Birth of a Dark Nation Read online

  "Scrambled eggs with cheese, home fries, grits, and bacon, like you like it," he announced, putting my Styrofoam container in front of me.

  "Perfect," I said. "How much I owe you?" Steve put his hand up, closed his eyes, and vigorously shook his head.

  "Thanks, man!" I smiled. We did that for each other all the time. Sometimes it would be my turn; sometimes it was Steve or Cissy. We dug into our food and immediately began our gripe session. We sat in Cissy's office, which was adorned with photos of her husband and daughter.

  "So what's new?" I asked.

  "Well, I tried to go to a conference in Nashville, but Ernie said no," Cissy huffed.

  "Figures," I said.

  "I don't know why he won't let us be great. Seems like no matter where I work, the wrong people are in charge," Steve said.

  "Does he even have a degree?" Cissy asked.

  "His resume says so," Steve said.

  "I'm sure he bought one from someplace. There are diploma mills all over the internet," I theorized.

  "God, I hate this place! I wish the economy wasn't so bad; I would leave today," Steve said.

  "But the clients are worth it," Cissy said firmly.

  "I can't believe the board is okay with this guy," I said.

  "They're all his friends. They'll never fire him," Steve said.

  "So what are we going to do?" I asked. Cissy shrugged.

  "You can do computer work anywhere. You tell me what you're going to do."

  "I don't know, Cissy. I just want to work someplace where I can make a difference."

  "You've been here almost four years now. What difference have you made? I mean you basically back up the servers. How does that help women with AIDS?"

  "Damn, Cissy."

  "I'm not trying to be mean, honey. But you are still young and have a lot of good ideas. You don't have to work here if you don't want to. You've got a lot of executive leadership potential."

  "She's right," Steve added. "You've got some of the best ideas in the building, but Ernie's dumb ass…"

  "I'm starting to think Ernie's last name is 'dumb ass' for real," I said.

  "Might as well be. We are up shit's creek here and nobody is doing anything about it."

  I shrugged.

  "Well, let me know when y'all have a plan together. I'll support it." I stood up to leave Cissy's office.

  "That's it?" Steve asked.

  "I don't know what else I can do. We're all stuck in crappy jobs at a mediocre organization with a shitty boss and a negligent board of directors. What can I do other than apply for a new job?"

  "It makes me sad that this place has robbed you of your passion."

  "Passion?" I laughed. "Don't worry about me. I'm going to be okay. But if y'all will excuse me, I'm going to run to Dollar General and get me a soda. Want anything?"

  My coworkers shook their heads. I headed out the door and jogged across the street during a rare break in the heavy Rhode Island Avenue traffic.

  This dude who I saw from time to time was sitting on the steps of the Masonic hall, casually looking in my direction. I had conditioned myself not to notice the boys on the street. Even after four years, I wasn't as comfortable in Woodridge as I was in my little corner of Uptown, where I'd lived since moving to DC. I kept my distance.

  It was hot. I hated the summer with a passion. I'd gained so much weight since college and it seemed like the summer heat made me more aware of myself. Sweat rolled off my neck and down my chest, pausing at my stomach as if to mock its ever-expanding roundness.

  I had never been a small guy, but the preceding few years had been incredibly sedentary for me. I really needed to join a gym, but I was afraid that the moment I did so, I'd lose my job and then not be able to afford it.

  Excuses.

  I just didn't feel like doing anything about it.

  I bought my Sprite Zero and exited the store. I could see the profile of the guy sitting in front of the Masonic hall more clearly. He had on a light gray t-shirt with a plain black book bag, jean shorts, plain black tennis shoes, and short white socks. His long dreadlocks came past his broad, strong shoulders. His face was a living dichotomy: the roundness of his cheeks made him appear youthful and innocent, but his eyes were somehow old beyond his years, and his eyebrows and nose converged into acute angles, making me unsure whether he was truly sinister or just born looking suspicious.

  He saw me looking.

  "Aye, I got some music. Got some DVDs," he announced.

  "What?" I asked, stopping in front of his stoop.

  "I got some music… Old school hip-hop, go-go, R&B. Whatever you want. And some movies. Got that comedy shit, shit that's in theaters now. I got you."

  This nigga was trying to sell me bootleg merchandise. I hadn't been hit up by a bootleg man in years. With all the ways to get free music on the Internet-legally or not-I was taken aback by his offer.

  I looked at his face and time stopped. Now that I could see him full on, I saw the depths of his beauty. He wasn't plain at all, nor was he sinister. He had impossibly dark eyes and a smooth, dark brown face. His dreadlocks crowned him perfectly.

  "I don't need any music," I said, suddenly full of confidence. "But I'll tell you what-find me some movies that are stronger than an R rating, and we can talk."

  He looked at me quizzically.

  "Oh…you mean you want some of them nasty movies? Some triple X?"

  "Yeah. Sure."

  "I gotchu. Where you be at?"

  "I work across the street at Magdalene."

  "Aight bet. I'ma be back through here with some flicks on Friday, aight?"

  "Bet," I replied. I jogged back across the busy street.

  What was I doing? Did I really just arrange for my friendly neighborhood bootleg man to bring me some X-rated movies in front of my job?

  Yes. I did.

  He was kind of cute though. Might be nice to see him again. And I was somewhat of a connoisseur of pornography, so why not? Straight, gay, whatever—I just liked porn. Not like there was much else to do with my free time.

  ~

  Toward the end of the day, I got notification of an event I had put on my calendar. The Syracuse alumni chapter in DC was putting on another one of their happy hours downtown. I didn't really want to go, but I didn't have any reason not to. Maybe I could do some networking or something. Or maybe find a dude.

  I looked very much like an IT professional that evening. Navy blue polo shirt and khaki pants. Nothing special. I looked like everybody else coming from work on the train I took to get to Gallery Place.

  I exited the train right by the humongous Chinatown arch extending over H Street. Chinatown is like a tiny version of Times Square. Lights and LED signs blink all over the place and the streets are clogged with tourists toting digital SLR cameras they never take off automatic mode.

  The happy hour was at this Spanish tapas place. A tall, bald white guy dressed in his best business casual with an Orangemen button on his shirt shook my hand and asked me when I graduated. I told him and he smiled, noting that he'd never seen me at a function before. I said I normally didn't come, but I figure I might as well see what it was all about. He smirked.

  The Syracuse folk had an area in the back sectioned off with orange balloons. I sat at the furthest corner table and looked at the "Syracuse Specials," as they were called. I ordered some kind of apple and walnut salad and something with scallops. They were cheap.

  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 ende
d 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.

  June

  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.