Then he asked about the fire he’d heard rumor of. They fell silent. Nothing major, said someone. Ain’t nothing but a thang, said another. The way they said it, though, the sneer and dismissal, shutting him out, as if Daron were the arsonist and they refused to acknowledge him, to give him the benefit of knowing he had inconvenienced them.
During that lull in the conversation, Quint asked if anyone wanted to hear a joke. Of course they did, thought Daron, irked. No one would ever say, No, I don’t want to hear a joke. I hate to laugh. Funny makes me runny. He could only pray it wouldn’t be one of Louis’s jokes.
Quint cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. All right. Y’all know I wrecked the old ATV a few weeks back down by the bank. So I went to the emergency room, and it was crowded as church the A-and-M after junior prom. Felt a little chilly, put my green hat on, and I’ll be damned if everyone didn’t clear out and I got next. Went down to the DMV, and the same thing happened. Got right up to the front. Happened at the laundry mat too. Know what the hat said?
Daron thought, Please don’t say, Pit bull with AIDS, which couldn’t possibly be a hat, but with Quint, who knew?
Quint felt around his cargo pockets for a moment before waving like a bronco buster, brandishing a green cap that his hair had never stopped wearing. He’d had it on earlier, but Daron hadn’t noticed that it said BORDER AND IMMIGRATION CONTROL. Quint continued, Just don’t wear it at McDonald’s, they’ll arriba-arriba right out the back afore you get your Big Mac. He kissed two fingers and touched them to his heart in the manner of a boy scout. One of my amigos invited me to his kid’s baptism. The church was cold so I had to put the hat on, but I’ll be George Washington if half his fam didn’t take off before the priest finished waterboarding the baby.
Daron smiled weakly when Quint poked him in the ribs. He didn’t think it was funny, and didn’t know why the residents of the Gully would, either. Weren’t people always complaining that Mexicans were just new niggers? Taking away all the shit jobs and driving down wages? He’d heard that half the blacks were laid off when the Mexicans moved into the area, but a lot of the whites got raises. He heard that’s when some of the Gulls moved to Doeville for a spell, but soon came home. Yet he watched them laugh to a man, including Otis, and the children as well, mimicking the adults.
A few minutes later, unbidden, Otis apologized if he’d caused Daron any trouble.
Having only moments before witnessed a man allowing his daughter to stick her finger in his mug of shine, Daron was at the height of his disgust. Trouble? he asked Otis. Trouble? Not at all, not at all.
You sure now? I’m retired, but I remember what it was like. I’d hate to see you or your folks getting the squeeze. Short hours. Cemetery shifts. Hairy eyes. I know how it can be over there.
How’s that? How is it over there?
Otis took a small step back. I didn’t aim to offend, Mr. Davenport, especially not after what you’ve done. I was just hoping we didn’t cause you any trouble back in the Holler.
Daron didn’t know what the Holler had to do with it, but he nodded lavish reassurance. Like he once overheard his father say, No nigger’ll ever get the satisfaction of thinking they can cause me some trouble.
Well, we appreciate what you did.
I didn’t do it for you.
I never thought you did, Mr. Davenport, it just turned out mighty fine for us. If you will excuse me, I’ll dance with my wife. Otis snapped his fingers and the band picked up the tempo.
The song he vaguely recognized as John Lee Hooker. Or B.B. King. Or Albert King. One of them. Definitely. Otis’s wife was a head taller, the perfect height for Otis to rest his head on her bosom and go dreamy-eyed. She was dark, darker than Otis by far, but her high cheekbones and almond eyes gave her a regal look. Daron couldn’t tell if she had been beautiful as a young woman, but even in her sixties she was by far the most put-together of the Gully women who were out that night. Otis and the missus danced that song and the next, Otis at one point catching Daron’s eye and winking.
Still more food came out, and shine, and before he knew it, dawn crept through the brush. At sunup, a little girl gave him a bouquet while Otis oversaw from the sidelines, nodding his approval from several feet away. She then handed Daron a locket. You are an honorary citizen of the Gully. Our doors are always open to you.
They were open before, but this is an official invitation, yelled someone from the shadow of the tree line, sparking riotous, carnivorous laughter.
On the way home, Quint clapped Daron’s shoulder and offered, Maybe you done a good thing and we can’t see it yet. They always say that in the vo-tech circle-jerks. It didn’t work none inside, and I don’t much believe it works out here. Sure don’t work none inside. That’s my problem there, D. I always been a rough cub. I couldn’t never keep the two straight. My thing is I do what my rules say no matter where I am. Sometimes it works, sometimes it don’t. I ain’t no restaurant Tabasco. But I ain’t changing, see. The world is. I’m just me. Seems like you got the same problem, in a way. He paused. But, for the opposite. Quint took a toke off his pipe and held his breath for several paces, exhaling as he sang, Some days it feels like my body is a cage. You know what I mean, Li’l D?
Daron waited for the punch line, but none came, and so he relished for some long moment that warm blanket of belonging he felt when his cousin called him Li’l D, the Li’l symbolizing for Daron his position as one to be protected. Quint spun his hat around backward. Immigration Control! It wasn’t a Louis joke, but it would have been funny if it had been. Instead all it did was make Daron uncomfortable, and feel, frankly, disappointed in the Gulls. Six A.M. and two smokers plus a grill were going. And a band. Pork and chicken piled across the table, steaming bowls of yams and greens, and theyselves all laughing and joking and feeding their faces. A kid in cutoffs with a rack of ribs larger than his own. The heavyset lady with her plate resting on her tits like they were a TV tray. Any excuse for a shindig. That’s why they couldn’t get anywhere. Partying all night, of course they wouldn’t be able to keep a job. A crisis was going on right now and the blacks were celebrating. Here, so deep in the woods no cars go, Negro fiddled. He bet it was quiet as church over in Ridgetown where the Mexicans lived.
VEXED. VEXED, HIS FATHER WAS. Very. He arrived home at about the same time Daron did, and had already heard tell at the mill about a midnight party, a pig slaughtered, shine, dinner by wick and wax. They can’t afford to slaughter a pig like that, but you obligated them by visiting. Worse yet, word’s out making it sound like you’s in cahoots with them. Gave you a damned hero’s feast. A welcome for a prodigal son. Shit, D’aron. Everyone knows it’s bad luck to eat in the Gully after dark. I never paid much attention to that. But it looks like it’s true in your case. Don’t go back up in there until this is done. Daron thought it was done. It was, wasn’t it? But he didn’t object or ask for clarification. His father had been cranky and edgy lately. Daron attributed it to fatigue. He’d spent the last few weeks on the night shift.
Chapter Thirty-0
Through the phone Daron feels her strawberry breath at ear, so that he can yield and not buckle, a kind of warning, her kindness of announcing his every emotion only moments before he perceives it, her throat making new shapes, the miracle of blowing electronic bubbles through the tower—crackling—through the layer cake atmosphere above where they glisten enigmatic in the uppermost dark like shy stars before the satellite cups gently these lovely trophies—can’t begrudge such loyal lonely an earful—then sending them on their way with a hush back to earth, back to Daron, who receives gratefully these divine meteors, paying for each with his tears, until his face below eye is a bandit’s mask of sorrow, drawing tight his own voice until even to murmur sears like sudden loss and he can only nod, only nod, nod heavy against the stubble, when she calls for response, only nod when her gifts burn, when the meteorite singes his heart, when she tells him, They used us all. Don’t you see? You think they were protecting you by
not making you testify because you weren’t there? By not making me testify to, Save me the horror. It’s like rolling dice under river water, ma’am, trying to get facts straight, ma’am, they said, under those lights, in front of all those people. To relive it all. To make the poor boy’s family relive it all. For your folks to hear you say what you told me? Miss, save the people you care about the horror of seeing you take that stand. Take, miss. They say take for a reason, young miss—take—because it’s somethin’ you’ll always carry with you. Are you there? [Nod. God, hope she hears.] They’re laughing, and I can hear it all the way from there to here, hear it here in Iowa. I thought the inquest was to find the truth, not to write it. Are you there? [Nod. God, hope she hears the phone graze his chin, each pass hungrier.] They made me feel safe, like one of them. One of us, they said, one of us. They spoke with arms open wide as wishes. Like one of them. I didn’t believe it. One of us, they said. I wanted to, to belong, but I didn’t believe it. My parents believed it, but I didn’t believe. I was wrong not to testify. Just like backing down with Vandenburg. Are you there? [God, hope she hears my heart.] I believe it, now. They made me believe. I believe. [Was this how Siddhartha felt when he left the palace?]
Residual Affect:
Race, Micro-aggressions, Micro-inequities, (Autophagy)
& BBQ
in the Contemporary Southern Imagination
at Six Flags
Daron L. M. Davenport
U.C. Berzerkeley
I.DØ.A5.IT.I5
Abstract
Scholars (Elise, Mahiri, Sims, Costarides, Johnson 2012) argue that barbecue’s popularity in the South evidences its unique ontological position as both method and apparatus, a duality that accurately represents otherwise nonrepresentational aspects of Southern culture (Johnson 2012). In this paper, I argue that barbecue embodies both the nongendered and the gendered performative aspects of ritualistic social intercourse in three ways: (1) It enables heterogeneous interactions among hot dogs and hamburgers, as it does among humans; (2) Unexpected exposure to high heat fortifies flavor while allowing the meat to remain tender, just like sudden and intense exposure to stress does for humans; and (3) Everyone can afford a barbecue grill, so skill is the great equalizer, just like it is in the workplace for humans. In my field observation of a spontaneous barbecue among nomadic elders of the meridional United States, I observed prosocial behavior among disparate parties at a major U.S. theme park, suggesting that indeed we can all get along.
Research Question
PRIMARY RESEARCH QUESTION:
• Is a barbecue a social event, cooking apparatus, or a culinary method?
SECONDARY RESEARCH QUESTIONS:
• Is a barbecue what Michel de Certeau would call a strategy or a tactic?
• Is barbecue real or imagined?
• Is barbecue a noun or verb or metaphor?
• Is barbecue spelled barbecue, barbeque, bar-b-q, or BBQ?
Methods
Informants—Design—Procedures—Measures & Methodology
• The informants include nomadic elders originally from the meridional United States, and 4 Little Indians, each representing a unique tribe.
• Guidelines for grounded research have been followed.
• Names have been changed to protect the identity of the innocent.
• Nothing is staged.
• The occasion is analyzed using both eyewitness accounts and the original text as source material. So the evidence is both direct and indirect (Dehaan 1999).
Literature review
• Old Hitch, who built Lou Davis’s smoker, is said to have left behind a journal of tips and recipes called Cooking by Heartlight. Those who have read it are rumored to have gnawed their tongues unclean off.
SIX FLAGS PART ONE: INTERNMENT AND INTERROGATION
One of us? Who is us?
As above, so below, Nana liked to say, daubing juniper oil on D’amon’s forehead and chin. She’d then draw her thumbs across the upper ridge of his cheekbones and massage his temples, while reminding him that his eyes would reckon his appetites, and his appetites would be the hatch between the two worlds. By appetites she meant, Dogs don’t eat on listing boats. By two worlds she meant, Ussens, and what’s hid behind even that preacherman, like the Moon and the Sun, one is light while the other onliest pretend. Damon imagined the two worlds as the celestial and the earthly, as a kingdom of delights atop a realm of pedestrian bureaucracy, but he hadn’t the words to express this at the time. It’s like dinner and dessert, you silly goat, Nana explained, which he took to mean that he had to do right by one before getting to the other, but two such separate worlds he’d never seen before, until Six Flags.
The alleys, underground offices, and subterranean corridors our 4 Little Indians were marched through must have covered the entire kingdom, for the journey ended at red double doors on the other side of the park, far from where they had, Unceremoniously, Park Director Vandenburg insisted, released Ishi. It was as if the people in the other world, the basement offices and black alleys, the dark city, were being punished, while the people up above were, were . . . Vandenberg sipped his OJ . . . sun kissed. The contrast between the two worlds was as starkly unsettling as the social divide explored in the film Metropolis, which Damon’s film professor called the first honest cinematic coverage of the laboring class, the first film to illustrate the gross and lamentable existential gap between white collar and blue collar, a gap Damon would not have otherwise believed existed in such varied dimensions: All the boots at the mill ever said was, Shirtsleeves are for sissies.
Vandenburg, with his superhero silver sideburns, spent most of the conversation with his right hand on the phone, tapping it with his trigger finger to express displeasure whenever he didn’t like the sound of their story. They had been led first to a supervisor, then a security chief, and at last to Vandenburg, after the security chief picked at the cardboard urn with a pencil and saw that among the remains were numerous page numbers.
Vandenburg softened the more Caitlin spoke, until he finally swiveled to his computer, fingered his fancy silver keyboard, turned his screen toward Caitlin and instructed her to read aloud the entire Wikipedia entry on Vallejo. Then the one on Six Flags. When she finished, he leaned back in his chair as though exhausted, sipped his juice, fanned himself. Hot stuff, huh? Ishi’s not from here, his tribe isn’t even from here, his tribe should not have been the victims of overzealous retaliation, but none of it has anything to do with Six Flags. As he talked, Caitlin said nothing, which surprised Damon. Leading them to the door, Vandenburg smiled, That’s why it’s called Six Flags Discovery Kingdom, you learn something new every day.
The guard who drove them back to their car was the same one who’d checked Caitlin’s bag at the ticket gate, the same one who was so bewitched by her rugby jersey, a fact Damon was not derring-do enough to point out. Had they not all that afternoon been blinded by reverie of one type or another? The guard looked neither right nor left, turning wide and slow, acknowledging Caitlin’s whispered directions with a clipped nod, as if wearing a neck brace. Even Lee was quiet. Kain’s right leg bounced like it did as he laced for runs. The guard dropped them off at Caitlin’s old Corolla, then circled the aisle and returned, the whine of the golf cart catching their attention. Hey, he called, I was at the gate when you came in wearing the padded bra. There are some things you shouldn’t lie about. My mom had breast cancer and she had to use prosthetics for real (Johnson 2015, p. 279).
Initial findings
Maybe those Marxists were right about class divides, but what most frightened Damon that morning was the guard. It was as if the guard himself had cancer. Cancer isn’t contagious, but it is mighty bad luck, and that is highly contagious.
SIX FLAGS PART TWO: ESCAPE
In the car, Caitlin apologized. Who would have thought that fake breasts could offend people, that her excess would cast a shadow reminding others of a painful deprivation? To Damon, she gifted two fingers to
his elbow and her thanks that he took a knee to acknowledge the significance of the occasion.
There was standing room only, offered Kain, who had called shotgun. The kids will think about what they heard. They’ll be more reverent.
That’s nice, Kain. Thanks.
Does anyone else appreciate that they gave us a standing ovation? Lee’s enthusiasm was not contagious, though Damon did snort with relief when Lee whispered, What the fuck was up with Tweety Bird? Was that a plushie blowjob dream or what?
I need the lady’s room.
Woo hoo! Finally! Lee held his hands over his head when they were jolted violently forward and to the right as Caitlin jerked into a spot in the overnight lot, skittering across the gravel and coming to a stop between two RVs. Engine running, she slammed the door and walked off, her arms swinging wide as she disappeared behind the campers.
I have to piss, too. Lee walked off.
Not the best idea, huh? Kain turned to face Damon, squeaking in the seat. I’m glad it’s your party and not mine.
Not the worst either. Damon had kind of enjoyed the attention.
When Lee returned, he sat with the door open until the incessant dinging of the warning light prompted Kain to lean over the console and remove the keys from the ignition, at which point he saw Caitlin’s phone on the dash, and asked, Who’s going to go look for her (Johnson 2015, p. 280)?
Initial findings
Damon took a knee for personal reasons, but what good could come of telling a hungry person you cracked their last egg while they worked? That was like igniting the burner under an empty pot.
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