The trouble with normal is, you never know what you're gonna get.
Normal coffee in your hand, normal appropriations of African culture on the walls, on the floor, on the ceilings. Normal bebop on the loudspeaker, odd for a small town (the French, smallville sounds like smallvie, small life.) Oui je suis dans ma petite vie. Normal boy walks in, normal ripped, normal hot for a small town (the rugby dykes back home would work a number on him, wouldn't leave him standing). Bet you anything he thinks he's in love with the girl behind the counter. Bet you anything he sweats doing his normal Midwestern chores while sweating about normal all- american agribusiness kicking him to the curb. Bet you somewhere down there he's normally different, queer as sin, and he's so used to killing it in himself he'll kill it anywhere else he sees it.
Bet you New York money.
I can't tell if I'm drawing stares. There's a point where people stop looking and start not-looking. That's my problem. More smog soaked into my clothing then some of these people have seen in their entire lives. My bag is one-strap, made of canvas tougher than sailcloth. It's never been washed (who washes a bag?), but it's by my side more than anything else I own. I start thinking about the impression it's giving, all grunge and warn bits, ribbons and buttons like some enchanted Asante armor. One says "Reparations Now!," another says "If you want to use my pronoun, ask first."
Young black man, ease yourself.
Where I'm from, hometowns are for pretension. Sitting here I've got nothing but. I look at the boy and the girl at the counter, each taking their turn taking glances. I tell myself: this is home. Home is where you forget that people look at you. It's like that joke that stopped being funny: homophobia- the fear of home. And I'm not even home yet. Just practicing.
Inside the bag is physics. Nothing but nothing could be more pretensions than physics. You throw a ball in the air, and X=1/2 a*t^2. Forget about time, forget about distance, forget about gravity, forget about the ball. You know it: where it is, where it was, where it will be. Physics=pretension=finish your thinking and then do the math. Q.E.D. I need more coffee.
The advantage, of course, is that then you know where things will fall. While standing I jerk my arm expertly, and my bag flies up and onto my shoulder in a slow, neat arc. Thankfully I hit the counter when the girl is looking for an excuse to end the conversation. She looks at me and forces a smile while her boy saunters off.
"What can I get you?"
"Medium latte."
"No problem."
As my luck would have it business is slow. She mingles behind the counter before breaking into:
"So.."
Get out my physics, get out my queer theory, get out SOMETHING. I reach for my bag and take a breath. Indirection is indiscretion. I look her in the eyes and let my shoulders relax. Practice makes perfect.
"You're not from around here?"
Bitch you have no idea.
"Not for a while, I've been at school out east."
And she said "oh," as if that explained everything. Then she said:
"Yeah, I've just been stuck here all my life. Graduating this year though."
"I musta been at SH before your time."
"I guess so, you're name is..."
"Matt Ross."
The look on her face changes, as if surprised, "You're not related to Peter Ross."
I nod. "Haven't talked to him in a while, how is he doing these days?" This is getting easier and easier.
"I didn't know Pete had a sister."
Or maybe not.
"Brother."
Curtly she says, "Oh, I'm sorry."
Inside me I feel the insuppressible urge to rip the rolled up sock from my pants and use it to beat her white boyfriend to a bloody pulp. I let it go. Let it go let it go, all day today just let it go.
"That's allright."
She puts my coffee down in front of me and I take a sip.
"Pete never told you about me?" Surprise surprise.
"He probably did and I just don't remember. He's more a friend of a friend really."
"Gotcha."
For 4 and a half minutes I sip my latte in silence. No new business, I rolled in during a slow hour of a slow afternoon. I think: I'm just stalling here. Your arms move, you pay, you pick up your bag and drive 3 blocks down, make a left and go half a mile then pull into the driveway and ring the doorbell. It's just movement, legs, arms, hands. Like getting out of bed in the morning. Do it. Go. Now.
I say, "So who's the boy?"
"Who?"
"The one you were talking to."
She pushes her hair aside. "Oh I don't know. He's just a mystery I suppose."
I think about the white boys I knew. Only black kid in the school, if I'd have come out I wouldn't have lasted a week. I knew all about white boys' mystery. You fought and fought and fought and they didn't show a scratch, half the time they didn't even realize. I said to myself: things are different now, home is safe now. I picked up my bag, now I had the stuff to fight back.
Across the counter the girl's eyes glinted, something Korean or Chinese back in her heritage. Who knows what she knew about it, but somewhere deep down she was the familiar woman of color I knew nothing about.
"Do you know what hurts him?"
"Excuse me?" She seemed startled, but intrigued. It was there.
"Find out what hurts him. You don't have to hurt him with it, but he won't make sense until you do."
I get money from my bag and begin to pay. I'm not thinking anymore. In 1 and a half minutes I will be in my car, in 6 minutes I will be parallel parking, in 7 minutes the door will open. Just math, just a function of time. As I swing my bag up on my shoulder she says:
"So you going to be town long?"
I smile, she's hungry like I'm hungry, hungry like someone who's yet to taste their lover's blood. Somewhere back home they're still fighting.
Home sweet home.
Normal coffee in your hand, normal appropriations of African culture on the walls, on the floor, on the ceilings. Normal bebop on the loudspeaker, odd for a small town (the French, smallville sounds like smallvie, small life.) Oui je suis dans ma petite vie. Normal boy walks in, normal ripped, normal hot for a small town (the rugby dykes back home would work a number on him, wouldn't leave him standing). Bet you anything he thinks he's in love with the girl behind the counter. Bet you anything he sweats doing his normal Midwestern chores while sweating about normal all- american agribusiness kicking him to the curb. Bet you somewhere down there he's normally different, queer as sin, and he's so used to killing it in himself he'll kill it anywhere else he sees it.
Bet you New York money.
I can't tell if I'm drawing stares. There's a point where people stop looking and start not-looking. That's my problem. More smog soaked into my clothing then some of these people have seen in their entire lives. My bag is one-strap, made of canvas tougher than sailcloth. It's never been washed (who washes a bag?), but it's by my side more than anything else I own. I start thinking about the impression it's giving, all grunge and warn bits, ribbons and buttons like some enchanted Asante armor. One says "Reparations Now!," another says "If you want to use my pronoun, ask first."
Young black man, ease yourself.
Where I'm from, hometowns are for pretension. Sitting here I've got nothing but. I look at the boy and the girl at the counter, each taking their turn taking glances. I tell myself: this is home. Home is where you forget that people look at you. It's like that joke that stopped being funny: homophobia- the fear of home. And I'm not even home yet. Just practicing.
Inside the bag is physics. Nothing but nothing could be more pretensions than physics. You throw a ball in the air, and X=1/2 a*t^2. Forget about time, forget about distance, forget about gravity, forget about the ball. You know it: where it is, where it was, where it will be. Physics=pretension=finish your thinking and then do the math. Q.E.D. I need more coffee.
The advantage, of course, is that then you know where things will fall. While standing I jerk my arm expertly, and my bag flies up and onto my shoulder in a slow, neat arc. Thankfully I hit the counter when the girl is looking for an excuse to end the conversation. She looks at me and forces a smile while her boy saunters off.
"What can I get you?"
"Medium latte."
"No problem."
As my luck would have it business is slow. She mingles behind the counter before breaking into:
"So.."
Get out my physics, get out my queer theory, get out SOMETHING. I reach for my bag and take a breath. Indirection is indiscretion. I look her in the eyes and let my shoulders relax. Practice makes perfect.
"You're not from around here?"
Bitch you have no idea.
"Not for a while, I've been at school out east."
And she said "oh," as if that explained everything. Then she said:
"Yeah, I've just been stuck here all my life. Graduating this year though."
"I musta been at SH before your time."
"I guess so, you're name is..."
"Matt Ross."
The look on her face changes, as if surprised, "You're not related to Peter Ross."
I nod. "Haven't talked to him in a while, how is he doing these days?" This is getting easier and easier.
"I didn't know Pete had a sister."
Or maybe not.
"Brother."
Curtly she says, "Oh, I'm sorry."
Inside me I feel the insuppressible urge to rip the rolled up sock from my pants and use it to beat her white boyfriend to a bloody pulp. I let it go. Let it go let it go, all day today just let it go.
"That's allright."
She puts my coffee down in front of me and I take a sip.
"Pete never told you about me?" Surprise surprise.
"He probably did and I just don't remember. He's more a friend of a friend really."
"Gotcha."
For 4 and a half minutes I sip my latte in silence. No new business, I rolled in during a slow hour of a slow afternoon. I think: I'm just stalling here. Your arms move, you pay, you pick up your bag and drive 3 blocks down, make a left and go half a mile then pull into the driveway and ring the doorbell. It's just movement, legs, arms, hands. Like getting out of bed in the morning. Do it. Go. Now.
I say, "So who's the boy?"
"Who?"
"The one you were talking to."
She pushes her hair aside. "Oh I don't know. He's just a mystery I suppose."
I think about the white boys I knew. Only black kid in the school, if I'd have come out I wouldn't have lasted a week. I knew all about white boys' mystery. You fought and fought and fought and they didn't show a scratch, half the time they didn't even realize. I said to myself: things are different now, home is safe now. I picked up my bag, now I had the stuff to fight back.
Across the counter the girl's eyes glinted, something Korean or Chinese back in her heritage. Who knows what she knew about it, but somewhere deep down she was the familiar woman of color I knew nothing about.
"Do you know what hurts him?"
"Excuse me?" She seemed startled, but intrigued. It was there.
"Find out what hurts him. You don't have to hurt him with it, but he won't make sense until you do."
I get money from my bag and begin to pay. I'm not thinking anymore. In 1 and a half minutes I will be in my car, in 6 minutes I will be parallel parking, in 7 minutes the door will open. Just math, just a function of time. As I swing my bag up on my shoulder she says:
"So you going to be town long?"
I smile, she's hungry like I'm hungry, hungry like someone who's yet to taste their lover's blood. Somewhere back home they're still fighting.
Home sweet home.