Short Stories:

I once sat on the shores of Monte Carlo, the Mediterranean Sea at my feet.  Now, I sweep the gutter on 98th Avenue.  When I left this neighborhood, set deep on the outskirts of East Oakland, it was through innocent eyes that I saw the world and believed it would welcome me.  Nineteen, chasing my dreams with a scholarship to the Alvin Ailey American Dance Center in New York City.  I left my Mamas’ house and ventured into the world to find my calling and in a whirlwind of time I’ve been around the world and now back home to the ghetto.

The Wash House sits on the corner of 98th avenue and Birch street on the edge of east Oakland.  The gutter is filthy with candy wrappers, soda cans, newspapers and weeds growing out of cracks; the sidewalk is stained with soda, gum, and dirty mop water.  I ask my mother all the time to pour the mop water in the gutter but she continues to pour it on the sidewalk in front of the door.  She doesn’t listen to me and runs the business like a third world, always on the verge of closing down busted ass shack.  Anyway, I sweep and feel foolish doing it.  Cars constantly fly down the ave with their colors flashing and music trailing behind. Or, they will stop at the light and watch me.  Every time I feel someone’s gaze I switch directions, so they don’t see my face.  My chore as a result is erratic and takes longer.  I feel crazy sweeping up this trash but it’s our business. Grandpa’s store never looked this raggedy.   So. Here I am.  Me. The dancer who lights up stages from Oakland, to the shores of the Cote d’Azur, to New York City theaters and dance clubs. I’ve strolled the canals of Amsterdam, I’ve felt the Caribbean sun on my skin, now I’m to the fuckin’ curb on 9-8.

Just as I finished sweeping this dude came out the wash house. His hair is long and straight, past his shoulders, with tight finger waves like sand dunes, parted down the sides of his face.  He flashes me a smile and his gold teeth catch the sunlight. He gets in his 68’ gold Cutlass Supreme which I’ve just finished sweeping around.  He starts the engine and music explodes into the morning air with rich, soulful sounds that seem to swirl around my face and the back of my neck and cause me to catch my breath.  He speeds off.  At that moment the whole scenario seems too ironic to be true.  This nigga is at the next corner I can still feel the bass of his music inside my body and that’s when I recognize the song, “The Ghetto” by Donny Hathaway.  I smile and go inside the wash house thinking about the gutter, gold teeth, all that sound in the trunk of that car, New York and, the rest of the world I wanted to see.  Still smiling, I start to shake my head laughing in disbelief and very soon I’m crying.  I feel desperate.  I know I’m desperate.  What am I going to do here to survive?  How can I get out of the daily misery?