Foreshadowing

A young mother stands at the kitchen sink washing dishes. Occasionally, she stops and watches the little boy sitting at the table behind her. He is hunched over a notebook, pencil grasped firmly in his fist, writing dutifully. He doesn't mean to sass his mama, but sometimes his mouth just runs away from him. 500 times, always 500 times. He straightens up, looks at the page; a little sigh escapes him. He nervously bites his lip, bends over and continues to write. His mother smiles and goes back to her dishes.

He walks into the room, sits down on the couch and contemplates the stack of 8 x 10 glossys in front of him. He looks over at the big screen T.V. in the corner and smiles as the late night comedian finishes his monologue. He ruffles the head of the dog sitting next to him and picks up the black sharpie. He snaps off the cap with a practiced hand and reaches for a picture. He will have to sign all 500 tonight.

He settles down in his easy chair and adjusts the worn piece of plywood across his lap. The deck of cards are well-used and he shuffles them abset-mindedly. He begins to lay them out; it is a game he knows well. Black on red, red on black. The room is quiet except for the drone of the T.V. and the click clack of knitting needles. He never even glances at the little boy curled up in the corner of the couch.

A dark stage, a young man, dressed all in black, stands there, head down waiting; he begins to sing, "There was a man, a lonely man, who lost his love through his indifference". The camera closes in on his face illuminated by the lone spotlight; he looks young, impossibly young and beautiful. There is a vulnerability there, accented by the sprinkle of freckles now made visible by the light and a look in his eyes that speaks to an earlier pain. He continues to sing, the audience is hushed; mesmorized by the tall, thin boy-man on stage. "And Solitaire's the only game in town"

They file into the recital hall, proud parents and grandparents; filled with anticipation as they settle into the folding chairs lined up in neat rows. The choir files in; it is a boy choir and they are dressed in their Sunday best, hair slicked back, ties firmly knotted. The choir director takes his seat at the piano and motions for two of the boys to take their places. They stand, side by side, the smaller boy with the shock of red hair, removes his glasses and puts them on top of the piano. They each don a pair of black sunglasses and await their cue. It is a song made popular twenty years before their birth and the lyrics speak of emotions these two have not yet experienced. The young boy with the red hair is nervous, his hands by his side, open and close to the beat of the music and he is poised on the tip of his toes. Suddenly he he jerks his hips forward awkwardly and in a voice yet to be heard at its full potential, squeeks out "Goodness gracious, great balls of fire".

The crowd has been screaming non-stop since the young man made his entrance; he is clad in black pants, a white shirt open at he collar and a black leather jacket; there is an old-fashioned microphone in his hands. His hair is still red, but styled and cut to facilitate ease while he is traveling. He finishes his song, smiles appreciatively at the audience, removes the microphone from it's stand and heads toward the piano. He gracefully leaps up on top of the piano, plants his long legs in a wide open stance, knees slightly bent, microphone cradled gently in his arms and begins to sing. His hips undulate in time to the music and this time he sings the song with a passion that is no longer unknown to him. He sings into the mic as if to a lover, arms wrapped around his upper body as if in an embrace; he begs, he pleads with this imaginary lover and in a moment of pure ectasy he lets out a primal growl, thrusts his pelvis and hips and screams "Goodness gracious, great balls of fire".

It is hot, the temperature and humidity have combined to make the air thick and oppressive. There is not even a breeze to cool your face, just the sun blazing down from a pale blue sky. The boy and his Granny are sitting on the back porch, a metal wash tin between them. It is a chore the boy dislikes, but he knows better than to voice his displeasure. He watches her hands, old, gnarled, the veins prominent, the skin almost translucent. She has done this job before; the flick of her wrist is automatic; she does it while gazing out at the backyard, mentally making of list of those chores that still need to be done. His eyes move from her hands to her face, her beloved face and he picks up a bean; snaps off the ends and tosses it back into the tin.

He stands in front of the table, absentmindly pushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead. The shirt he has on was once neatly pressed, but now it is wrinkled and sweat stains are beginning to show. He pushes up his sleeves, but the right one will only go up so far, it is blocked by the blue arm band wrapped around his forearm. He adjusts his glasses that are beginning to slide down his nose, remembers another day just as hot as this one, and picks up a handful of beans to sort. It is dinner time in Uganda.