Set Ablaze

The crowd bustled about the café after the show: picking up their belongings and closing out their checks. Aerosmith played softly over the sound system, ushering the younger crowd outside so staff could close.

Nia unhooked her bag from the back of her chair. As she did, she noticed a small, black notebook sitting on the floor. She picked it up, held it high, and raised her voice, “Anyone missing this?”

A few people turned around and glanced at the book in her hand. They shook their heads and turned away. When no one came forth to claim it, she tucked it into her messenger bag, figuring she would announce it at next week’s show.

She exited the small café and then dug in her bag looking for a vape pen. Finding it, she took a couple deep inhales. She decided to see if there was any identifying information in the book before heading home. On the inside of the cover, in tight handwriting, it read, “If found, please return to Vincent” along with a phone number. She made a mental note to call Vincent in the morning.

Nia took a grateful sip of a mocha on her first break the next morning. The bittersweet drink infused her with the sense she could make it to lunch without a breakdown. She walked back to the anonymous high rise in downtown. Sitting down her mocha on the bench outside her office, she dug out the notebook and her phone.

She dialed Vincent’s number.

“Hello?” a man with a baritone voice answered.

“Hi. My name is Nia. I found your notebook last night at Art’s Café.”

“Oh! I am so glad to hear that! Thank you for calling.” The voice relaxed with relief.

“Cool. I work downtown and live in Glennhurst. What’s the best way to get this too you? I could hold onto it until the show next week if you are planning on going.” She hoped he would just meet next week.

“I would really like to have it back. I can meet you downtown today after you get off work. Please let me know where is convenient for you.” His words were soft and paced.

“Can we meet at the ‘Hot and Black’ coffee shop on Crockett Street?” she asked. At least she could grab something good for dinner while she dropped this off.

“That will work for me. I’m close with the owner.” A smile filled his voice.

“Does six work?” Nia asked.

“Yes. Six at ‘Hot and Black’ works for me. I will see you there,” said the baritone on the other end.

Nia hung up. “Must be old. No contractions,” she thought.

Nia walked through the doors of Hot and Black at 6:05 and looked around for someone who would sound like a Vincent. She had forgotten to get a physical description. As she scanned the café, she saw a salt-and-pepper haired gentleman sitting at a table near the far window wave at her. He was tall, “older” but she couldn’t tell if he was 45 or 65, and his waving hand was large palmed with thin fingers.

Nia approached, “Vincent?” she asked.

“Yes,” he smiled. “I recognized you from your reading last night. I figured you had to be the one who phoned.”

Nia blushed at the recognition. “Hi, I’m Nia.” She extended her hand to shake his.

Vincent shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Vincent.” He smiled. His broad smile and thick lips were attractive, even if he were twenty years her senior.

Nia opened her messenger bag and dug around for the book. She pulled out the black notebook and handed it to Vincent, “Here you go.”

“Thanks. I was happy to get this back. I didn’t want to lose the writing.” He took the book back and opened it. His long, thin fingers ran gently over the pages.

“Glad I could get it back to you. I know what it’s like to lose a journal.” Nia flashed on losing her composition book at the end of her sophomore year in high school. It was devastating to lose all those poems, all her secrets.

“Can I give you a reward for returning this?” Vincent offered.

“No thanks. I’m good with the karma points,” she half-smiled and scrunched up her nose.

“Well, then can I at least buy you a drink and ask you to join me for a short talk? I loved your piece last night and would like to hear more about your writing.” Vincent made no move toward Nia but did gesture for her to take a seat across from him.

Nia did a quick gut-check. There was nothing that felt creepy or predatory about his offer, so she accepted. “A mocha would be great. Thank you.” She pulled the chair back to take a seat.

Vincent went to the coffee bar and ordered a mocha for his companion and a kombucha for himself. He returned with the drinks and set them down before taking his seat.

“You liked my work?” Nia asked.

“Yes, very much. You have a maturity to your poems I normally don’t see in someone so young. They are elegant and yet don’t lose any power.” He raised his glass in a toast.

Nia raised her mocha mug back at him. “Thank you. I have been writing since I was a kid. It’s a good release.”

The corners of Vincent’s eyes crinkled when Nia referred to ‘writing as a kid.’ She couldn’t be more than 23 which seemed very young compared to his 57 years. “What drives your writing?” he asked.

“I just have stuff inside I need to get out. I guess it is kind of like therapy, like a diary or something. But the stuff I perform gets a lot of editing because I don’t like the ‘raw journal’ feel of a lot of the other poets. I want to be a writer. If I could ever get the money for college and stuff.” She took a sip of her mocha to push down the feeling of disclosing too much personal information to a stranger. Strangely, it didn’t feel like Vincent judged her for this disclosure.

“Your piece last night, is that biographical?” he continued.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I grew up in an abusive family. But I wanted the piece to be more universal, so I embellished it.” Nia studied her hands, finding it hard to look at Vincent when admitting she grew up being abused.

“I’m sorry you experienced that.” Warmth and genuineness flowed from Vincent and over Nia. It brought tears to her eyes.

She looked up at him, “Thanks. You didn’t read last night, what do you write about?” she asked, seeking to change the discussion.

“Oh, life. Stuff I notice. Stuff I want to remember. You didn’t read the notebook?” Wrinkles appeared on his forehead along with a soft smile on his lips.

“No, I figured it was private. I checked the front to see if there was information about the owner, but I didn’t think it was my place to read private thoughts.” The thought of reading someone’s private thoughts without their permission seemed so invasive. Her gut cramped remembering the devastation she experienced when her mother read her journal and discovered Nia was attracted to girls.

“Well, thank you for that. Most people would read a journal if they found one.” Vincent opened the book still sitting on the table and thumbed through it. “Would you like to hear one?”

Nia nodded. “I would like that.”

“Here is one I wrote a while back,” with one large hand he held the book open with a thumb on the left page and an index finger on the right one.

The first time I touched his flesh

panic and fire filled me.

So wrong.

So demonized.

So needed.

Firm hands and soft lips

entwined with my desire,

urging me forward.

He tasted of tobacco and coffee,

smelled of aftershave,

and felt like home.

Black skin on Black skin,

This is what they must call

Black boy joy.

Vincent closed the notebook and looked up at Nia for a response.

“Beautiful,” she smiled wide. “I love that. Thank you for sharing.” Knowing he was gay made any hesitation about coming to this meeting dissipate. Clearly this was not a scheme to pick up a younger woman. “I didn’t realize you were gay.”

“I don’t think I set off most people’s gaydar. But yes, I am gay. Have been all my life.” He kept eye contact with the younger woman.

“So am I,” Nia said quietly.

“I had a feeling. I wanted to read that one so that you knew we have something in common, beyond liking poetry. Most younger Black folk don’t know us old Black gays exist. But we are here.” He smiled. “How long have you been out?”

“I was outed at 14. My mom read my journal. My parents were, are, really religious. Neither were ready for that,” she studied her hands as she spoke.

“I’m sorry. That is why you didn’t read my notebook.” Vincent nodded in recognition.

“Yeah.”

“What happened when they found out? If you don’t mind me asking.” He lowered his eyes to meet hers.

“My poem last week. That. Beatings got worse. I left at 16.” She found it hard to look up.

“Religion does strange things to people. Looks like you made it out.” It was unclear if this was a question or statement.

“Got my GED and a computer programming certificate from the junior college. Got an apartment. I’m working. For now.” She finally looked up. His eyes were soft and knowing.

“For now?” he asked.

“Yeah. They are doing layoffs. I think I might lose my job.” She pulled at the cuticle on her thumb.

“That’s rough. I’ve been there. Too many times. Sorry.” He replied.

“Thanks. Are you planning on going back to the mic next week?” she asked, trying to shift the conversation.

“Maybe. You?” he asked.

“Yes. I hope to see you there.”

The following Tuesday when Nia entered Art’s Café she spotted Vincent sitting at the back bar. She walked over. “Hi! Glad to see you here.” She went to hug him.

“I was hoping to see you here,” he hugged her back. “How are you?”

“I’m hanging in there. Got laid off.” She set her bag down on the floor.

“Sorry to hear that. Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Honestly, I could really use that tonight. A Red Stripe, if you don’t mind.” She settled on the bar stool.

When the bottles were set on the bar, he handed one to Nia. He raised his bottle, she followed. “To future writing success!” he toasted. They clinked bottles and each swallowed.

“You reading tonight?” Nia asked.

“I think so.” Vincent nodded.

“Going to read the piece you read me? I think this group would enjoy it.” Nia offered.

“Really? If you say so I will do it!” Vincent smiled and flipped through the notebook sitting next to his beer on the bar.

The two new friends stood outside after the mic closed. Various participants passed the two and complimented Vincent on his piece. “They liked it. I told you they would!” Nia smiled at him. “Thanks for the beer.”

“Thanks for the encouragement! We all need some.”

The two hugged and parted ways.

At home, Nia opened her bag to retrieve her phone. Inside was a small black notebook. She pulled it out and opened the cover. On the first page it read, “Nia, your voice needs to be heard. I hope this gives a budding young queer writer a boost. Love, Vincent.”

Nia smiled and flipped the blank pages. A check folded in half fell out. It was made out to her for $20,000. In the memo line it read, “To Set an Important Voice Ablaze.”