From Issue 102 — Black Americana

“Giddy up. I’ll make coffee,” he says.
One floor below. Right underneath us.

It’s Wednesday morning.
I’m excited about the shoot.
I think.

I need coffee.

Clothes. Stairs. Knock.
Downstairs. Espresso.
Giddy up. Camera.
Let’s go.

The moment the lights hit, I feel it.
Comfort. Peace.
In the element.

Then?

Discomfort.

The itch.
The voice.
The fight.

It’s always there.
Waiting.
Poking me.

Some version of me versus another.

The artist.
The husband.
The father.
The friend.

I embrace the itch.
Let it sink in.
Now we’re in.

Then?

I hear something.
Not in the room.
In my head.

An old conversation I never finish.
The voice that says I should’ve done it differently.

I always hear him first.
That’s when the shift starts.

Engines fire up.
Hands go up.
Burst of words.

Othello comes to mind.
Restrain.

I think I apologize.
Or maybe I just stop.
I can’t remember.

I say, “I am a performer. I can’t sit still.”
He waves it off.
“That’s no problem.”

Then?

We go.
Back and forth.
Fast.

I speak.
He clicks.
The camera and the monologue
racing on the same track.

No one wins.
But we both keep score.

I know the camera’s catching all of it.
But I don’t care.

Was that the point?
Who knows.
Who cares.

He asks the question he always asks:
“Who are you when no one’s watching?”

I say nothing.
That one always cuts.

Because I don’t know.
Because maybe he does.
The other me.

At some point I raise my voice.
Only in my head, but loud.
Loud enough for my body to feel it.

My hands go up, again.

Then it’s over.

Exhale.

This isn’t performance.
It’s instinct.
Memory.

The feeling when you argue in your head and win?
Only it doesn’t feel like winning.

I’m not acting.
I’m reacting.

I used to think the camera captured who you are.
Now I think it captures who you’re trying not to be.

I stop talking.
He goes quiet.

The frame closes.
The shoot ends.

But the argument
never really does.