the Speech

After reciting his speech perfectly in the dirty, toothpaste-stained mirror, Lyle became more disgusted. His roommate was listening intently on the couch feet away. "You'd think a person that's done a perfect speech would be pleased but here we are: must you practice perfection?" Stanley sighed.

Stanley was a hippie: free, longhaired, and peaceful. He was a philosophy major too and enjoyed debating disorienting topics that had no rational end usually with an accompanying plume of smoke.

"So what is it today? Just Mary Jane or Ms. Jane plus shrooms and acid too," Lyle knowingly asked. Stanley hated when Lyle reduced his banter to mere substances and Lyle knew it.

Stanley responded, "Would your pity be any different?"

Realizing his older roommate was much wittier this time, he conceded, "maybe, I don't know? But anyways man, I shat myself. Nothing came out of my mouth. Dr. Spencer saved me and gave me a repeat this Thursday. Everyone looked at me like a complete idiot, like a monkey in a zoo."

Their side of the duplex had enough space with two bedrooms and one bathroom. In the common area, posters hung up of all the legends: Bob Marley, a rare Janis Joplin, John Lennon, and Stanley's latest obsession-Prince. Scattered about on the wooden coffee table were a few filled ashtrays and dead roaches. The kitchen you had to walk through to get to Lyle's room was cluttered with nothingness. The handed-down olive green refrigerator was always stocked with useless randomness: an almost empty bottle of ketchup, peanut butter scraps, old milk, a few apples, and some dated yogurt. Opened and closed books, emptied mail, and unrehearsed sheet music were flung about everywhere. Nevertheless, it was a decent place in a decent place that didn't rob his grandfather- so Lyle called it home.

Listening through silence, Stanley stood from the stained flower couch waving smoke from his face to be shoulder-to-shoulder, eye-to-eye, square with Lyle. "Within the lion, there is no strength until said strength has been tested."

Lyle vexingly cut him off, "Stop jivin', man. This is serious; this is my life. I need to know what the hell to do Thursday." Lyle skated his keys off the counter and stormed out of the door, slamming it behind him ending the conversation with, “I’m out.”

Stanley attempted to place himself in his roommate's shoes in the quick second he rose from the couch, and he came up with nothing--no advice. He realized Lyle was right; they probably did stare and gawk at him. He didn't even attempt to understand the plight of a black man in the 70s in Birmingham, AL at an all white university. Silence and humor were his most popular defenses. Stanley sympathized with Lyle and understood that empathy couldn't be managed.

II

Lyle's grandfather always said, "Son, if I don't leave you nothing else, I'm gon' leave you Jesus and this station wagon." As the rusted browning station wagon hesitantly started after a quick prayer, he grinned to himself. Riding through the pelting rain, he continued onto the outskirts of downtown. He thought about his speech and those looming faces as he passed streetlight after streetlight; turn for turn until a green light landed him in his promise land.

Lyle pulled into the diner as it seemed a disco was spilling into the parking lot. As more people exited the diner, 'Boogie Oogie Oogie' blared from a parked pink Oldsmobile. The party didn't seem to be over. Bellbottoms, wrap dresses, and platforms flashed in all colors against the backdrop of the damp, smoky pavement. People were dancing, singing, catching up, and planning their next move. The parking lot pimps were in the back, soaking up the music, ladies, and the scene all while remaining aloof. Loud silvers and gold metallics seem to ricochet off all the reflective Cadillacs, Volkswagens, and Buicks alike. The music was good; the energy was better. Lyle enjoyed the scene before getting out.

He walked into a reasonably quiet diner which seemed like night and day, completely two separate worlds. Don Cornelius was on the TV in the background finishing up his nightly altar call as Lyle settled into his dimly lit spot at the back of the diner. He liked the energy, the vibes, but also the girl-Merci.

Merci was an exchange student from Tanzania. She was full of life, sweet, and bubbly. She had a bounce in her step, and her smile covered her entire face. He wanted to pursue her romantically but he didn’t have the confidence. Merci waved at him from the bar counter as he settled into his spot. After a few minutes, she bounced to the table, "So what are you due for today, good sir?"

Lyle smirked, "the usual, ma'am, plus the works." Merci knew exactly what that meant. She zipped away and disappeared just as quickly as she came.

Lyle pulled out his pocket pad and his trusted blue pen and waited for his boozed brew. He loved reading, and he took to writing naturally. Lyle enjoyed the greats: Ralph Ellison, James McPherson, and C. Bukowski. He cowered at his own writings because it often sounded like 'Dear Diary,' but it helped. No one would ever read it anyway.

".... you'd think. I wasn't afraid of Dr. Spencer or my classmates, was I? I knew my points, my inflections, my pauses. So why did I chicken out? This is just Public Speaking, how am I ever going to make it in court? The majority of those guys are poised and pointed, not shy, unsure, and incapable. I have too much to prove, too much to do. There has to be a reason I flaked. Dammit, Think, Lyle, Think!! Maybe I am afraid of my classmates, maybe I'm afraid of my own potential."

Excerpts from the pocket pad September 22nd, 1978

Merci interrupted his writing as she sat his spiked coffee on the table on its coaster and joined him in the booth.

She breathed, "Whatever it is, this too shall pass, Friend."

He exhaled, "you always know what to say, huh?" Merci always had a way of making difficult things easier-maybe it was his blinded infatuation-but she always made him feel better. They waded, remembered, laughed, and forgot for what seemed forever. Soon a loud biker crew burst through the doors interrupting the whole bar. Her boss gave her the "get here now" look, and knowingly Merci excused herself as Lyle flicked his pen to squeeze out the rest of his angst.

He parked in his usual spot two blocks down from the duplex right under Mrs. Abernathy's willow tree. In the distance, a looming gray haze came closer in the dark. Lyle knew who it was. As it came closer, Lyle shouted, "SHORTY!"

Shorty, dressed head to toe, in his latest garbage bag was a homeless street wanderer. Lyle loved him because he was free. Pelted pits in his face as deep as craters with the witches' nose to match, his fashion choices, and his raw grossing smell kept him on the outskirts of civilization, but Lyle didn't care. In true Shorty fashion, he held out his hand. Unlike most preachers, Shorty took his offering before the sermon.

Lyle shook out a new $1.00 bill from his pocket and breathed, "Shorty, Man. How you been?" Lyle knew he never answered personal questions, but it always felt impersonal not to ask, so he continued, "seems just fine. Look, Shorty, I bummed my speech. Completely dropped the ball." With a hint of digesting liquor, he continued, "Bummed Shorty. I let everybody down. My granddad, my roommate, Merci. Hell even you, Shorty."

With a psychotic glare, Shorty never broke eye contact with whatever had captivated him in the distance. Lyle always wondered what he stared at. All the same, Shorty started up, and Lyle found his seat on his steps and listened. "Speech? You are the speech. The speech is you. You wrote it, you lived it, you are it." Never breaking his stare or blinking, he continued, "No, you are more than the speech. The speech is a chance to give more of you, to be more you. Be you through the speech."

Shorty's wisdom continued to flow untapped until rumblings in the sky interrupted him. It reminded him of the past. Shorty broke his gaze and kept walking as if he never stopped. Your answer will never come in the pretty package you expected. The package doesn't matter. As Lyle touched the rusting doorknob back into the duplex, he knew what he had to do.

III

Thursday morning rolled around as it would, and he woke with a mission. He sprung up from his stained mattress on the floor and went to the bathroom. He rehearsed once, brushed his teeth, and showered. He'd already figured what he'd wear the night before: a burgundy-red and black striped polo shirt, black corduroy pants, and gifted black cherry stained penny loafers. Lyle always had the same breakfast: French vanilla yogurt, a Red Delicious apple, plus or minus, some fried breakfast sausage. It was cheap, filling, and he had convinced himself healthy. Right as he finished his last bite of the apple Stanley, ushered in by a cloud of dissipating smoke, walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. Stanley had forgotten the details about the redo, so he asked, "Dressed to impress for a morning peruse with ya fair lady, huh?"

Lyle would usually entertain him, but his nerves got the better of him, so he cut him off, "Nah man, Speech Day, headed out."

With smoked morning breath in tow, Stanley walked over to Lyle and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, eye-to-eye, square with Lyle. "You are the lion. Give those bastards the best roar you can today, Chief."

Lyle smirked. "Better man, better."

Pleased with himself, Stanley waved his arms towards the door as if to announce the next contestant, and Lyle hurriedly exited as he looked at his watch and noticed that he was running late. He tripped on the last step and fell but quickly shook himself up and carried on running to his car. After crossing the street, getting into the car, and fastening what was left of his seat belt, he bolted off. At the intersection right before entering the expressway, he saw Shorty in the distance rummaging through the dumpster and donning a new fresh garbage bag. He waved and surprisingly Shorty waved back--in the opposite direction, but he waved. Lyle exhaled before entering the expressway hoping for the best.

At Denison Hall, the English department's home, Lyle rushed through the two giant steel heavy double doors into the main foyer brightened with sky lighting. On the left, he saw the last student walk in so he bolted and slipped in just in time. Dr. Spencer entertained himself on locking the doors at precisely 8:05 am. He wasn't called first so he settled in his seat, caught his breath, and let out a sigh of relief. Speech after speech after speech was heard, hailed, and applauded. Finally, at the end of the hour, Dr. Spencer rose to announce, "Mr. Crosby, you're up."

From his seat, he walked row-by-row, chair-by-chair to the front. The room grew quiet with anticipation. At the podium, he placed down his speaking notes, tapped the microphone, looked beyond his classmates, breathed, and began.

No man ever steps in the same river twice.