Laughing to himself, Church stiffens his back, his entire body becoming erect. In a slow and lazy fashion he lifts his left arm then snaps his neck to the right, his small afro shaken by the sudden stop. The robot dance never seemed more appropriate. In his corporate attire, Church continues with his B-boy Babylon moves, his pop-lock-your-ass-is-got breaking. The plantation boogie has now moved to Church’s knees and to the bottom of his feet as he begins to moonwalk across his living room floor. There is no synthesized beat to keep rhythm or hard bass line to guide his meticulous footsteps. In his mind, the beat is stronger than any. It’s the rhythm of punching clock, the tempo of metro doors closing and opening, the monotone melody your pupils murmur when staring at a computer for hours. It is the white collar jive, the no-money minstrel show. Church is on a roll and sweat beads down the side of his cheek. The well-toned muscles tense and release making Church’s body jolt, coil and sway. Instinct, Doubt and Temptation. Streams of hot sweat begin to meander around the neck of the urban Zulu dancer and soak the collar of his pressed business shirt. Under it, his tank top clamps unto his rib cage, a new bright white epidermis on the melanin stricken skin of your average black nobody. The movements become more frantic, extensions of the limbs more sudden and vibrant. Friction between his socks and the apartment’s musty carpet set the sole of his feet afire. The thump from the apartment above doesn’t even phase Church instead it serves as an audio catalyst enhancing the otherwise soundless high-fevered prancing of an underpaid, under-appreciated but dangerously well-groomed and disturbingly polite new-age field negro. But man, can this brother jive!
(excerpt from a story I started writing a few years back….)