fiction and musings from a gay black dude with delusions above his station
My agent got me a gig on a public service announcement about Juneteenth, a 30-second ad to recognize and celebrate the new national holiday. Who’s doing it, the government? I asked. After a pause, he answered Step Right Up, Inc., real quick, like at 80 MPH. When he talked fast, that meant he wanted to…
[Originally published in February 2012.] When I was about 13 I had to endure a week at Reverend Schlep’s Summer Camp for Men and Boys. It’s a right of passage in my family. My grandfather took my father. My father took my older brothers Mark and Karl, Jr., when they reached the right age. Now…
It looks like an ordinary door, which it is, in a way. It’s beige. It’s made of ordinary materials. It has no architectural flourishes. It has no signage, nothing that reads “Private” or “Restricted” or anything like that. It doesn’t even have a special lock. Any of those things would cheapen its importance. Whispers carry…
Shirley and Patty were invited to attend a local revival to give a presentation on the intersection of African-Americans, gays, and the black church. They asked me to come, too, and I said yes, though I had my reservations. Unlike Shirley or Patty, or their friend Grace who they also asked to come, I was…
Bernard’s mood lightened suddenly and he began shushing Pauline, before lowering his voice and leaning his head over the table. “What you heard is true,” he told her with a mock-serious tone of voice. Then he confided that there really was a secret cabal of gay priests. The more she laughed, the more he furrowed…
The man stood. He did some stretches, side-to-side, back and forth. He clasped his fingers and stretched his hands in front of him. He turned around and looked out the window. “Not much of a view,” he said. Mr. Little said nothing. The man turned around to face him again. “You said something about living…
“Who. . .who are. . .” he stuttered. The man behind the desk looked up. “Who do you think I am?” he said gruffly, before turning his attention back to the papers he shuffled on his desk. “Well, I mean, you can’t be who I think you are,” Mr. Little said. “Why is that?” the…
When he opened his eyes, a bright light hit him, though despite its brilliance, it did not make him flinch. He felt warmth from it, but it did not make him perspire. He turned around and saw behind him unfocussed blobs, like muted watercolor brush strokes. Their shapes looked familiar, like houses and buildings and…
The garage looked as cluttered as the yard. Boxes filled every nook. And stacked on top of them were assorted doodads that the darkness of the space would not reveal. But in the midst of all the clutter, Creepy Man had created a clear pocket for folding chairs that faced what looked like a covered…
Most of the ghost stories centered around 313 Greene Street. It fit the bill as the requisite scary house of the neighborhood. Each generation of neighborhood kids learned the tales about the house and embellished on them. It wasn’t hard to make up stuff about the place. For one, the house itself looked like it…
