Welcome to Braggsville
Page 26
SIX FLAGS PART THREE: TO BE, OR TO BBQ (THAT IS THE QUEST, SON)
There were acres of RV. In every direction stretched rows of white-and-tan campers lined up like a model town, the shared spaces between them too neat and orderly for it to be a trailer park. At each corner Damon stopped and looked all four ways, waving when necessary, which was often. RVers were irritatingly friendly. He both wanted to find her and not. In D’amonville (There is no ideal world or perfect world, so let’s be honest and call it your fantasy, or D’amonville, his parents decided the year D’amon read the Economist for class and introduced his every suggestion with, In an ideal world . . .), so, in D’amonville, he would not find her, at least not in despair, he decided. He would meet her just before she returned to the car, missing the crying episode but having enough time to fall into a meaningful conversation they could continue as they walked back and pick up later when alone again. He might hug her, would let her compose herself, could allow her grief to be a private thing, a secret between them.
When at last he heard her in conversation, though, Caitlin sounded happy, or at least her normal self. He followed the sound of her voice and saw her some yards away, thanking an elderly couple for letting her use the toilet. They stooped over her like concerned grandparents. Maybe that was why grandparents always appeared concerned, because they stooped over you like you were the center of the world and they had to hear everything you said, like you were the only source of heat in the cave. Had Nana stooped over him like that? Had Nana stooped at all? Caitlin waved at Damon over their shoulders, a quick motion, like rubbing the head of a child she didn’t like. When he waited, she waved again, calling him over with her hands, where he met Colonel and Mrs. Richard Sanders, whom she had interrupted making, Ironically, they knew, fried chicken, and who not only had been nice enough to let her use the bathroom, but were insisting that all four of them stay for dinner.
Damon refrained from correcting that misuse of irony. The Sanderses’ twang struck chords of home. Besides, You never correct your elders.
We have plenty, oh plenty of food. Mrs. Sanders smiled broadly (as if to prove that she still had her teeth, Caitlin later said). But this is not charity, we need a favor from you in return, we were hoping you good young people could help us with our Internet.
While Damon texted Lee and Kain, the Colonel added, In exchange for your . . . technical support, y’all’ll dine on the best blessed fried chicken this side of the Mississippi. He was a slim, elegant Southern gentleman who stood tall, always scanning the horizon, who wore his T-shirt tucked into his dungarees, both pressed like dress blues. He was, as he described it, The best kind of bald—completely so. No comb-overs, no sprays, no hair clubs whose presidents are also members, just a good old-fashioned smooth pate. Too much testosterone, he explained, with a wink at the wife. It might happen to you, if you’re lucky, son.
The Sanderses’ Airstream was brand new, appointed with, More damned bells and whistles than General Schwarzkopf, the Colonel proudly claimed while giving them a tour.
Were they a little surprised by Kain when he and Lee joined them? Damon couldn’t be sure. Mrs. Sanders called Kain a big boy and squeezed his biceps before letting her tiny paws drift down to his wrist, bringing to mind a Little Leaguer straining to heft a regulation slugger. The Colonel asked Kain what sports he played, and he took it all in stride.
And why not? Indeed, it was real Southern cooking, their brag no boast. Tasted so fine made you want to chew your tongue. The best cluck-cluck Damon had tucked away since home. Under the retractable awning, Junior Brown playing in the background, they ate food so finger-lickin’ good Lee didn’t even make a single joke about Kentucky Fried Chicken, or about how he and Kain sat on the RV’s iron stairs because there weren’t enough chairs. Mrs. Sanders had also prepared mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, mac-n-cheese, and grilled corn. She said that her Colonel demanded colorful meals, that her Colonel swore that was the best way to get all the good nutrients.
The Colonel winked at Kain. Not bad. Not bad, right? She’s got a little soul, right? Gesturing with his hands, he added, Well, a big one, but you know what I mean.
Mrs. Sanders giggled.
The Colonel winked at Kain once more.
Kain agreed, and the Colonel laughed—a laugh like a rusty pump—seeming not to notice that Kain had cut his chicken, but not actually eaten any. Maybe, thought Damon, Kain was not taking it all in stride. He never ate red meat, but when asked about chicken said, That’s the craziest shit you’ve ever asked me. I’m only vegetarian when I don’t like the food or the company. Damon looked at Kain’s plate again and hoped that night would see no hot weevil about the misappropriation of soul food. Thomas Jefferson invented mac-n-cheese, and the Scots invented fried chicken.
Mrs. Sanders wiggled in her chair like she was settling in for a long spell. She did it again before Damon understood that she was dancing to demonstrate her soul. (Lee later said, I thought she was going to throw her back out. Kain later said, Maybe she was expressing joy, like when you wriggle and say, hmm-mm.)
The Colonel hummed a few bars of the song then playing. Lee joined in, having learned the hook: You’re wanted by the police and my wife thinks you’re dead. Damon rocked rhythmically in his chair.
Caitlin, who sat across from Damon at the folding table, ate in silence with prim bites. She wore two burns from the grill, buff pink welts a cryptic brand, a cracked nail on her ring finger, a scar on the back of her hand that she sucked at between cool sips of sweet tea, a stubbed toe, and that bee sting on her elbow. He wanted badly to kiss each one. He had inventoried her injuries earlier in the day, when her temporary augmentation prevented him from regarding her directly. Without the ashes stashed, she was approachable and cute in ways he hadn’t before considered. With the fake breasts she had stood straighter, almost in challenge. Without them, she again slumped a little, cupping her shoulders as if to protect her real ones. As Quint always said, Can’t hold more than a handful or suck more than a mouthful. She appeared uncertain, as she had the night of the dot party. At the time he thought she was a blubberer. Damon liked this contemplative, almost shy Caitlin.
Damon!, rushed the Colonel. Your girlfriend’s pouring her own water.
Caitlin’s happy hands went still.
In a faux sérieux tone, he added, You know us Southern gentlemen cannot allow such things.
Caitlin licked her fork and placed it beside her plate with the care one shows when setting the table for a first date and gave Damon an angry smile. He wanted to correct the Colonel, and probably would have if Caitlin hadn’t smiled at him like that. It made him feel that they shared a secret, and he was powerless to voluntarily dispel the illusion.
We’re not dating. We’re just friends, Caitlin said.
Oh. The Colonel pointed at Kain, and then Lee, each time asking the same question by jabbing the air with his dirty fork. When Caitlin shook her head both times, he pointed to the three guys. Is you fellas . . . by any chance . . . not that I care.
No, they all said.
One of us, okay. The Colonel dug back into his plate, looking, even to Damon, a tiny bit relieved. To Damon, he explained, You could have won big if you bet us. We woulda wagered it, y’all seeming so compatible and all.
Where are you from again, Colonel? Caitlin asked.
L.A. Lower Alabama. Dothan to be particular.
Not far from Georgia?
Oh, no, young miss. Close. Very close. My nana was born there, in fact. She used to say, Drink enough beer and you could water their peaches, but for the fact that we were in a dry county.
Lee and Kain grunted politely.
Somehow Caitlin and Damon had become the spokespersons, even though Colonel Sanders knew a lot of Chinese in the army and none of them had accents either, and he served awhile under a negro, Called them colored back then. Wouldn’t no one mess with Spike. Spike Green. Cross him and get nailed. He let me get away with about all, had a soft spot for me—jus
t between us. The Colonel again sounded his rusty pump.
When the Sanderses asked what coasters they rode that day, Caitlin muttered, All of them. Lee told them all, Plus a special back lot tour.
The Colonel turned back to Caitlin, A back lot tour? Where do you sign up for that?
It’s invitation only, Lee squeezed out between mouthfuls, now eating as if afraid he’d be at any moment banished from the stoop.
Secrets, huh? The Colonel stirred his Arnold Palmer as he walked to his wife’s side of the table. Got to have something to hold on to. Sometimes secrets is all you have. He grabbed his wife’s butt, and a few other things (Johnson 2015, p. 285).
Initial findings
Irony is a bastard. A special kind: mother unknown.
Final findings
Informant Caitlin uses persuasive rhetoric selectively—with minorities more than with mainstream contacts. She used it in Spanish with the Latino guards at the cemetery and the campus cop, but never with director Vandenberg or attendant Pearl (Medusa’s gatekeeper), who are native English speakers.
Informants Lee and Kain may not have wanted to seat themselves on the periphery, but by willingly doing so, they were complicit in their own segregation. Informants Lee and Kain exhibited “selective perception” (Griffin 2009, p. 259). In other words, informants Lee’s and Kain’s preexisting prejudices about Southerners prevented them from seeing the Sanderses as generous. Instead, informants Lee and Kain assumed the Sanderses were being charitable out of pity. Informants Lee and Kain also later expressed displeasure about the Sanderses’ questions about their athleticism and sexual orientation, even though no one ever asks short, dumpy, fat men if they play football, or horrible-looking people if they are gay.
The Sanderses might’ve exhibited selective perception when they asked if informants Damon and Caitlin were romantically involved, but their conclusions were based on easily observable facts. Informants Damon and Caitlin arrived at the Sanderses’ RV before informants Lee and Kain. And, while informants Lee and Kain sat on the periphery, informants Damon and Caitlin sat at the table. When the Sanderses asked if they were dating, informant Caitlin smiled at informant Damon, which could have been easily interpreted as confirmation.
At the time, informant Damon thought the smile was a connection, perhaps proof of the likelihood and desirability of a relationship between the two informants. Upon further investigation, this researcher concludes that Caitlin’s smile wasn’t a confirmation of affection. It was an indictment of the Sanderses, and a question: Who is us? Upon further research, this researcher has determined that US varies.
Informant Damon complained extensively about the greeting habits of the RVers. Upon further investigation, this researcher determined that informant Damon felt welcomed and that the series of waves he received and returned reassured him of his place and made him feel at home, which he did without considering that his friends might not feel the same. He hadn’t thought about how this was their first contact with the South, and how that made him an unwitting ambassador.
Informant Damon’s nana was correct. There are two worlds, though they are not as simply defined as above and below. This is not the Fritz Lang film Metropolis in which the world is divided into only two groups: (1) rich capitalist industrialists, and (2) the laboring class who live and work underground. Metropolis could be interpreted as a metaphor for how different people experience the world. The informants were all at the same literal barbecue, but their imaginary BBQs were all personal and idiosyncratic, and had little more in common than the streets projecting from a traffic circle.
A significant finding pertains to Certeau’s distinction between strategies and tactics. According to him, organized power structures use strategies, and the subjugated or disempowered use tactics. In other words, “governments make maps and pedestrians make shortcuts” (Davenport 2015). This debate is rendered moot at the communal well of fire affectionately referred to as “the grill.” They might use coal or lava rocks, pecan chips or gas and hickory, lighter fluid or matches or electronic ignition, they might cook chicken and salmon, ribs and burgers, tempeh and portabellas, they might serve beer, pop, whiskey, or rye, they might listen to Drake, Buffett, Sade, Bey, or Bee, regardless, everyone says in some manner, and always with a smile, Light the grill. If they do not say Light, they say Spark!, or the technically minded say Ignite!, or the nature enthusiasts say Kindle! In all times and places, the command to start the grill is a request for illumination (that will be shared?).
The final observation pertains [sic] the Indian informants’ tactical strategies, which are always indirect. Even Damon had only reacted, not acted. They never directly addressed the problem. Even on the ride home, their critique was indirect. All they said in the car was:
Damon, your boyfriend is hitting me; Damon, your boyfriend farted; Damon, your boyfriend’s feet stink. Damon, your girlfriend is hitting me; Damon, your girlfriend is driving her own car; Damon, your girlfriend is having her own thoughts.4
Chapter Thirty-1
During the ride home from Six Flags, while Louis and Charlie called Candice his girlfriend, Daron side-eyed her, on the lookout for a pull at the brow, a snort, a pop of the gum she so vigorously chomped. He saw no signs that she warmed to the idea, but saw none neither that she chilled at the thought. And when she gave him that peck on the cheek the morning she left Braggsville, her lips but a kiss away, so close he couldn’t see them, could only imagine them, hope raised high a flag. Yet, now, several weeks after the Incident, when they were once more able to talk—so to speak—on a regular basis, Candice and Daron’s secret phone calls only made him doubt that they’d ever be more than friends. The Chelseas and the Davenports were as similar as chimpanzees and humans; as NASCAR and NASA; as MIA (soldier) and M.I.A. (singer). (Can’t duck truth! The Devil is not in the details; the details are the Devil’s cock ring. Are not those details, those distinguishing features, those damned rigid particulars, precisely the attributes that enable the eternal dick slapping? Sincerely, Louis.) Yes, Daron winced listening to the Chelseas’ professorial tones and terse barks of laughter, the mother’s condescension always unholstered, winced as he had in that conversation with Mr. Buchanan when he was told more than asked about his own parents’ education. Mr. Buchanan. The Chelseas. Candice’s phone calls. Those conversations, can they be considered conversations when one person does all the talking?
Understand, please, that she calls him . . . she calls him not . . . she calls him. This is what he has learned: (1) Fridays at 8:45 P.M. the Chelseas dinner at O’Malley’s (The Irish and Arabic love their apostrophes. Sincerely, Louis); (2) Her father orders tuna-tenderloin-rare-as-the-day-it-was-born-no-sides; (3) her mother orders my-usual-Raúl-the-spinach-salad-hold-the-bacon-as-far-away-as-possible-because-to-even-lust-in-one’s-heart-after-such-delectable-fat-is-to-dangerously-excite-adipose-tissue; (4) Candy-Pandy orders yes-another-black-bean-burger-double-swiss-add-thousand-island-yes-I-know-this-is-the-best-steakhouse-in-central-Iowa; (5) Candice is Candy-Pandy, Candy Bear, Can-Can, and, when the parental units are inflamed, Marianne; (6) Her mother responds to most of her father’s statements with, That notwithstanding, dear, have you considered . . . ; (7) When the parental units ask what Candy-Pandy is listening to on her—all giggles—meepthree player, a trendy performer of her own generation earns an earbud exchange, but any band more than twenty years old does not, so on the fifteen-minute drive to the best steakhouse in central Iowa she often claims Nirvana or R.E.M. in ear, usually the former because Cobain polishes her mother’s voice brighter than Uncle Roy’s nose and triggers her father’s warm sense of generational proprietorship: Don’t you millennial hucksters have your own rebels? All of this Daron learns not because she calls him. She calls him not. They remain officially incommunicado. Her derrière, though, has different ideas, and dials him up one evening, establishing a tradition, and for three weeks continues to ring Daron from the backseat of the Chelseas’ hybrid SUV every Friday at 8:25 P.M.
But what to tell her? What is a tell? An unconscious self-betrayal? An acknowledgment of one’s pole position? The rollover that offers the vulnerable underbelly? (By Louis’s count.) An archeological site built up over centuries of cyclical human occupation and abandonment? (Daron’s favorite.) Is it to reveal? Confess? Surrender? Does the tell require a listener? He is not sure. And so while imagining Candy-Pandy seated behind her mother, earbuds at ready, soft gaze ignoring the light spraying across the window, wearing a white tracksuit and flip-flops with pink roses buttoned atop the thongs, he tells her . . . he tells her . . . not.
He tells her . . . about his life now . . . about how it recalls the tedium of summers after he stopped hunting and before he learned to drive, except there is no job to which he need be ferried. He tells her there are only two hunts he still enjoys: the raspy Braille of old book covers and the whisper of vinyl drawn from sleeves. But no more. The record stores, video stores, bookstores, those temples of wisdom whose employees he’d so envied were extinct, themselves now tells. Those clerks who could name the third track on Nevermind or tell you that Breed was originally titled Imodium—without quite sneering—are gone the way of the dodo bird or sliced bread in Berzerkeley.