go to Carnival with him. I only lived two
blocks from the start of the parade route, so I might as well step
on down the street and watch it with him.

He got off the bus on Kennedy Street and I
smiled slightly, not wanting to show the world how deeply I was
attracted to him. As usual, he was wearing a crisp white sleeveless
t-shirt, but today he was wearing faded green camouflage shorts. A
red, white, and black bandana pulled his long dreadlocks back.

"Nice bandana," I said, giving him dap as he
approached me.

"Thanks. Representin' Trinidad today."

"Looks good. I'm representing the tiny nation
of Kena Island. Population one."

"You crazy," he said. "Hey, we goin' up this
way today, Georgia and Missouri."

"Is that the best spot to see the
parade?"

"See it? I said we're gonna be in it."

"What the hell?" I said, stopping in my
tracks. "As hot as it is out here, you want us to walk in the
parade? I'm not dressed for this shit man."

"It's fine, the weather ain't that bad, and
you don't need to do nothin' special. I know the band. We
good."

"Dante, I don't know," I said.

"Aight, just walk with me to this little
park. We'll check it out. If you don't wanna do it, we can just
watch. But we gotta hurry, the shit is about to start."

He got some pep in his step and started
jogging up Georgia Avenue to where it met Missouri. There was a
park there where all the bands were assembling. For DC Carnival, a
band wasn't just musicians; it included huge flatbed trucks with
enormous speakers as well as dozens of dancers. Some of the bands
had elaborate costumes with feathers and sequins. I had seen
pictures of folks I went to college with who had gone to real
Carnivals down in the islands. They were off the chain.

DC Carnival was smaller, but still shaping up
to be a lot of fun. On this hill were hundreds of dancers assembled
and waiting to march with their bands down Georgia Avenue. Dante
led me down the other side of the hill to the band furthest away
from everyone else. These dancers were not wearing specific
costumes at all, but instead were doused head to toe in blood red
body paint.

"This is the Cold Blooded Band," he
explained. He took his shirt off and wiped the sweat from his
forehead with it. It was my first time seeing his naked torso and I
enjoyed the view. Every inch of his chest looked like it had been
carved from mahogany.

"Yeah, looks creepy," I replied. As I walked
closer to the dancers, rather than looking ominous and scary, they
actually all had smiles on their faces. I could tell that this was
a friendly group by the way the laughed and carried on around each
other.

"So, where do the non-bloody folks line up?"
I asked.

Ignoring me, Dante introduced me to a friend
of his.

"Justin, this is Kenny. He's with Cold
Blooded." Kenny was a tall man with cornrows and caramel colored
skin. He was 6 and a half feet easy and had shoulders wider than
most small houses.

"Nice to meet you, Justin," he said in a deep
bass. "Stand over there, please."

I backed up a few paces as he directed and
Dante stood next to me.

"Clear!" Kenny shouted.

Suddenly, I was drenched with red paint from
head to toe.

"Son of a bitch!" I immediately took my shirt
off to rub the paint from my face, when another torrent of red
paint doused me. Now I looked unrecognizable from the rest of the
dancers.