inaugural

featuring SWEPT AWAY, a short story about a Black man going to the theatre

inaugural

adjective

1. marking the beginning of an institution, activity, or period of office.

I don’t even know how to start this… bloggers I monkey flip ‘em with the funky rhythm is probably not the way to go, but a Nas reference every now and then can’t hurt. Hello and welcome to the first Sugar Shot, we about to get lit, as in literary. See what I did there? My name is Jeremiah ‘Sugar J’ Brown (writer, performer, poet) and you are embarking upon a journey of newness with me. 

Every fortnight I’ll be serving up some of my writing for you to consume with reckless abandon, like a shot. So thank you for joining me and read responsibly. Before I share shot 1, I want to share a little bit about why I’m starting this blog.

Last year was a very mad year. 2020 was everything they told us 2012 was going to be. There was no apocalypse eight years ago but last year a pandemic started which affected all our lives. I’ve articulated my feelings about the Rona and lockdown in a song creatively titled Pandemic. 

Last year was mad and managing to live through it was no easy feat. Here in the U.K. we’re very much still in the midst of said pandemic, but if you haven’t listened to Busta Rhymes - We Made It ft Linkin Park yet in 2021 I don’t know what you’re doing. (I started writing this post before Lockdown 3 dropped. We’ve clearly not made it but listen to the song for nostalgia innit.)  

In spite of 2020 being the year it was (or maybe because of it) I managed to do a lot of writing. I wrote poems. I wrote short stories. I even started writing plays. I read 37 books and a whole heap of poems. I even managed to make music with my friend Gabriel ‘Bump Kin’ Jones. I did bare in 2020, so as difficult as it was for other reasons, making wise I did well. 

What I did less well last year was share what I made. 

I was published in two anthologies (The World is Burning and I Have Discovered: This,Field Notes on Survival), released Pandemic, (re)started a podcast and featured in a national TV ad. Yet I still ended the year feeling like a hoarder because most of my work started and ended with me. 

My google drive is bloated with stories and poems that have only ever been seen by a few fellow writers. There are things I’ve written for myself, things I’ve written that are not yet ready but there’s also nuff that’s just there, ungifted. 

I’m using the word ungifted cautiously. Mans a writer living under capitalism, so man has to be careful. Start referring to your writing as a gift too much and you may never eat good. Money affi mek. But much of my writing is intended as a gift, there’s no escaping it. 

It’s this tension between money affi mek and gift affi give that leads to my bloated google drive. I didn’t know what to share and so ended up sharing nothing. My google drive has grown the uncle belly I’m fighting to avoid. 

Over the years all my unreleased work has left me feeling conflicted. I thought I was weird and that it was just me, till I read Lewis Hyde’s The Gift. This isn’t a review, since I haven’t finished reading it yet, but the book has already shaped my thinking dramatically. 

The Gift is a study of gift giving and its relationship to art, that expands out and touches so much more. It’s a very dense book that is a more than worthwhile read. Money affi mek and gift affi give creates a tension that artists will vibrate between because of the societies we exist within. Our capitalist economy demands the commodification of our art to some extent if we wish to survive. Art is not a commodity but a gift. Gifts do not have value they have worth. Gifts are made through labour not work. So when we live in a market economy as opposed to a gift economy the conundrum is how you create value from worth. It’s difficult. 

What complicates the conundrum for me is that, as Lewis Hyde says, ‘the gift must always move.’ The writings of mine that stagnate in my google drive are a burden. The oldest ones become too stiff and miss their opportunity to walk out into the world. The rest sit there looking at me wondering why I don’t let them go when they’ve done everything for me they can. The choice then is how to keep the gift moving since it’s so restless. What I’ve found comforting is knowing that I’m not at all unique for trying to figure all this out.

Money affi mek and IJN I will mek nuff in the coming years… somehow. Gift affi give too and my writings are demanding that I let them play outside…  

So Sugar Shots is my inaugural endeavour in ensuring that my writing doesn’t end with me. Everything I share here going forward will have been laboured over and of great worth to me. I hope that in my giving you might receive some worth from my writing too. With all that said I think it’s time for your first Sugar Shot. It’s a story about going to the theatre, something I hope to be doing again soon.

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SWEPT AWAY

Today I’m in a west end theatre and I’ve come without a date. I’m dateless because nobody wanted to see this play with me. All my guys are ballers because they’re not out swanning their day away at a matinee performance.

I’m wearing a hoodie. It’s a nice hoodie, limited edition from a designer who does exceptional prints. It’s a comfortable top tier item of clothing for the current weather. It’s not so thick that I’ll sweat in the gentle heat of daytime but not so thin that I’ll chill when going home in the evening. As optimal as this garment is for today I’m still aware that I’ve come to the theatre a Black man in a hoodie. 

The usher who takes my ticket, is the only other non-white person I’ve encountered so far. Her hair is long and thick. The pleasant scent of her shampoo lets me know it’s recently washed. She tells me my row and seat number then moves onto ripping the tickets of an elderly white couple.

Every seat in my row is occupied except for three in the middle, one of which is apparently mine. I say excuse me, turn sideways and start shuffling down the row. I’m not fat, nor am I slim. I’m stocky with a posterior that many women go to Dr Miami for. Despite this, nobody stands as I say excuse me. My rear almost knocks somebody's drink and I hear lipless tutting in my wake. On several occasions I accidentally kick bags that people haven’t bothered to move.

Just as I collapse into my seat everybody in my row stands. They’re clearing the way for a couple to get past. I’m the only person that doesn’t get up, I’m not standing after everyone refused to stand for me. The couple is the same elderly couple who got their tickets ripped after mine. I say elderly but now they’re closer I can see they just look bad for their age. The woman goes to sit in the seat nearest me, but is promptly moved along by the man who I assume is her husband. Before sitting he looks at me, then looks at his wife, then looks at me again. I smile, he doesn’t smile back. 

The show begins and it’s bad. I stifle more than seven yawns. On two occasions I almost drift into sleep jerking awake quickly as my head lols forwards. The interval arrives and I only realise it’s not the end when the actors don’t come back to bow. The lack of clapping isn’t even a hint, I took that as a protest at how bad the show was. I decide to stay in my seat, if I get up during the interval I won’t return for the second half. As bad as it is, I’ve paid for this show so I’m going to watch it.

The husband grudgingly leaves his wife in my presence to get drinks. As soon as he’s gone the wife turns to me and begins speaking about the play. She hopes it picks up in the second half because this production is doing a major disservice to the text so far. She asks if I’ve read the play before. I haven’t. She asks how often I come to the theatre. When I can. She says that’s good, young people and people like myself ought to come to the theatre more. I don’t respond to her last comment. 

Her husband arrives back abruptly, he’s complaining about the mediocre selection of wine. By time he settles the second half is about to start. It’s better than the first, but only because I’m not paying attention anymore. I’m thinking about what the woman said. Of course by people like me she meant Black, but that wasn’t something I still got worked up about.

She said young people and Black people ought to come to the theatre more like it was the simplest thing in the world. The only reason I’m even here is because some white guy I follow online was giving away discounted tickets. I can’t manage to get properly annoyed since the play is so bad. Theatre doesn’t feel like anything to miss out on right this minute. What kind of human being would force this drudgery upon their worst enemy let alone people like themselves? 

The play ends and everybody begins to funnel out of the theatre after muted applause. I don’t do the polite thing and turn to wish the wife farewell. I can hear them chattering behind me as we leave. I time an inhale as I pass the usher with the nice smelling hair and don’t regret it. If I’m going to take one thing with me from this theatre it can be that.

“She still smells funny” I hear the husband say. “She’s Indian” the wife says in reply, as if that explains everything. I want to turn around and do something but I don’t. I let the wave of white bodies carry me out the theatre. Make no move that disrupts the flow.