***
At fifteen minutes to eight, the Britt Community Center was awash in teenagers. The loud music could be heard from outside the center, blasting from speakers in fits and starts. Ben stood just outside the entrance to the gymnasium, dutifully asking a pock-faced gatekeeper for early entrance into the center and without having to pay the ten-dollar cover charge.
“You’re not allowed to enter now,” the gatekeeper said blankly.
“Do I look like I’m here to party?” Ben asked, expanding his arms outward and upward. “I just need to speak to one of the acts before he goes on.”
The gatekeeper was unimpressed. With his stoic expression unchanged, he took quick measure of Ben. “Look mister, I’ve seen all kinds. You can’t enter now.”
Ben stared at him for a moment. “I thought the show started at eight.”
“It was supposed to,” the teenaged gatekeeper said.
“It’s almost eight now. “Why aren’t we being allowed in?”
“There’s been a delay,” the gatekeeper said in a matter-of-fact of tone.
“When are you allowing us in?” Ben asked.
“In about fifteen minutes,” the gatekeeper replied. “And you’re going to have to pay the cover charge. All the money is going to help fight gangs, you know.”
“I didn’t know we had a gang problem in Duraleigh,” Ben said.
“We don’t,” the gatekeeper said. “And with positive events like this to keep the kids occupied, we won’t. Now if you don’t have ten dollars, I’m going to have to respectfully ask you to step aside.”
It had been a long day and he was too tired to continue arguing the point. Charity is as charity does, he thought as he pulled out his wallet and fished out a crisp ten-spot. Handing the bill to the gatekeeper, he asked, “Has Cain arrived yet?”
The gatekeeper took the money and grabbed Ben’s hand, pressing a stamp against it. “A fan too, huh?” Ben pulled his hand back and frowned at his newly pressed marking which looked like a glob of mud. “I guess you could say that. Is he here?” “Doubt it. He’s the last scheduled act. And knowing Cain, he’s going to come late and make an entrance. He’s a showman.” “Can he rap?”
“The best,” the gatekeeper said. “You ought to check out his videos on YouTube. Man, he’s…” He was interrupted by an eruption of loud music from inside the gym and by someone standing in the line behind Ben shouting, “We’re going to miss the start of the show!”
“Just go to YouTube and type in the real Y-U-N-G (he enunciated each letter) Cain featuring P-R-O-D-E-G-E-E.”
“First chance I get,” Ben said.
Inside the gym, the overhead lights were on and music roared from two huge onstage speakers. A convergence of teen-speak followed Ben to a spot in front of the stage that had been roped off. The stage was without the benefit of curtains to hide the behind-the-scenes activity, a crew was still setting up for the first group’s performance. Ben pulled out a concert flyer from his inside coat pocket. It was all local groups with Yung Cain, featuring Prodegee listed as the headliner. Jessie’s Other Girl was the first scheduled act followed by Deal Raw. Our Time Too would be the last act before Cain was to hit the stage.
The gym itself cleaned up rather nicely. The floor sported a spit-shine quality gloss. Even the walls seemed cleaner, whiter than Ben could remember ever having seen them. The Britt Center had been one of his favorite places to go as a kid. He played in countless basketball games, both pickup and league-play in this very gym, though now you wouldn’t know from the smell and look of the place that basketball had ever been played in it. Instead, a concoction of body wash mixed with various perfumes and colognes bandied about. On the bleachers that had been folded back into the sidewalls, were decorative colorful images of young people in various modes of play. On the back wall, opposite the stage and covering nearly the length of the wall was large graffiti-style lettering which read, Make Play Not War.
After the first two performances finished and the show was between acts, Ben gingerly moved through the crowded gymnasium, walking as if there was a scratch-cake in the oven, ready to sink at the slightest vibration from his footfall. As he made his way to the other side of the gym, hordes of teens in low-hanging baggy jeans and way-above-the-knee skirts parted slightly to allow him through. He suddenly felt conspicuous and aged—an old man in a sea of youth.
He scanned the place, half looking for Cain, half wishing for a fellow adult. He saw neither. He did see two security officers walk near the entrance he’d just come through, but he doubted if either one of them had counted twenty-five birthdays.
As he continued walking, he noticed that some of the boys looked older than the security officers. A few had full beards or thick goatees. And their shoulders, my God, what were kids eating these days. It was as if they’d already spent time in County—three hots, a cot, and hundreds of daily pushups. They were broad-shouldered and thick-muscled. Baggy and sagging jeans, over-sized T-shirts, gold necklaces, and tats ruled the night.
But in comparison to the girls, the boys’ dress was actually conservative. He saw more than any male should be allowed to see of anyone’s teenaged daughter. The clothes were barely there. Skirts barely covered bottoms. Jeans were little more than an extra layer of skin. Tops were either too low on top—exposing too much boob or two high from the bottom—exposing too much midriff, or both.
Finally and gratefully, he spotted Mayo. He was accompanied by two men, one carrying a notepad, the other had a camera draped around his neck. The three of them had come in through a side entrance. As Ben started to make his way towards them, the lights lowered, a heavy synthesized drum roll boomed out of two large speakers, and the host jumped on staged and loudly spat, “Our Time Too,” into the microphone.