Blackout: Act 1

Yes, HR orientation training. For a legit job.

“Hi, my name is Tam Wright. I’m the new intern, here to drop off my paperwork.”

Still tall as hell, all legs and gangly arms with those beautiful eyes and thick lips.

“This is pretty embarrassing. There’s been a small clerical error. It appears an offer letter for the internship was sent to both of you. But, unfortunately, we only have the budget to cover one opening.”

“I’m sorry, but right now, I have to make sure everyone is accounted for. It’s protocol. Once the power is back up, I’ll let you two know, okay? Get home safe!”

Probably my guilty conscience yacking at me for not actually being helpful to the dude, but your boy was shook, is what I’m saying.

I could feel the sweat beading up at my hairline and dripping down my sides from what would soon be funky armpits.

The car we're on is full but not packed to the brim—seats are all taken and there’s a smattering of folks standing here and there: lady pushing a stroller; hipster-lookin’ bearded dude with his bike; trio of girls in ballet clothes who couldn’t be more than thirteen; pair of guys who I assume are a couple based on how close together they’re standing.

Homie’s chest is definitely expanding and contracting real heavy right now.

My eyes drop to his foot—without my express permission, mind you—and when I see his utterly pristine white-on-white-on-white Jordan Retro 1s (so pristine, they practically glow on this dark train), I look away.

Would I ever tell anybody I’m not really feelin' the hoop life no more? That where basketball used to be the light of my path/my reason for being/the only thing I looked forward to, it’s just kind of...a thing now? Maybe even a slightly tedious one?

Ain’t nobody saying it aloud, but we all know people expect dudes like me and Tremaine—tall, “athletic"-looking fellas of a certain racial demographic (I’m rolling my eyes real hard right now)—to be athletes.

Have “hands” conducive to throwing and catching different types of “sports balls” (another one from the baby sis).

Dude is always mad clean (like, wardrobe is immaculate) and cool as a cucumber.

Baby is knocked out (I assume) in the stroller, but mom-dukes looks mad frazzled, moving the thing back and forth like she'll burst into tears if she stops.

I haven’t confirmed or denied any of her speculations, but lately she been dropping these hints that let me know she’s got some ideas about me.

April, she randomly accosted me on one of the rare occasions we were both doing homework at the kitchen table: “You know something, JJ?” she said, peeping over the top of the Malcolm X-ish glasses she rocks.

Anyway, I had an abysmally bad game: couple travel calls, an unnecessary shot clock violation, tripped over air driving up the court and busted my lip, couldn’t seem to sink a shot to save my life, had four fouls by halftime.

I’d skim through with zero intention of actually going to any of them and delete my browser history afterward, but then one popped up that was happening the day after my eighteenth birthday. A masquerade party.

And I did kiss her back—she was a great kisser, objectively speaking...

My teammates were ecstatic, of course.

Was I walking into a cult initiation?

Still wasn’t real keen on being recognized.

But there was also this sense of...not-aloneness. Couldn’t call it belonging per se.

There was a guy in a blue paisley tux with a velvet and feathered half-face joint.

“Oh, don’t play coy, now,” he said, leaning all close and smothering my ear with his hot breath.

His tux was charcoal gray, by the way, and the jacket lacked lapels.

Within a couple of minutes, I’d slipped into being what I guess was some sorta dream version of a self I could eventually be: openly bisexual rising sophomore at City College with a rich on-campus life that included student government, intramural basketball, and Alpha Phi Alpha fraternity membership.

I told him my granddad is originally from Georgia, and waxed all poetic about my love for Southern soul food.

“JJ?” he says, all groggy and confused.

Full disclosure: subway tunnels outside the train? Real scary...

Little rinky-dink cell phone flashlight is only marginally helpful.

“Right. And yeah, he got a lot of support or whatever. But it’s been like a few years, and nobody else has come out. In sports there’s just this...” And I pause, not really knowing what word to use.
“Stigma,” he says.

We’re quiet for a few minutes as my dilemma settles in the dark around us. I have no idea what I’m gonna do.

We lapse back into quiet, but the dark is starting to make me itch.