Welcome to Braggsville (33 page)

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).

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.

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)?

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.

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—just 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).