It was a simple matter of being stationary. When she stopped moving, He stopped hitting, and the blood stopped pounding in Trainer Jr.’s head. He didn't notice at first. Didn't click in his head. It wasn't until much later when those same hands turned to his direction when he noticed. If you didn't move, you didn't exist, and the pain went away. At least for a little while.
TRAINER JR. His wedding was normal in an extraordinary way. Having spent his entire life basked in the light of the bourgeoisie, heaven in his mind was resting in the shadows of the plebeian, and Mary's family was grounded in working class ethics and morals even more so than his own in extravagancies. His parents cursed when he would not allow them to pay for it. Instead Mary's father put in extra hours at the plant to make sure that he alone could provide a suitable threshold for his little girl. He wanted to let her go with dignity.
They kissed. It was official. Man and wife. He looked around the modest settings of Mary's childhood home. The paper crepe draping down the sides of the banisters, the smell of chicken, steak, potato salad, black hair care products, imitation cologne and perfumes, the cat licking intimate parts of herself under the plastic lined couch, unmoved by the day's festivities, her parents pride, his own parents disgust. He smiled, jealous of the cat, happy to be near her. Hopeful to achieve the same anonymity when the whole fiasco was over.
Trainer Jr. wanted to be married. Be an accountant, get married, have kids, eat lots of potatoes, grow fat, and continue the family name. His stability rested on this image, this desire, this carrot that dangled from his nose ever since he was a little boy. When he met Mary at the fast food restaurant his heart sang with glee. An opportunity to get the carrot and eat it too. Marry Mary and piss off his parents at the same time. Besides, he truly loved Mary. In the beginning.
MARY She became demanding. Almost immediately. And Trainer Jr. stood by her side. No matter what. Nothing was going to destroy what he worked so hard to achieve. Not even if it was the very thing he worked so hard to achieve. Sometimes the fights went on until 3:00 in the morning. So many decisions to be made. Children, no children. House, apartment. Los Angeles, Trainer Jr.'s family. Oakland, Mary's family. It was a non stop debate. A debate of one. For with every hurtful remark, every ill fitted plea, and sometimes Mary's own tiny little rage filled fists on Trainer Jr.'s broad shoulders, he answered the way he was taught. In an arrogant, aggravating all consuming.... silence. And when he stopped moving, stopped breathing, when he made himself not exist, she went away. He smiled. Licked his intimate parts and crawled underneath the nearest plastic lined couch.
She didn't notice at first. But she didn't really have a reason to. In her mind, things were fine. Yes, they had problems, but don't all couples at one point or another? I still love him. He still loves me. Even though we argue, he always keeps a cool and collected head. He loves me too much to yell back and I love him to much to be silent. This is how we work. And we do work. Her rationalizations were miles long, paper thick and she refused to see the writing on it, even when it unrolled right in front of her. She was dealing with her own dangling carrots. Maintaining her own image. Pleasing her own parents. So she didn't notice. Didn't question. In the beginning.
HAMET Hamet had a baby girl. And that's how they met… in the African bookstore. He, looking for black baby dolls. Trainer Jr. looking for a book of African baby names for the spark growing in Mary that constantly burned the both of them. Trainer Jr. knew what was going on. It wasn't new or intriguing. It never was. It was a lame appendage that he tried many times to amputate. The last blow being his marriage to Mary. And with the baby on the way, that was the end of it. He finally got that goddamn carrot. All he needed was the potatoes to get fat and all would be right with the world. But Hamet was there with a different flavor. Langston Hughes looking brother with a receding hairline. A chocolate covered brother. Caramel Maybe. Something Sweet. Trainer Jr. wanted him from the moment he laid eyes on him. He wanted to know him, wanted to touch him, wanted to taste him. But alas, with all his wants teasing his sensibilities (and he being a sensible man after all) he wanted, ultimately, to not want anything from Hamet outside of his absence... which, of course, wasn't going to happen. Hamet, with doll in hand, walked over to Trainer Jr.
"Do I know from somewhere man?" Hamet asked.
"What?"
"Nothing. You were just... staring at me like you know me or something."
"No. No. I thought I did. I'm sorry. I was mistaken."
He turned away, trying to find the nearest couch to crawl under. To hide that now fully alive, fully awake appendage of his.
"Boy or girl?"
"What" asked Trainer Jr.
"I got the same book. The one in your hand. The book of names. That's how I named my baby girl. Aba."
"Like the singing group?"
"No. It means born on Thursday. She was born on Thursday."
"I couldn't do that to my kid. Name him, or her, after a day of the week. Even if it is African."
"Why not?"
"Just seems kind of weird. I mean, it's okay when you're HERE and people are like 'Aba, what cool African name.' But what if she goes to Africa. People are going to be like, 'Your name is Thursday? Were your parents high?"
“Well, yeah. Yeah we were! At least during the conception."
And that's how they met. But it was nothing new. Not the way his lips grew wet when Hamet flung his back pack over his tattooed shoulder, or how he stumbled over his words trying to answer questions that did not seem as interesting as the dark brown suede mustache goatee framing Hamet's thick cumulus lips, or how a Cheshire like grin crept over his mouth when he shook Hamet's hand right before he left the bookstore. This was chartered territory.
As he stood in line to purchase the book of African baby names, he started to notice different things around him. Small things at first. Like how elegant the dust powered around the front windowsill, the delicate micro carvings on the counter's rim. Then the colors of the book spines as they lay on the shelf. They seemed to have an order, a rhythm, a rainbow of their own. Or the cracks on the old wood floor, the soft shadows the signs on the front window laid on the counter display, the tiny beads of perspiration above the cashier's brow. Something was around him, like a fog or a mist. This was different.
Thankfully, However, this was also... over. So he thought at least. When the sweaty cashier handed him his change, he walked passed the disorderly bookshelves, kicking up dust in his path, leaving the stuffy bookstore. When he reached the street, a fresh blast of July air and Los Angeles traffic noise confirmed that the chapter was over. Hamet would just be a guy he met who named his daughter after a day in the week. Mary would be the great love of his life. And that life, as he knew it, would go on.
Until...
"Hey Trainer!" Hamet came jogging back towards Trainer.
"It just clicked. I've seen you before. You work in the Gas Company Tower right? I knew I heard that name before. You're on the 19th floor. I'm on 17. The mailroom. You're the only person the building who gets 'Black Enterprise’."
And with that, Trainer knew nothing would be the same. He took a good long look at the mocha colored Langston Hughes looking brother with the receding hairline. "He is going to be my downfall." He thought to himself. "Aaaah, at least the view is good."
Hamet went on, "I was thinking that maybe we could get a cup of coffee or something sometime. Nice to know the brothers that work in the same building as you. We need some type of support system, you know?"
"Yeah. Yeah. That would be cool. Coffee."
"Good. I gotta hit the road. My bus is coming. But I'll see you."
"Okay. My last name is Deibolt. Just come up and ask the receptionist where my office is."
"Or maybe you could go down."
And with a little laugh and smile, Hamet sprinted towards the bus stop, hopped on the number four, and dissolved from Trainer' Jr,'s sight. THIS... was uncharted territory. This was not just the mail clerk at his bachelor party or his flighty next door neighbor whom he threatened murder if the incident ever leaked (and who sequentially moved two months later) or his fourth cousin removed whom he tongued in his Aunt's bathroom on New Years' after they got drunk and revealed each other's tendencies. This was not simply physical nor convenient nor curious. One thing it did turn out to be was addictive. He knew that from the moment Hamet left him. His fingers still warm with his sandalwood. His mind replaying every little detail it could about him. His imagination filling in the blanks. When he saw Hamet get further and further from him on the number four, he could feel it. A space he tried to flush away for so long or fill with delusions of a life he never really wanted but... never really left him. And as the number four carried Hamet away, he realized that that space was not inside of him but he was inside that space... and he began to hurt.
