"BLACK Out" by Damien Belliveau
Ray bounced over and slugged me in the chest: WHAP!
“Nigga, what you daydreaming about?” He laughed. Yeah, I was daydreaming. At night. I was feeling myself, gassed up by the recent memory of getting jumped into Clarinada. For weeks I’d been replaying that afternoon in my mind: Ray’s fist slamming into my cheek, the force bending my neck violently. My whole body shifting, curved in slow motion like a crash test dummy. I fell a few steps to the left, my knees buckled. Vern stopped me from falling to the ground by throwing his right fist into my stomach. Von kicked my legs like that nigga thought he was Bruce Lee. A charlie-horse froze my thigh. Another fist struck the side of my head. Eight niggas whoopin’ my ass, breathing hard and talking hella shit. Water in my eyes. Sloppy combinations of punches struck my chest, back, arms, face. I tried to fight back, throwing wild fists at bodies and faces that moved too quickly. Finally, I was on the ground. That raggedy-ass paper-thin carpet. The textured rumble of Dickies and Levis met the scratch of polyester Starter jackets forming an aural vortex of ass-kicking. I tried to get back on my feet. Filthy Diadoras and Filas kept me off balance. On the ground. Unsteady. I grabbed Ray’s leg, clawed up, caught a thick knee in my skinny chest. Out of breath. I fell back. Messy punches landing, missing, brushing my head with enough heat to make me appreciate the near miss. Someone grabbed my shoulder, slipped. A belt buckle cut my face. Finger-nails tore through my shirt. Jagged open skin. The ragged stutter of clothes ripping filled the nasty air. The mildew smell of every lobby in every building on Clarinada Avenue. The stinking sour sweat of teenage boys drenched in sad angry violence. We started tumbling sideways, hella close to the stairs and railing. Vern nudged us back to the center of the lobby. A tangle of wild arms and legs and bodies, faces and teeth and narrow eyes. My right fist caught Walter’s chin. My left hand buckled too far the wrong way against Dre’s thigh. Someone’s foot stomped on my fingers. Skin slid off my knuckles. Blood. A fist landed square and hard in the center of my forehead. Stars sparkled before my eyes. BLACK, white, BLACK, white. BLACK. WHITE. I blinked like crazy. It ended. Heavy breathing. Circling. A pack of young wolves. Then chuckling, laughter.
LaMonte said, Well, I guess you down, nigga. You Clarinada now.
I’d never been more proud of anything in my life. Getting my ass beat by my friends so I’d no longer be scared to fight our enemies.
Now, we were mobbin’ to the school dance. The first public event where I was down. Not just a tag along. I was officially Clarinada. When Ray punched me in the chest, I knew he was just playing. I laughed. My head thrown back, mouth wide, gulping night fog. We were on our way to Westmoor’s Winter Formal, and we were hella deep. Ray was getting us amped up with chants of Clarinada! Clarinada! Clarinada! repeating our name, giving the word four syllables, until we were all sing-shouting in unison. Clar-i-na-da! Clar-i-na-da! Clar-i-na-da! The sky was a cold gray blanket above us. Fog without a moon. I was happy drunk and happy high. I had my own joint that I was puffing on, and a whole bottle of Strawberry Boones to myself. I’d already killed a 40 of St. Ides and somebody was passing around a bottle of MD 20/20. We were getting faded. Like, faded faded. Where were we? The football field? The baseball diamond? Edgemont Road? I don’t know. Ray bounced alongside me. “Nigga, you fucked up? You gone? Come on, blood, wake up!” I looked left and right. It was dark, but I knew I was surrounded. By homies. By Clarinada. Old heads and new heads. There were so many of us. And I was part of it. Now that I was down, me and Clarinada had become one in my mind. I was floating on a wave of confidence and cockiness. Alcohol stripped away all fear and insecurity. I was relaxed, funny, fearless, and since Mom had moved to Palm Springs, I was accountable to no one.
But I was fading in and out. BLACK.
All of a sudden, we were out of the cold. Inside. In the gym. We mobbed the dance floor. We bounced up and down like we were powered by springs. We formed a circle. The music moved us, the drums propelled us, the bass grabbed us, and we grabbed each other, hollering, Clarinada! Clarinada! Clarinada! Strobes flashed on and off. A disco ball. The DJ on an elevated stage. BLACK. Clarinada! Clarinada! Clarinada! Chloe walked up to me, threw her arms around me. Kissed me. She was high too. But I was wasted. “Aye, Chloe,” Ray shouted. “Dee’s faaaaded!” Ray and Edwin and Von and Vern and Jimmy smiled and laughed. BLACK. A chorus of niggas saying Errraayyyyy filled the air. BLACK. We bum rushed the picture line. We were deep. Two rows. Like the first blue Dickie suit picture. But better. Looser. More natural. Matt twisted his fingers into a CM for Clarinada Mob. Ray snarled and flipped off the camera, the gold caps on his teeth caught the camera’s flash. I was in the center. My white cap sat backwards on my head. My forest green sweatshirt billowed just right, with a long white t-shirt spilling out from underneath. Hands in my pockets. Contacts in, no glasses. Damn, I felt how my dad looked. BLACK. Bleachers. BLACK. Dancefloor. BLACK. Fools started shoving motherfuckers. Did a fight break out? Were some ‘Pinos woofin’? BLACK. Niggas scattered. Teachers, chaperones, security. Our circle collapsed. Fools broke out, hit the cuts. I was tripping, falling into people, using bodies to stay on my feet. BLACK. People yelling, screaming, shrieking, shouting. Everything a clumsy stumbling. BLACK. Open double doors. Silver bar. Exposed red bricks. I was on a bench. Laid out. BLACK. Digital Underground.
Alright, stop what you're doing
Cause I’m about to ruin
The image and the style
That you’re used to.
I started rapping. Swaying. Wobbling. BLACK. BLACK. Across the hall, the cafeteria’s outdoor atrium, a couple concrete lunch tables in what looked like a greenhouse. BLACK. Standing on those tables I rapped for a bunch a niggas who cheered me on, clapping and laughing and stomping their feet. The Humpty Dance. I held an invisible mic. I was good at imitating Shock-G. His deep voice. BLACK.
I look funny
But yo I’m making money, see
So yo world I hope you’re ready for me.
BLACK. That was a good day. Dee, the rapper. BLACK. The Vice Principal stood in front of me. Hands on his knees. Big glasses. Orange mustache. Freckled balding head talking to me. BLACK. Fingers snapping in my face. BLACK. He asked me if I’d had any alcohol. I risked the truth. He asked me if I’d done any drugs. I risked a lie.
How I was feeling? BLACK.
I’m the new fool in town
And my sound’s laid down by the Underground.
I drink up all the Hennessy you got on ya shelf
So just let me introduce myself...
BLACK. Chloe was sitting beside me. Hand on my back. BLACK. Chloe and the Vice Principal a few feet away. Talked. Pointed. Nodded. BLACK. What’s wrong with me? BLACK. What happened to everybody? BLACK. Where’s Ray and them? BLACK. BLACK. BLACK. Damn, that was hella fun. We tore that shit up. Everybody’s gonna be talking about us. About the Nada. BLACK. BLACK. I sat up. Suddenly energized. Chanting alone: Clarinada! Clarinada! Clarinada! BLACK. Chloe stood in front of me. “Let’s go,” she said, sounding like someone’s mother. Not mine. Haha. BLACK. BLACK. Chloe walked down the hall. God she had a nice ass. BLACK. My legs wobbled. Arms swayed. Hands limp. Shuffling through the parking lot. BLACK. Puke out the window of Chloe’s station wagon. BLACK. Turn the volume up and blast Too Short. I Ain’t Trippin no more. Really ain’t worth my time. BLACK. Slumped in the passenger seat. BLACK. Throat dry. Sour weed odor in my clothes, my hair, my fingers. Vomit chunks in my gums. BLACK. Where am I? I still have my clothes on. Whose bed is this? BLACK. What if Mom finds out? BLACK. I’m good, blood. I’m Clarinada. BLACK. Coming Ill From the Hill. BLACK.
BLACK.
BLACK.
BLACK.
BLACK.
A 2020 PEN America Emerging Voices Fellow, Damien Belliveau is a native of the San Francisco Bay Area, and a veteran of the United States Army. He has spent the past fifteen years telling stories in the world of reality television as an editor and director. He has been accepted to the University of Southern California's Creative Writing & Literature PhD program, and will begin coursework in the Fall of 2021. He is currently revising his first book, "hella."
