Joe's fiction tackles subject matter and issues often ignored by the the mainstream media. Racism within the black community, the gay media's obession with the "perfect body" and homophobic gays are a few of the topics dealt with in these tantalizing excerpts.
From "Madame Butterfly's Blues"
Cedric, an African-American teen, was forced to go to the opera as part of a music appreciation class field trip. Convinced that opera is "for white folks," he was determined to hate it. But he didn't and that tears him up. In this excerpt, he has gone back to the opera to attempt to convince himself that opera is indeed only for whites.
The opera house lobby was clothed in the same red velvet as the auditorium. Cedric had barely noticed the lobby his first time here—he and his class had been in too big a rush to get the ordeal over. This time he lingered. A well-stocked bar stood at the back of the lobby. Tuxedoed bartenders dispensed expensive chocolates and flutes of fizzing champagne. A chandelier (the twin of the one in the auditorium) hovered royally above. Shadowy lighting created an elegant ambience. Elevators on either side of the lobby carried smartly dressed operagoers to their assigned sections. Cedric looked at his own clothes and grimaced. He felt like every pair of white eyes in the opera house was wondering what in the hell he was doing there. He pleaded with god, the universe or whoever for a face his own color, a face that would not drip venom at the sight of him. He thought he might have found one, actually two, in the form of a black couple standing at the other end of the lobby. The man wore a severe business suit and shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. The woman was in a white pants suit, diamond earrings and had a designer coif straight out of Essence Magazine. The couple looked to be in their late forties or early fifties. Cedric stared at them, hoping to catch their attention, hoping they would beckon for him to join them. The man nodded at him formally, a clipped smile lurking momentarily onto his lips. His wife looked Cedric over from doo ragged head to sneakered toe, then turned her nose up so high so fast, Cedric was amazed she didn’t get whiplash. The black couple waltzed into the auditorium leaving Cedric in the lobby where not even the bartenders pouring the champagne were black.
From "Jazz Moon"
Harlem, 1925. Ben, a happily married man takes his wife, Angeline, to a speakeasy one night for some bootleg liquor and jazz. He loves his wife and never expects to be swept off his feet by the trumpet player...
“Ladies and gentlemens, Barnett’s is proud to present to ya’ll The Blackberry Jam featuring Sweeeeeeet Baby Back Williams!”
Ben watched as a cat came up onstage with a trumpet and began to play.
Mellow. That was the only word Ben could think of at first to describe Baby Back Williams. Mellow. The band underscored his every riff, lick and cadence. No fireworks like Armstrong. Just a sound that was blue and smooth. One moment it was floating up with the reefer smoke, the next it was low down. Baby Backtook that horn through a swirling maze of rhythm. He caressed those flats and sharps, fondled those swinging eighth notes, fingered that melody till it cried. Yeah. Baby Back broke it up, child. The crowd fell out. Ben was hypnotized. Hypnotized by Baby Back’s horn. A horn attached to a face that was coffee-colored, young and soft as baby’s black bottom. The man was tall with broad shoulders that flared down to a trim waist accentuated by his tight suit. His eyes were shut lightly as he blew. As he blew. That. Horn.
Cedric, an African-American teen, was forced to go to the opera as part of a music appreciation class field trip. Convinced that opera is "for white folks," he was determined to hate it. But he didn't and that tears him up. In this excerpt, he has gone back to the opera to attempt to convince himself that opera is indeed only for whites.
The opera house lobby was clothed in the same red velvet as the auditorium. Cedric had barely noticed the lobby his first time here—he and his class had been in too big a rush to get the ordeal over. This time he lingered. A well-stocked bar stood at the back of the lobby. Tuxedoed bartenders dispensed expensive chocolates and flutes of fizzing champagne. A chandelier (the twin of the one in the auditorium) hovered royally above. Shadowy lighting created an elegant ambience. Elevators on either side of the lobby carried smartly dressed operagoers to their assigned sections. Cedric looked at his own clothes and grimaced. He felt like every pair of white eyes in the opera house was wondering what in the hell he was doing there. He pleaded with god, the universe or whoever for a face his own color, a face that would not drip venom at the sight of him. He thought he might have found one, actually two, in the form of a black couple standing at the other end of the lobby. The man wore a severe business suit and shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. The woman was in a white pants suit, diamond earrings and had a designer coif straight out of Essence Magazine. The couple looked to be in their late forties or early fifties. Cedric stared at them, hoping to catch their attention, hoping they would beckon for him to join them. The man nodded at him formally, a clipped smile lurking momentarily onto his lips. His wife looked Cedric over from doo ragged head to sneakered toe, then turned her nose up so high so fast, Cedric was amazed she didn’t get whiplash. The black couple waltzed into the auditorium leaving Cedric in the lobby where not even the bartenders pouring the champagne were black.
From "Jazz Moon"
Harlem, 1925. Ben, a happily married man takes his wife, Angeline, to a speakeasy one night for some bootleg liquor and jazz. He loves his wife and never expects to be swept off his feet by the trumpet player...
“Ladies and gentlemens, Barnett’s is proud to present to ya’ll The Blackberry Jam featuring Sweeeeeeet Baby Back Williams!”
Ben watched as a cat came up onstage with a trumpet and began to play.
Mellow. That was the only word Ben could think of at first to describe Baby Back Williams. Mellow. The band underscored his every riff, lick and cadence. No fireworks like Armstrong. Just a sound that was blue and smooth. One moment it was floating up with the reefer smoke, the next it was low down. Baby Backtook that horn through a swirling maze of rhythm. He caressed those flats and sharps, fondled those swinging eighth notes, fingered that melody till it cried. Yeah. Baby Back broke it up, child. The crowd fell out. Ben was hypnotized. Hypnotized by Baby Back’s horn. A horn attached to a face that was coffee-colored, young and soft as baby’s black bottom. The man was tall with broad shoulders that flared down to a trim waist accentuated by his tight suit. His eyes were shut lightly as he blew. As he blew. That. Horn.