by Gabriel Bump
When Janice walked into the other bar, the bachelor party started cheering. They bought her a drink, told her to sit at their booth, asked if she wanted pizza, or fries, or chicken tenders, or a steak sandwich.
There was one guy in particular. Janice kept staring at him. He kept staring at Janice. The Best Man, a short man with glasses, a little round, cute. He picked at Janice’s fries and bought her another drink. Outside, he offered Janice a cigarette, lit it with matches, blew his smoke away from her face. The Best Man told Janice about the wedding, tomorrow, back in South Shore, with all their friends and family. He said things about coming home for good. Janice asked where The Best Man lived now. He said he floated around, moved from place to place. Janice thought he was a boring salesman trying to make himself exciting.
When The Bachelor threw up in an alley, the night finished and The Best Man asked if Janice wanted to split a cab.
“Wait,” I said. “Did you sleep with him?”
“I sleep with people all the time,” Janice said. “Listen.”
Inside Janice’s apartment, The Best Man tripped over his suit pants, struggled against his tie. Under his shirt, tattoos wrapped up his arms, covered his torso, stopped at his clavicle. His body was an indecipherable inked mess. Janice kissed his neck, ear, cheeks, and lips. Before he drifted off to sleep, Janice kissed his forehead and watched the sun pushing out of Lake Michigan. She was going to wake him, kick him out, call a cab, and forgot about South Shore all over again.
“That’s when I saw it,” Janice said. “Across his back.”
“Saw what?” I asked.
“He rolled over,” Janice said.
“What did you see?” I asked.
The Best Man had REDBELTERS scrawled in block letters between his shoulder blades.
“I blinked,” Janice said. “I rubbed my eyes. I thought I was dreaming. I have these nightmares all the time: I’m back in South Shore and the riot is happening again and the riot is never ending and the Redbelters are marching down the street shooting people in the chest. In these nightmares, I’m standing there watching and I can’t move. I try to run. I can’t. I stand there screaming. They march up to me, laughing, pointing their guns at me. I wake up sweating. When I saw that tattoo, I thought I was in a nightmare. I slapped my cheeks. I tried to breathe deep, slow.”
“Janice,” I said, fear tightening my lungs. “What did you do?”
She sat back down, closer to me, put her head on my shoulder.
“I touched the tattoo,” Janice said. “It wasn’t a dream. It was real. I touched it again, rubbed it, heard him purr.”
She didn’t fall back asleep. She watched the sun keep pushing up.
When The Best Man woke up, he told Janice his real name, asked if he could call her next weekend. Janice wrote his number on an old receipt. She watched him get dressed, kissed him at the door, laid back in bed, and stared at her ceiling.
“It all came back,” Janice said. “These searing flashes. All the things I’d promised myself I’d do if the Redbelters came back, if I saw a Redbelter walking down the street. What they did to my life . . .”
“Janice,” I said. “What did you do?”
“Remember?” Janice asked. “When we talked about choices?”
“Janice,” I said.
“I told you,” Janice said. “If I had a time machine.”
“Janice,” I said.
“I thought they were gone,” Janice said.
“What did you do?” I asked.
She’d walked to her window, watched the morning traffic grind down Lake Shore Drive, tapped her head against the glass, wondered if she could leave Chicago.
She’d moved to the couch, curled up, still naked, worked through her options. She could call the police, let them know the Redbelters weren’t gone, tell them about the wedding. She could call The Best Man, call him a coward and murderer, say he ruined lives, ruined her life. She could call no one. She didn’t live in South Shore anymore. She didn’t have to care. She could move on.
She’d opened her fridge, opened her closet, checked her drawers, and measured her life. She counted everything in her small apartment. She decided there wasn’t enough to weigh her down.
She’d gone back to the window. She said goodbye to Lake Michigan. She felt her mind expand with new possibilities.
“I got dressed,” Janice said. “I packed a bag. I threw up. I brushed my teeth. I took all my cash tips, this big stack I was saving to leave Chicago for good. I put that in my bag. I took a cab to the bus station. At the bus station, used a pay phone and called the cops.”
“No,” I said. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” Janice said. “I told them about the wedding. I told them the Redbelters were back.”
“The cops,” I said. “You called the cops.”
“It felt right,” Janice said. “My body felt on fire and it felt right.”
“The cops won’t help,” I said.
“They might,” Janice said.
“You can’t trust cops,” I said.
“The Redbelters are worse,” Janice said.
“They’re the same,” I said.
“You don’t mean that,” Janice said.
“They both kill people,” I said.
“Not all cops kill people,” Janice said.
“What if the Redbelters find out?” I said. “What if they follow you?”
“I don’t care anymore,” Janice said.
“Janice,” I said. “They’ll find you. They’ll find us.”
“Claude,” Janice said. “This is our chance to start over. Together.”
She was scared. I was scared too. I kept my eyes on the doorknob, planned the quickest exit, ignored the ringing in my ears.
I imagined Redbelters kicking the door into pieces, busting in with loaded automatic weapons. In my head, I heard rapid gunshots splashing my insides across the walls and ceiling and rug and lamps. It felt like a bad movie with cartoonish villains and bumbling heroes. Heavy metal—screeching guitars, pummeled drums—rattled my brain. That screeching. All that noise. I had heard it before. Back home, standing in the street, Redbelters and cops around me—I had heard it before: impending chaos howling in my face. Years ago, standing in the street, I’d decided to run home. Now, sitting in a motel room with Janice, I measured my own life. I could stay in Missouri, write my articles, play my part, translate the black experience. As I worked through my options, I saw Janice as I saw her months ago, when I decided to leave Chicago. Then, I wished I could take her with me. Now, she was here, sitting next to me, willing to start a new life together. It was just us, in a motel room, in Missouri, unsure where we would call home next.
I couldn’t turn a corner and see Grandma, in the distance, protecting our porch. I couldn’t run into Paul’s bulging stomach, ask him to hold me, ask him for some wine, ask him if we were going to make it.
As I see it now, all these years later, I could’ve told Janice to leave. I could’ve walked back to my dorm room, studied for a Sociology exam, edited my articles, gone to lunch. I could’ve raised my palms, backed away, shook my head—no, Janice, no, not my problem. This wasn’t a movie. This was my life. I could’ve turned my back. Maybe I should’ve.
Instead, I kept my eyes on the doorknob, forgot about college, leaned forward, let the screeching come into my brain, let my heart pump and pump.
“Janice?” I said. “Why did you come here?”
“Claude,” Janice said. “You know.”
“Know what?” I asked.
“I need you,” Janice said.
“For what?” I asked.
“I love you,” Janice said.
“You do?” I asked.
“Claude,” Janice said. “We can do this.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Aren’t you listening?” Janice asked.
“I have to go,” I said. “I can come back tonight.”
“Maybe some dinner?” Janice asked. “Don’t forge
t my bag.”
She was on her back, legs straight up, perpendicular to the bed. She was stretching with her eyes closed. I imagined she was trying to relax. Deep breaths sunk her stomach and lifted her chest toward the crooked ceiling fan. There was a large spiderweb connecting all the blades. The web’s maker was nowhere in sight. Janice took another breath. She was humming in a low register. Her phone vibrated, another mystery I couldn’t see. Somewhere, through the walls, another phone rang, loud. There I was, struck, surrounded by vibrations and ringing and floating smells and dust that felt like mist and lurking spiders capable of sewing complex webs.
“Maybe tacos,” Janice said from her back, legs still upright, eyes shut.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Come on,” Janice said.
I wrapped my arms around her legs, looked over her feet, held her legs tighter, looked into her closed eyes.
Her eyes opened, met mine. In that quick moment, we hurtled through time and found ourselves in my bedroom, back home, years ago, feeling each other for the first time, fumbling in our young love. Now, I held her legs tighter. Her soft stare didn’t break.
“I love you too,” I said.
“I know,” Janice said, smiled, blew me a kiss.
“I won’t take too long,” I said.
“Claude,” Janice said. “Watch out.”
“Watch out for what?” I asked.
“In my bag,” Janice said.
“What?” I asked, paused next to the door.
“There’s a gun,” Janice said.
“Janice,” I said, slumped.
“For protection,” Janice said.
“Janice,” I said, slumped further down.
“Protect yourself,” Janice said.
“Where did you get a gun?” I asked.
“We’re from Chicago,” Janice said. “I need to feel safe.”
I heard her lock the door behind me, wiggle the doorknob to make sure. When I stepped outside, my first instinct was to check the parking lot for suspicious characters. The only person out there leaned against the red Jeep. On first glance, he was dressed too nicely for this setting—dress shirt, khakis, sunglasses with some gold in the frame, flickering. He looked up from a small book, slid his glasses down his nose.
“Yo,” he said to me.
“Yo,” I said back.
“Want some pussy?” he asked.
“Naw,” I said.
“Want some blow?” he asked.
“Naw,” I said.
He slid his glasses back over his eyes, went back to reading his book and flickering in the afternoon sun.
I had to get Janice out of here. We couldn’t make a life in this parking lot. Our children needed space to grow and play. We needed a place with untouched land stretched over painted hills, bordered by rivers and cut with streams. A place to hide and cool down, that’s what we needed. I turned and watched our door, waited for Janice to appear and tell me to stay, tell me she had a plan and that plan involved leaving right now, at this second. I stood like that until a passing fire truck shook me awake. I was late. I had to get to the journalism office.
The Prairie Executioner #2
Simone was sitting across from Whitney when I walked in, the Pit like a solid lake between them. I sat next to Simone.
“You’re late,” Whitney said to me. I wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Like I was saying,” Whitney said, with her eyes on me.
“You were saying,” Simone said to Whitney, “that you want us to speak for all black people.”
“You could say that,” Whitney said. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say?” Simone asked. She crossed her arms and tilted her chair back, almost fell back on the scuffed floor, caught herself.
“I’d say,” Whiney said, “that both of you are expected to investigate important issues.”
“So,” Simone said, “you want us to be grateful?”
“Yes,” Whitney said.
I put my hand on Simone’s shoulder. I wanted to stop her from murdering Whitney. Simone slapped me away. After she slapped my hand, Simone slapped both her hands on the Pit. Whitney and I winced—that rocklike wood must have hurt. Simone, though, didn’t show it. She kept her face straight. She looked at Whitney’s heart. Whitney slid back, further scuffed the scuffed floor.
“I didn’t mean—” Whitney tried to say.
“I’ll do it,” Simone said. “I just want you to know how fucked up it is.”
Somewhere above our heads, someone dropped something light. We heard it bounce through our silence. We kept our eyes on Simone. Simone’s eyes, however, were sliding through Whitney’s body, moving now from her heart to her soul. Whitney was scared. And I wasn’t sure why. It didn’t seem, to me, that Whitney thought Simone capable of spontaneous murder. No, Whitney wasn’t scared; she was terrified. Scared people can summon a response to their fear. Terror freezes a person in their seat, makes their brown hair turn white. Whitney was terrified of what most terrifies white people in liberal-minded professional environments—Whitney didn’t want Simone to call her a racist. Whitney was terrified of being labeled. I would’ve felt sorry for her, tried to calm the situation; I would’ve tried to see the tension-filled scene from her perspective; I would’ve tried to imagine Whitney as a high school junior arguing with her father about the proper term to call black people—African American, not nigger; I would’ve imagined her last fall, out on the Missouri highway with a busload of other Obama volunteers, canvassing for hope and change and a new world, one different from the world that raised them; I would’ve imagined her reading James Baldwin in a café, shaking her head and furrowing her brow at injustice—I would’ve helped her out, if Simone wasn’t right. But Simone was right: this was fucked up. I wanted to hear Simone call Whitney a racist. I wanted to see Whitney’s brown hair turn white.
Simone didn’t call her a racist. Instead, Simone took out her notebook and poised her pen over paper. Whitney emerged from her terror spell, shaken and intact. This was Simone’s meeting now.
“So,” Simone began, “did you know there are fourteen statues of Thomas Jefferson on campus?”
“No,” Whitney said.
“Did you know,” Simone continued, “that Thomas Jefferson was a rapist and a racist?”
“No,” Whitney said, shaking her head and furrowing her brow at injustice.
“Do we, as a campus,” Simone went on, “need fourteen different monuments to violent patriarchy and racism?”
“No,” Whitney said. “No, no, no, no, no.”
She would’ve said no forever if Simone hadn’t jumped in.
“My history professor,” Simone said, “thinks we should remove all the statues.”
“All of them?” Whitney asked.
Simone’s eyes went back into Whitney’s soul.
“All of them,” Simone said.
“Okay,” Whitney said. “Sounds promising.”
Simone, satisfied for a brief moment, relaxed into her chair. They both looked at me.
“What are you thinking?” Simone asked me.
“I don’t care too much about Thomas Jefferson,” I said.
“Well,” Simone said, “you should.”
Whitney, sensing another quake coming, stepped in to save me.
“I mean,” Whitney said, with her chin in her chest, “do you have any story ideas?”
“Nothing interesting,” I said.
“Nothing?” Whitney asked.
“Nothing?” Simone asked.
“You don’t care about anything?” Whitney asked.
I imagined Janice in the motel bed, still in her stiff pose, legs toward the ceiling, unable to move. The sun had set—did she have the energy to turn on the lights? Was she safe? I thought of the danger that had her surrounded. I had to get back.
“I’ll think of something tonight,” I said.
“Claude,” Whitney said. “Do you work here?”
&
nbsp; “Don’t you care about anything?” Simone asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. I stood up to leave, was ready to run. Connie Stove appeared in the doorway.
“What was that I heard?” Connie Stove asked. “Did I hear hesitation?”
“I just have to go,” I said.
“Sit down,” Connie Stove said.
I sat down. Simone and Whitney shifted in their chairs. I hoped Simone would come to my defense, stop what was coming. She didn’t. She lowered her eyes and picked at her fingernails. I was alone. Connie Stove glided toward us.
“What is the hesitation?” Connie Stove asked.
I tried to respond. She raised both her pointer fingers, closed her eyes. I mumbled about needing to leave. I disturbed her rhythm. She started over.
“What is the hesitation?” Connie Stove repeated. “Don’t you feel the moment’s urgency? Does the ground not feel fragile under your step? Acres, I say. Acres of progress unwind before us. We are living in a new age. When I was eighteen and taking acid tabs like cough drops—on fire, the world was on fire. I would sit in my dorm room with Lucinda, stare at our radio, construct maps of the patriarchy, and plot ways to turn the establishment into embers. Lucinda and I—dear Lucinda—could stare at that radio for hours. And do you know why? Put your hand down. I’ll tell you why. We were listening to images of horror and the horror never stopped. Vietnam, Mississippi, Chicago, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—all of it was burning down and we couldn’t look away. And where was the epicenter? The eye of the hurricane—where was that? Where was the earth cracking in two, three, four? Where did the storm troopers run up against immovable blockades? Put your hand down. I’ll tell you where: college campuses. Did you hear me? I’ll say it again: college campuses. Lucinda and I watched our dorm walls melt into psychedelic streams; we watched the black students take over the bursar’s office; we watched professors join our comrades in the struggle; we looked Nixon’s storm troopers in their terrified eyes. We looked at our radio and saw images of young men coming back from the jungle in acres of boxes. The bodies kept flowing. Lucinda and I dreamed of those boxes and those boys. We were angry. When our dreams turned to nightmares, we would wake up screaming. We stopped going to class. We ordered pizza. We didn’t take the pizza boxes out to the trash. Acid turned our minds into glorious sponges. We turned the pizza boxes into dioramas of public monuments. We made a pizza-box Lincoln Memorial and stomped on it until the greased cardboard turned to mush. We threw a pizza-box White House out our window and cheered as it got caught in a draft and flew out of town. We were heroes, Lucinda and I. Every student was a hero, passionate, driven, moral, tripping off life and potent chemicals. That’s how it was back then. And we won. Damn it. We got what we asked for. We got women’s studies and black studies and Latino studies and professors of all colors. We got the diversity we wanted. So what do you want? So what are you going to do? Put your hand down. I’ll tell you . . .”