Stephen James

The beat of the drum and the shaker told the people waiting for the L Train at 6th Avenue that there was another street performer asking for money in the subways. But then a different sound accosted their ears keeping time with the funky rhythms. Curiuosly and grudgingly, adults and children began to follow the strange sound to figure out what the new noise could possibly be. And Stephen just kept dancing.

He knew the people would come once he started to dance. And because he was different, because he wasn't begging and most importantly because he was good he also knew they would stay. His most expensive possessions were on his feet beating his square wood board with the weight of a grown man being thrown around. His black tap shoes, the last gift his mother gave him before he split town to go to the big city, were well-worn in and inspired a love-hate relationship within their owner. Her first gift to him was making him take those stupid dance lessons in the first place. This last one was his bread and butter.

As his feet began to move, slowly at first, he looked over at Rashad, his roommate and jamming buddy, pounding away on his drums shaking his head as if the rhythm made his head swim with music intoxication. Rashad loved to play. Every time they needed to make some more cash for rent, booze, weed, or food, only Rashad could get Stephen to get out of bed and polish up his black tap shoes.

Rashad certainly knew how to get the ladies. Speaking of ladies, Stephen's mind distracted for a minute as he watched a tall, thin brunette in a puffy golden jacket walk by without takig a second glance at him. He followed her with his eyes all the way until he couldn't see her anymore and turned back only to find Rashad looking at him with a knowing smile. Rashad's coffee and cream colored face turned to look at Stephen's never-ceasing tapping feet as if to pointedly say, "don't forget to dance, Nigga."

Stephen saw his friends's black dreads sneaking out of his ski cap and thought about his own greasy blonde and currently sweaty head of hair. He watched as two more model-thin blondes passed with white puffy jackets and almost fell over leaning towards them to gawk. "Just look at me and notice me you little sluts!" He thought to himself. His feet kept moving and he leaned back with a quick ball change to steady himself again. Rashad hadn't seen him chekcing out the girls that time, he was too involved in his music now. He was getting faster already. Stephen sighed. When Rashad started getting faster, he too, tired and sweaty as he was, would have to pick up the pace as well. Especially since the crowd waiting for the train was getting thicker.

His white shirt clung to him with sweat soaked through and through and his baggy jeans were getting uncomfortable because of the sweat. He grabbed a hold of his jeans to pull them up and felt Rashad's rhythms begin to take him over. This was the part he hated. He fought it with all his might. He tried to distract himself with the people watching, with the pretty teenagers stopping to watch or with the small boy who just put a dollar in Rashad's drum case. But he was begining to swim like Rashad, to move to feel his body take over his mind and move to the beats with funk and flare and the old ingrained classical training began to inform his body's improvisation. Lights, people, subways, women, drugs ceased to exist as his heart began to break forth from it's cage in the pure emotion that came from his body's release. He was intoxicated with the rhythm and had entered once again into the world where it was just him, Rashad and his black tap shoes.

The thumping, the shaker and the beasts within both men began to subside and the shoes began to calm down from maniacal artistry to a suave Gene Kelly-esque state. People were glued to their faces and figures still holding traces of the miracle that had just played forth before them. Many were holding their breath unawares. One person sitting two feet away in a red coat wondered if those holding their breath wondered if they realized it was because all had witnessed a mastery of craft that comes from a heart burstig forth with pain, love, joy, intense sadness and dislike and supported by the framework of years of study.

The train came in a rush and people shook off the sensation and didn't bother to meet the eyes of the two men who stood silent and panting as if having just made love. Stephen's head began to clear with the sounds of the approaching train and he looked over at Rashad who looked like he always did after coming off a good trip. He felt his heart slowly decompressing back into its hiding place and he began to feel safe again and yet as if a part of him, the part that got loose this time, was crying to be let out just one more time. Like a hungry animal that only smells the feast, he sank down to his knees to catch his breath

The train doors opened and people flooded in and out once again oblivious to the art in the middle of a rat's paradise. Rashad looked up just as a pair of green eyes approached to drop a last dollar bill into his drum case. Both men watched her silently in awe and followed the back of her head into the train just as the doors were closing. Rashad managed to croak out a "thank you" just before the doors closed. But it wasn't quick enough for Stephen to catch one more glimpse at those green eyes which had seen him. Had really seen and understood him.

"Damn. Now that's what I call nice. Meat on the body, man, that's what I need, something to hold." Rashad turned arond and got some water.

"Nah," Stephen shrugged trying not to also shrug off the haunting feeling he now felt in the pit of his stomach. "Nah, she was too chubby. I like emaciated."

"Whatever man. So how about it, one more go? Got some people coming down already. They just waitin' to empty their pockets for a little entertainment." Rashad broke into a wide grin and picked up his shaker. Stephen sighed and raised his tortured body for another round of ecstasy. And somewhere deep within, he decided he would finally call his mother, not to ask for money, pride would never let him sink so low, but only to tell her thank you. And that he missed her. A different pair of green eyes now flooded his mind, familiar this time, and loving, and as he thought about his mother, his feet began to move softly, tapping out a different rhythm, a wounded yet proud and hopeful morse code.