Tyke Johnson is a writer living in Los Angeles, California where the dry Santa Ana winds cease to blow even when he’s told they're not, and no matter his frequency of sweeping the floors, the desert dust follows him to bed. He's currently fighting a cold, which oddly is making his hair follicles sensitive. He's been featured in Opium, Unlikely Stories, Ducts and others.

I Wish I Was Shawn Kemp (October 20, 2009. Issue 10.)

Some realizations in life are worse than others. When graduating middle school I had to accept the fact I would never have a black man’s hair and any attempts to cut my hair like I did were fruitless, and upon further and more harsh recognition, embarrassing. Looking at school portraits, which proved my desire to don a “Shawn Kemp” is still daunting. The fact that my parents allowed such an absurdity of their son’s appearance proves they had chosen to accept their fate of four boys by way of mockery. I can only imagine their pre-bedtime chats.
“Did you see what Michael did to Tyke’s hair?”

“Did I?” My father would respond spitting out Listerine uncontrollably. “I nearly pissed myself when I got home from work and saw him at the dinner table.”

“No wonder you dropped your briefcase and rushed passed the kitchen.”

“It was that or let the boys know daddy’s got an enlarged prostate.”

“He says it looks like Shawn Kemp,” my mother would attempt to reconcile.

Raised in a sporting household, everyone knew who Shawn Kemp was. Therefore, everyone knew his distinctive, polygon-like point, fade-to-the-front-tip-of-his-head haircut he fashioned.

“Is that what he thinks he looks like?” My dad continued laughing. “I didn’t know Shawn had red hair, freckles and ears wide enough to warrant permits.”

“I always knew his ears were big, but my Lord, if he got knocked over by a gust of wind I wouldn’t be surprised.” My mom couldn’t resist herself.

“Or just a passing car.”

“Speaking of which, we had better watch him closely near traffic or a side mirror might take his ear clean off.” Sides splitting too much to continue, they’d give in and fall to the ground in laughter.

Michael cut our hair, mine, Kevin’s and Stephen’s. He took over for our mom when I was in sixth grade. Apparently we were sick of the monthly use of bowls and clippers. Though Michael wasn’t much better, he at least refrained from using anything once serving salad. My mom quilted, knitted, and made us clothes; she was a modern day Betsy Ross yet she couldn’t for the life of her wield a pair of scissors on hair. She claimed she just wasn’t any good at it. It wasn’t until years later that I learned quality scissors were quite expensive. Her four boys looked like pubescent train wrecks every day because she didn’t want to ruin the scissors that cut the fabric, which allowed us to wear bright orange and blue jam shorts and two-sizes-too-big tank tops. For the life of me I still can’t make out the logic.

Night after night of mocking was hidden by the sound of a running faucet as I fell asleep with the lie that I was cool. I’m sure such exchanges saved their marriage. If I think back on it, my NBA inspired haircut days were the most harmonious of my life in the household. All financial troubles were forgotten. My mom’s secret smoking was ignored. The olive branch atop my head brought sustained peace every time my brother pulled out the clippers.

During bouts of my-dad-is-the-greatest-and-I-want-to-be-just-like-him we’d share his bathroom mirror and shave together. He’d hand me a razor-less Schick and the can of Edge. I’d spread too much cold, green gel on my palms and he’d take half of it because as it turns out, shaving gel isn’t free. I’d run the Schick up my neck and down my cheeks listening to my dad scratch and shape a new hairless face, while I looked as I did before—hair poofed in a cone, orange as a construction zone.

It’s no wonder my dad balked on occasion at my request to fake shave with him in their bathroom. The fear of nicking a jugular from laughter if my absurd haircut and big ears were sharing a mirror was just too great. His life insurance would only cover the outstanding car payments. There’d be no money for fall football cleats.

Along with the realization of not being able to fashionably sport my black hero’s hairstyles came the realization that I’d never actually be black. Something I still find hard to accept whenever I travel to Atlanta. Knowing I’ll never be so innately cool keeps me up at night. I get upset with myself when I see how plain my wardrobe is. Not a bright color among it. Where’s my lime green, my creamsicle orange, my yellow and blue and red? Harmoniously matched and I’d still look like a fool. So I wear my tans and browns and light blues and think of a time in 7th grade when I still believed it worked for me, a time when red jeans and a black Scottie Pippen basketball jersey were still pure.

After high school came the monumental realization that I was still a virgin. Not only that but I had yet to have a girl graciously place my erect member into her mouth for the ever maddening blowjob. Embarrassed, I lied when I went off to Florida State University, telling people that although I was a virgin I had made up for it by receiving an unthinkable amount of head. It seemed to quell the uproarious laughter of my dorm room floor mates.

Sitting around Deviney’s 7th floor hallway my fellow freshman spoke of their sexual exploits as if the only people I came in contact with were retired band members of the late eighties hair metal movement. Yet here they all were, in maroon mesh Champion shorts they’re mom bought them for basketball camp, eating saltines with tuna, and arguing over whether mustard made it taste better.

“I fucked this one chick doggy style on Pier 60 in Clearwater,” an awkward and overweight Jared bragged one night.

“I’ll never eat a girl’s pussy unless she’s showered,” Orlando argued another night.

Chad was seemingly the most mature. He secretly had a live-in girl friend and was thinking about buying a cat for them. Several nights a week they woke the rest of the floor up at two in the morning screaming and throwing dishes and pots and pillows out the door. It all hit the wall near my bed and I’d awake and wonder; how the hell can a couple fight at eighteen? Yet there they were, calling it quits three to four times a month.

Meanwhile, none of them shaved any more than I did—about once every two weeks. And, like me, for no real reason. But simply because it felt mildly rehabilitating to my masculinity to finish off at least one can of shaving cream per semester.

I lied to others about how I was saving myself. Therefore, when opportunities arose to copulate I insisted on a blowjob instead and life went on as normal—me masturbating to Internet porn as my roommate Liam was off at class. When he got back from Music Theory I headed out to Anthropology, returning the favor he gave me over the last ninety minutes, give or take, depending on whether he stopped for lunch. We had an unspoken bond for leaving the room when the other needed time to masturbate. He always knew to take a walk after I returned from Intro to Dance—a class I naively took so I could meet girls. Granted I met girls, but they either assumed I was gay or asexual.

“What do you think, Tyke? Is Jerry worth it?” Leslie inquired referring to whether or not sleeping with Jerry, our dance teacher, was more beneficial than harmful to her academic pursuits.

“Umm,” I stammered.

“Well would you?” she pressed.

Needless to say I hadn’t expected such a fate when I walked across East Lake High School’s stage one final time to get my diploma—my ticket to freedom and free pussy. Little did I know it was a ticket for rides and roller coasters I was still inches shy of.

At parties when I was ignored, or clubs when I was floored, I’d fail at every level to talk to the girls dressed in even the homeliest of clothes. I dared not waste my time on the short skirts or halter-tops. I knew they were a beyond my reach.

“What’s your major?” I regretfully slurred time and time again as the line of females, the ones I finally produced the courage to approach, walked off mocking my attempts at conversation.

Liam and I would force ourselves out. We’d walk around campus looking for parties to join in on, trying helplessly to meet the people who knew the people who fucked the people we wanted to fuck. We failed endlessly and walked endlessly to our dorm room laughing at our pathetic selves.

We both found solace knowing we were equally useless when it came to women, solidifying our friendship for years to come. We still joke at length about 2 AM showers in the dorm floor bathrooms to relieve the constant desire to have sex, only to be disgusted by ourselves when we returned at 2:07 AM, limp and red all over. At least my hair isn’t the focus of my joke of a life, I rationalized as I snuck under the covers as if such a shower was nothing more than an inspiration to be clean. I clearly remember whispering aloud as if Liam were awake and listening to my every move. Crap, I forgot to shower tonight and I gotta wake up early, followed by me deflating my ego onto the urine yellow tiles of the shower floor.

Sometimes the shower would go on in the next stall over and I’d wonder what had become of the boy who sucked Karin Rizio’s bare breasts on an 8th grade school trip. I was so ahead of my time. Yet, there I was, four years later, with only a thin and creaky metal stall door between me and another eighteen-year-old’s hairy feet in weathered flip-flops—neither of us with soap resting in the provided porcelain dish.

After taking Intro to Art History where I fell head over heels for a complete stranger whom I’d never approach, I chose to minor in the subject hoping in vein that she’d do the same. Instead of courageously having a conversation I left all my relationship hopes to destiny and scheduling conflicts. She must have thought fresco—secco, buon or otherwise—tiring and I never saw here again.

To pass the endless free time of college I took to tailgating and intramural sports. I had always been good at drinking and running around. But feats in flag football and funneling beers did little to impress the approximately twenty thousand females that made up the other half of Florida State’s student body.

Yet four years somehow passed. Four long years, I would soon call too short, of endless amusement, excitement, and bouts of depression finally past and in the end I finally got the fabled—and at the time, over rated— blowjob badge of honor from a too-honest girl named Jenna and the laid badge from Amber soon after. And though both badges are framed, neither hangs on the wall.

My personal fears of becoming a priest were allayed and by way of phone call, the whole family bathed in the fountain of my heterosexuality. I wasn’t surprised Stephen called everyone within ten minutes of knowing; just stunned they’d all been keeping such up-to-date calendars. This was before the “status update” yet he was able to inform every friend and family member of my seemingly sacramental accomplishment before I woke up and washed.

Little did I know, but bets were paid out and congratulatory voicemails from brothers and aunts were deleted over the next couple weeks. A depressingly authentic phone call from my mother the day after I lost my virginity informing me of how proud she was nearly ruined my triumphant moment in the glory of my non-virgin hood, but I was steadfast and accepted the free rounds of beers from my supportive friends who knew the truth all along.

Now, four years after my graduation from university, I face a new and much more depressing realization. Depressing not so much because it hasn’t happened but because I know it makes me old for wishing it would. Old as in—I don’t think it’s such a bad idea anymore. Old as in—I just might nod and follow a leading hand. Four years later and I still have yet to be propositioned by a prostitute.

I can’t help but wonder why? Am I not cool enough to hang in the right places? I read of writers’ experiences with prostitutes and I wonder what I’m doing wrong. What bars am I not frequenting? What clothes am I not wearing? Should I purchase more corduroy blazers?

The other day, Alex, a closer than I thought co-worker, told me that when he was twenty-five and visiting Cuba he found himself in the vagina of an eighteen-year-old prostitute.

“She wanted it in the mouth. She wanted it in the pussy and ass. It was crazy.”

“Jesus, when was the hell was this?”

“A couple years ago. But I’m telling you I didn’t even know she was a prostitute? I met her at a bar and we snuck back into the house I was staying in. It wasn’t until the next morning when she asked me for the bus fare that I realized.”

I looked at him confused.

“It cost me thirty-five bucks,” he responded half ashamed, half confident as if suddenly realizing how impressed I was.

He continued on about how the people he was staying with had a daughter the same age as his prostitute. Her parents, both doctors, were making less a day than the money he had just handed the girl for riding his rod for an evening. This really upset him and he wished he hadn’t done it after all. Yet I pressed on for me details.

Brian, an old friend of mine from Florida, calls sex chat numbers. Afterwards he tells me about all the hot shit they tell him they’ll do. Other nights he sucks stranger’s breasts on parking garage roofs at 4 AM.

“She just took her shirt off right there in the parking garage. They have cameras you know, but what the hell else was I supposed to do? Her tits were right in front of me.”

I agreed, what the hell else could he do.

I hear stories and fables of writers and realtors screwing wives and women whose names they won’t remember. And here I am sharing a bathroom sink with a woman who wants to be my wife. Who wants me to say I’m through with the rest, I’m through with it all, through with it all but you. But am I? Am I over it all? How can I say yes when I haven’t even seen what it all is—when I haven’t even seen half?

As I lie awake, Audrey’s dreaming eyelids flicker. Her mouth is just slightly open. Her brown skin is lit by shapes, which reflect on her neck, chest and cheek. And I ponder fruitlessly of what my life has become. Where I desire the attention, if not the company, of a working girl.

I roll over to face the wall and wonder if it’s time to go find a couple basketball jerseys with matching jeans. I wonder if the “Shawn Kemp” is in dire need of a comeback. That perhaps it’s time to pull out the ol’ clippers again, making sure there’s ample photographic evidence to send to my parents; Kevin says they fight more now than he remembers growing up.