Free Zombie by J.R. Angelella Page B

“Chicks dig black artists. Chicks also dig white dudes who look at art.” Michael (or Mykel) opens his bag to reload his camera with film.
    “This is a photography exhibit?” I ask.
    “I avoid explaining what I do, if I can.”
    “And you need my help why?”
    “What bus you take home?” he asks.
    “The 55,” I say. “When my Dad can’t pick me up.”
    “The M-T-A.” Mykel claps. “Going Jeremy’s way.” He claps again and sings. “
Mass Transit. Yeah. Mass transit. Yeah. Mass transit. Yeah
.”
    “I don’t get it,” I say.
    “That’s because you are wound way too tight.” He grabs my shoulders, like Brother Lee did earlier, and shakes me. “Loosen up, baby. Be black like me and loosen up. Swagger, son. Let’s see it.” He reassembles his camera and points the long lens at me like the scope of a gun.
Click, click, click
. “Come and meet the ladies with me.”
    “I should get home,” I say, as the 55 screeches up to the curb.
    “I’m going to ask you one last question—who is waiting for you at home that is so damn important that they can’t wait?” Mykel puts his arm around me. He smells like cherry flavored bubble gum, but he isn’t chewing anything. “It’s honey time, little man. Say it with me. Come on. Feel how the words fit in your mouth. What time is it?”
    “It’s honey time,” I say, not feeling any blacker.

22
    T he foyer to the lecture hall is empty and quiet and smells like Lysol, like it had just been mopped. Glass-enclosed trophy cases line the walls, housing elaborate and varied trophies topped with tiny golden men in various positions covering what looks like athletic as well as academic accolades. The trophies have multiple levels, some with tiny golden men kicking tiny golden balls or swinging tiny golden bats. There are tiny golden briefcases and tiny golden suits and ties. There are tiny golden onesies with matching headgear, and all throughout the cases arms are upthrust, claiming tiny, golden victory.
    A giant green plant guards the entrance to the lecture hall. Thick spear-shaped leaves aim like arrowheads from pencil-thin branches.
    “I keep expecting Brother Lee to leap out from behind something,” I say.
    “Did you not hear me? I’m black. Brother Lee and I are on a first name basis.”
    Mykel and I follow signs taped to the walls that have the word
audition
printed on them with arrows.
    “He lets you call him William?” I ask.
    “Better.”
    “Bill?”
    “Fucking weird, right? Bill—about as Asian as my asshole.”
    “He hates me,” I say.
    “He hates all the whiteys.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You prefer honkeys?”
    “Fuck you.”
    We pass the lecture hall and enter the theater where a long line of guys and girls extends out from the stage. The theater is forty rows deep, divided into five sections of red plush seats. Matching red curtains hang over the stage. Two teachers sit at a table at the front of the stage with their backs to the room, facing students performing dramatic monologues. One of them is Father Vincent Gibbs, the Byron Hall chaplain and faculty advisor. He wears all black with an all-black collar except for the exposed white collar where the necktie knot should be. Occasionally, Father Vincent fires off harsh hushes, reminding us that auditions are underway.
    “Please,” he says. “Please be respectful of others. Give the same level of respect for those up here auditioning as you expect to receive when it’s your turn to audition.” It’s hard to take him seriously when he scolds us, because he says everything with such a big, broad smile.
    Mykel moves in front of me and works the girls in line like a pro, approaching each with swagger, handing out his postcards, flashing his amazing smile. I can’t believe his swagger actually works with these girls. They’re drawn to him, surrounding him, speaking to him, wanting to be acknowledged by him.
    At the front of the stage, I see Zink, working his way up the line, the same