As the sun dips in late June, the twilight air around the building seems to lighten; windows stretch outward and open to the world and lawn. The middle-aged black man who is sitting on the floor of his basement apartment is going a bit grey, and yes, he also wears glasses. Two jobs chop at his days and sleep but he adores his big tv and mighty speakers. His green 1987 Jaguar has an in-dash tape deck and he keeps it safely parked in the garage that he shares with the dancer from the third floor. His “day” car–the tattered one, the one with rust–that car is outside, subject to elements and use.
Inside, the middle-aged black man has his back propped against the couch. It is Saturday, 8pm.
He is watching Don Juan deMarco, watching all the way till the end, watching while the credits roll, watching while song kicks in. Toward the end of the second refrain, the middle-aged black man begins to quietly sing harmony with Bryan Adams: “So tell me have you ever really/ really really ever loved a woman?” His glasses shines with the light from the screen and his eyes are wide behind them. He raises his head as he sings a high note. “Have you ever really loved a woman…” There is no one home to hear him and he finishes his duet with Adams unaware the dancer is watching him and secretly hoping he has, at least once, loved a woman.
June 2011