Yeah, Mom, it does.
Okay. She pinched his cheek and it burned even more than the slap. He flinched. Trying to disfigure me?
They laughed. She kissed him.
You don’t really think I forgot about your girlfriend, did you?
She’s not exactly my girlfriend, and she does eat meat, just not beef.
Oh. Well. Anyway, what I was going to say was I forgot to take those veggie thingamabobs out of the freezer. And who knows, after she gets to see you in your home environment that might change. Hmmm?
Daron tore the blade of grass he was holding.
His mother chucked his chin. I love you, hon.
Me too.
She went, as she always did, Thank you, honey. You know that’s my favorite band.
WHEN HE RETURNED TO THE BACKYARD, Quint and Louis were sitting on the red beer cooler, thumb wrestling, Candice and his stripper cousin—at least he thought it was her—were in the gazebo in deep conversation, and Charlie was talking to Daron’s father. The Davenports were big men and women. Two generations in the mill. Before that, three generations of farming, his father liked to say, Yeoman. Yo-man! His uncles would kite their arms like they were steering a bullwhip and declare, We’re the original Georgia Crackers. But next to Charlie, his father looked puny. He never thought of Charlie as large until he saw him next to other people, or recognized the look of closeted alarm some people wore as they tried to avoid being next to him. In The City, rarely did anyone sit beside him on the subway, even during rush hour. At night, women clutched purses, crossed streets; guys steered wide. Charlie would occasionally whistle Vivaldi to reassure bystanders because, No one expects to be mugged by a dude who knows classical music. More than once he claimed he enjoyed the extra space. Daron never believed that. Today, no one behaved like that. But then again, they knew if anyone was going to gladly handle their possessions, it would be Quint. His father waved him over.
D’aron, is there something you want to say?
Daron stuttered, giving Charlie a quizzical look.
Tell me again what D’aron told you about us, Charlie.
Charlie looked confused.
His father laughed. I’m just teasing you. I wouldn’t want to know what you said, especially if you didn’t say anything. I thought my mom was old-fashioned for scaring us off the radio, D’aron thinks we’re old-fashioned, and your kids—he rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder—will think you’re old-fashioned.
Just a cycle, sir.
That’s right, sir.
They went back to talking about the playoffs, and Daron quickly excused himself. The smoke rising from the Green Egg swayed lazy in the wind, the bright coolers were lined up beside the house like Legos. Candice was now moving through the crowd, snapping pictures of everybody. Daron would have to ask her about that later. He didn’t want his family to be featured in the final project, the object of academic scrutiny, their every cough subject to diagnosis by his professor and classmates. But he couldn’t say, No, no he couldn’t, not while she was hugging up next to his uncle and aunt, teetering, extending her arm before her to capture what she called her Paparazzi shot. Last year she’d cut her hair short a few days after they first met. He remembered because the week after the dot party, she waved him over to her bench on Lower Sproul Plaza and he felt a momentary thrill at being hailed by an unknown female. With the cropped hair, she looked tomboyish, which he liked. In profile tonight, with her dreadlocks pulled back, he saw that again, the slight nose, the prominent forehead, and the smile, always a smile like she knew you. Over the sound of the breakers at César Chávez Park, she’d once admitted that her family wasn’t close; that her father expressed a greater affinity for moths and fruit liqueurs and her mother a keen interest in civil rights. She dubbed them emotionally abusive. Taking it to mean that she wasn’t as spoiled as she would have preferred, Daron had laughed so hard he hadn’t even seen her walk off, vanish into the grassy hill, footsteps light as a squirrel. But as she shared more about her parents, he wasn’t so sure, and now prided himself on the fact that in his family, no one had ever been interested in anything other than someone else’s business. Candice remained between Roy and Chester for several minutes, showing them photos, or who knew what else, on her phone. With Aunt Chester gasping in amazement and Uncle Roy squinting with disbelief and Candice grinning proudly, they looked like a family. Daron took a picture. He had anticipated protecting his friends, running interference, but everything was going smoothly. Even Quint and Louis were still getting along. They stood at the table, deep in conversation, eating directly off the serving dishes, Louis gnawing a rib and Quint a piece of chicken, both ignoring Daron when he walked up.
Louis’s fingers and face oozed, gooey as those of a zombie at a fresh coffin trough. He sucked the knuckle of one hand so hard it looked like he might take the skin off. This is the shit! Someone put their foot in the sauce.
Oh. Is that a—Chinese—saying, too? asked Quint.
Simple math. Everything Chinese saying, if you add accent and subtract words. You put foot in sauce!
Quint guffawed, spraying flecks of chicken across the table. Daron made a mental note of the dishes seasoned thusly.
You oughta be a comedian. Chinese people are funny and all, but you got some jokes.
Louis beamed like he’d found a buttered Olsen twin in his bed. Quint kept talking, all the while pouring a shot from a bottle of Jack, which he handed to Louis while taking an impressive draw himself, enough to bob his apple a few times. Louis continued bobbleheading. About ten minutes later Quint called for everyone’s attention.
Hey, hey! he yelled, tapping a fork against a beer bottle. Before they all could hush up, Quint escalated to bottle-on-bottle action, head-butting two fallen soldiers, which he did until one broke, at which point everyone fell silent and looked at Janice, who stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand holding open the screen door, the red spatula at her side.
What the heck are you doing, Quintillion Lee Jackson?
I’m gettin’ y’allses attention. The stony grit in his voice ground down a measure, he continued, I see you’re armed, so I sure ain’t aiming to get on your short side, Aunty J. They all laughed. No, ma’am, not when you standing there looking knotted like Sheriff when he come ’round to see me the odd Friday. Used to be he came only after something went wrong. Now he rolls by every couple weeks, asks me if I got anything to confess. I always say, No. Quint winked. But y’all knows I always do. More laughter. I’m just the opener. Just the opener, not the beer, so sit back. We’re fixing to have a show. It’s the first performance in the South of the famous California comic Lenny Bruce Lee! Clap, y’all! Let’s hear it. Make him welcome, dammit.
Quint set a white plastic chair in front of the food table. Louis sat down and Quint grabbed his arm. After a moment of drunken pantomime, Louis understood and stood on the chair, at which point Daron’s family applauded as if a trick had been performed.
Louis cleared his throat and appeared to be reciting something to himself. Okay, let’s get started.
Hello, Braggsville! You don’t know me. I’m Chinese, but I had a typical American upbringing. I was also beaten by the Vietnamese. At that, a few people shared sympathetic chuckles. Only Charlie and Candice laughed heartily. Daron was disappointed. Louis was Malaysian, and claimed to be Chinese only when it was the easiest explanation. As he put it, It’s like saying you live in Unit 2 at Berkeley. No one knows that, so you go, San Fran, and people go, Oh.
I have the same relationship problems. Sometimes my girlfriend is like, Why don’t we go dancing? I’m thinking this is like if I opened the fridge and the steaks were like, Why don’t we go hunting? They liked that one. Louis stood a little straighter. The chair wobbled. Did he glance at Candice when he mentioned girlfriend? Daron hoped not.
See, this points to the differences between the sexes. I asked her, Seriously, do you think men really like to dance? If we could pay admission, give a chick the same amount of cash
it would take to buy ten drinks, and take her home, we would. But that would be a brothel, or a sorority house.
When the crowd responded less than enthusiastically, Louis explained, See, we have this thing in some colleges known as sorostitution. It means rich girls . . . never mind. So then, my girl is like, But dancing is how you tell who’s good in bed. Maybe so, I told her, but that’s another difference between the sexes. You think we care about that.
She was like, All men care about is sex.
I was like, Yeah, that’s true, but not whether you’re good at it.
They liked that one. Uncle Roy pointed to Aunt Chester, who smacked his hand away.
Okay. My friend Charlie is here. Let’s hear it for Charlie. Chinese people and black people have a lot in common. Charlie clapped politely.
The Wu-Tang Clan. Quint spit out his drink laughing.
Tiger Woods? The black part was cheating, and the Chinese part was driving when he hit the tree. Charlie shook his head regretfully.
We each give our children funny names. There was silence, until he added, That white people can’t pronounce. It’s a conspiracy.
White people can’t cook our food, but they love to eat it. Though someone here makes good-ass ribs. He hiccuped. Excuse me. Good ribs. That was my black joke. I gotta represent. He gave Charlie a thumbs-up.
Oh yeah. Chinese people got some things in common with Southerners, too. You ready for this, Braggsville? I was at this store—he pointed over his shoulder, Lou’s Bait and Cash and Copy.
A few people in the crowd pointed in the other direction.
It’s in the other direction!
It’s called Lou Davis’s Cash-n-Carry Bait Shop and Copy Center!
Yeah! the stripper yelled.
The crowd all gestured toward town until Louis, too, was pointing in the right direction.
Yeah, so Chinese people are big into directions, too. He paused, collecting himself. But, I was at this store, Lou Davis’s, and it was like a Chinese store, you had everything: meat, bumper stickers, everything. In Chinatown, it’s like that. You can buy fruit and bread and get your teeth pulled in the back. Anyway, at Lou Davis’s I saw some strange stuff, like headcheese and all, and thought, hmmm, headcheese. Maybe these people are weird. Then I had an image of my grandma eating, guess what, chicken feet!
I thought, Okay, Southerners are like Chinese. We have pig’s feet and ears, and even the ovaries. A collective groan issued forth. Louis raised his hands. I don’t write the news. I just deliver the paper. Whole point is if we even got the ovaries, you know we don’t waste nothing. We eat everything but the oink or, sometimes in our case, the bark.
A hush fell over the crowd. That’s a joke, you all, Louis added, and the crowd went into an uproar, clapping and stomping their feet.
Louis paused, savoring the moment. He was much better than Daron expected.
Louis began speaking, but in the corner, Uncle Roy whispered in Aunt Chester’s ear, a mite too loudly, I think he mean they eat dogs. See! and the crowd went wild again.
Daron’s father was red in the face, as was his mother, who clapped both hands over her mouth as she often did when laughing against her will. His cousins held their sides as if in pain, and tears streamed down Quint’s face. After the crowd finally settled down, Louis continued.
And vegetarians? Who would willingly give up meat? I saw a menu in Cali with vegetarian beef stew. That’s going too far. If it’s vegetarian, why does it need a meat name? It just can’t be good. It’s got to be like sexing a blow-up doll. It’ll do the trick for a minute, but you won’t feel good about it afterwards, and you keep it to yourself, and you hide it when company comes over. He bowed to thunderous applause.
For the rest of the night, Louis was the star. Daron had wanted to invite Jo-Jo but knew he wouldn’t fit in. The last time he’d seen Jo-Jo was over winter break. They’d spent the afternoon on the hill above Old Man Donner’s land drinking Old Grand-Dad, sitting Indian-style on a ledge of rock that gun-sighted dead right over downtown, a meager allotment of buildings cupped in a gentle swale, Main Street stitching through like a scar. Once more, Jo-Jo had called him early, asked him to take a ride. Once more, they had ridden in silence.
The Rhiners, the Foldercaps, the Gull prom, some new shirtsleeves at the Hot Air factory, that Mr. Buchanan, the debate coach and eleventh- and twelfth-grade English teacher, had finally been fired, were topics of discussion, but all Jo-Jo had admitted that day was, Thinks she won’t find out. But he cain’t figure shit. Up at Dougy’s every night, tits riding the well with the rest of ’em, telling lies. He cain’t figure shit.
Sure can’t, Daron had said, after a moment during which, even after three semesters at Berkeley—including an Intro to Social Linguistics class where the professor spent hours lecturing them on prestige and speech communities and attuning them to class inflection in language—he could think of nothing else to say. He had wondered, for the amount of time it takes to crush a can, if school itself was making it hard for him to talk. The prof always said, Learning Spanish doesn’t mean forgetting English, but learning English often means forgetting Spanish. Think about that! Daron had laughed it off at the time. He and Louis spent hours in parodic paralysis: Eating pussy doesn’t mean cannibalism, but cannibalism means eating pussy. Tink about that, holmes. An oral exam isn’t a blowjob, but a blowjob is an oral exam. Tink about that, amigo. Daron had tinked about it a lot since, and knew what the professor meant by language is power because the more he learned at school, the more he understood, the less he understood. Maybe language was power, but not his to harness.
And not Jo-Jo’s either, not with all his comma-averse posts about the second coming, the first of which Daron had clicked on expecting anything but an animated video on the return of OUR LORD, and after which Daron had read every Facebook FAQ and forum to learn how to adjust his privacy settings to ensure that his two worlds remained just that.
Watching Louis’s routine made him wish it were otherwise. Jo-Jo would have found it funny, and they all would have gotten along. He had emailed Jo-Jo that he would be in town soon and would call once he arrived. But Daron hadn’t, he knew that Jo-Jo still thought Candice was his girl, and he couldn’t face him seeing that she wasn’t. Maybe if Jo-Jo saw them all together, if he met Louis and Charlie, he would understand. Daron doubted it. Not to mention Jo-Jo’s mullet. Even Iran knew to outlaw that hairstyle.
By the end of the night, Daron relaxed. Over the course of the evening several people asked Charlie if he was from the Gully or had folks there, but each time he said, No, they answered brightly, Well, welcome to Braggsville! And better yet, when Quint put on David Allen Coe’s You Never Even Call Me by My Name, Charlie and Louis knew the lyrics word for word, trilling operatic the verses about mama, trains, trucks, prisons, and getting drunk.
It was nearly midnight when Daron sat down next to his friends again. They looked pleasantly tired. He was about to ask them if they were enjoying themselves when his father opened the back door and whistled for him. His parents were alone in the kitchen. His father studied his face, his mother was straightening the canisters, her back to them, but her posture belied where her attention lay.
Call it off, son.
How do you mean?
D’aron, I don’t want to keep you from your friends or have a big discussion about this. Whatever you was planning, call it off.
On the way from the airport, his mother had inquired about their plans for the week. As previously agreed, Daron said they would visit Atlanta a few times, and Savannah, and some Indian burial ground. They needed only to keep their secret until the next morning, at which point phase two would begin. The lynching wouldn’t get far because someone would stop it, someone would give a fit as soon as rope one got tossed over a branch. Louis and Candice insisted on secrecy because if the townspeople were warned, the spectacle wouldn’t have the same effect. There would be no control group, and the postmaim interviews, as Louis called them, would be poi
ntless. Charlie, lastly, insisted this was a situation where it was best to act first and ask permission later. Seemed he was right.
For the first time, Daron felt motivated to do it, to act. He was not one to directly disobey his father. But they had planned this for weeks, and had Professor Pearlstein’s permission to do ethnography, like Zora Neale Hurston or Franz Boas. Daron blurted out, It’s fieldwork. A school project, for Christ’s sake.
I knew it. His father set his jaw like he’d been swindled.
His mom shuddered, apparently at the notion of fieldwork, not the invocation of Christ, because all she had to say was, Why can’t you just read books and write papers, like we used to do in school?
Daron knew that Mr. Davenport would make the final decision, and judging by his silence, it had been made. This was not how Daron would have planned to ask, had he developed a mind to do so. He would have taken his father aside to talk man-to-man, like the adult he was, to explain that times had changed and that direct action was big again, that the South had to catch up with California, and the rest of the world, and stop wading in the sandpit licking its wounds like an old, toothless dog. Yes, reason and rhetoric would have been his strategy.
You best do as I say, hear me, son, or it’s me ’n’ you.
Chapter Eleven
Centered on Daron’s dresser was an oversize Styrofoam light-bulb graced with an Afro wig. Magnifying glass in hand, Louis alternated between examining the wig and Charlie’s scalp. With her hands clasped behind her back, maintaining a respectful distance as though guided by tape on the floor, Candice studied the walls as if some brilliant curator had assembled these posters of Jay Z, MGMT, James Franco in Pineapple Express—which his parents still thought was a fruit drink—Miley Cyrus, BSG, Jessica Alba, Outkast, and Tool, the latter of which made him terribly sentimental because when he was young, it was his father’s mulling music, under the stars, in the backyard, the only sounds Aenima and the bug zapper, the first a eulogy, the second what his father called life’s biggest lesson.
Welcome to Braggsville Page 8