T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

When they were finished, it looked like a real barbecue, the tables piled high with ribs drenched in gooey sauce, steaming piles of fried chicken, and several huge bowls of potato salad that were so cool to the touch that Achilles had gladly carried them all. There were a few dishes he didn’t recognize, but couldn’t wait to taste. There were also several large bowls of fruit that went largely uneaten throughout the afternoon). A desk next to the van held flyers with exercise and diet tips, and cookies for all the brave kids.

After the food was arranged and the technicians had set up the medivan — red as a fire truck and outfitted with an awning — Mabel rang a cowbell. Flyers had been posted for weeks but no one wanted a checkup. A few kids grabbed some chicken and darted back into the shade, but the adults stayed hidden from view. All the people who were milling about on their porches and stoops not long ago had vanished, and now, save for the medivan generator, it was as silent as if a tank battalion had rolled into the center of town. When volunteers knocked on residents’ doors, music stopped and chair legs skidded to a halt.

Then Ines arrived, wearing a brightly colored African dress and matching head garb. She greeted Achilles with a quick smile, distracted by the fact that there were more volunteers than patients. Using the van’s PA system, she reminded everyone that they had been eating fried fish and oyster po-boys every Friday, that they needed their cholesterol checked, that they needed to stop being selfish, that their health was not their own, but belonged to their children and grandchildren. “Show thanks for your life by respecting it! Come on y’all, this isn’t Tuskegee!”

A few people chuckled, and Achilles laughed along with them. He didn’t get the joke, but after spending the time with Mabel and Dudley, after seeing Ines wearing such an outrageous outfit, he felt almost happy.

At the sound of Ines’s voice, curtains parted and venetian blinds ruffled. First singly, then in twos, people poured out, flocking to her like sparrows to St. Francis. They followed her dreads, the kente cloth, the brilliant yellow head wrap shining like a torch. They saw her clear, bottomless eyes and knew they could talk to her. And those who didn’t come right out, she coaxed out, and for those difficult to coax, she enlisted the neighbors. And the deputized neighbors did their duty, rounding up their reluctant friends. First among the volunteers was Bud. Achilles restrained himself as Bud hopped from door to door, joking and laughing, the African medallion dancing with each step. He watched Bud help a man in a wheelchair down the stairs and refill water cups for a group of old women, each of whom he addressed by name. And, he watched Bud greet Ines like an old friend, and her smile in turn, and when that moment came when they stood in a triangle at the cookie and flyer table, and Ines introduced them, Bud grinned a grin of someone beyond firing range, his smug tongue sitting there like a target.

“This is Bud, a Common Collective regular. The other volunteers gave him a rough go at first, but he’s doing fine now.”

“That’s me. I like to help,” said Bud. “And, I don’t hold no grudges. That’s one thing I like about myself.”

Ines gently prodded them back into the street to escort more people to the vans. Bud limped off with a swagger, giving Achilles the thumbs-up. He imagined wrapping his fingers around Bud’s neck, and imagined Margaret hearing the story later and telling Ines, Girlll, let me tell you some-thin’ ’bout dose here black men. Ines drifted to the other end of the park, shaking hands, kissing babies, and hugging old ladies. She was always on duty. She’d said he was like a bulldog, her constant companion; however, she was the one who was indefatigable. He would have let evolution take its course. He said, Feed the homeless to the hungry. She said, You and your soldier’s humor. He said, Legalize drugs and let the weak weed themselves out. She said, The people aren’t weak, they are hurt. They have endoracism.

Endoracism?

Even after she explained it, he was doubtful. How could someone be racist against himself. Besides, wasn’t “endo” another name for pot? That was more likely the problem. He tried to imagine scenarios in which he didn’t hire himself, or paid himself less. Less than whom? His other self? In the end he pooh-poohed the idea and let slip, “So if I hang myself, does endoracism make it a lynching?” She did not laugh. Ines was a woman who would look a prostitute in the eye and say, “Come to the shelter, sister. Take your body back, and your life will follow.” She would look a junkie in the eye and ask, “Brother, why are you killing yourself?” They rarely had an answer, but they rarely turned away. Neither could Achilles.

At the end of the day, as the salad was packed up, Achilles kept his eye on Bud. He waved as the van drove off, then went to the house he had seen Bud leave earlier. The door was answered by a girl no more than seven, wearing pigtails with big blue Babar barrettes. Her ears were pierced with red studs and she wore a red polka dot sundress with Little Red Riding Hood embroidered on the chest. Bud appeared behind her, a Babar book in hand, his smile fading once he saw Achilles.

“Hey Dauphine, sugar, this is just grown-folk talk here, you hear. Go on, baby. Go back and watch TV. I’ll finish reading to you later.”

Bud claimed to have shown the flier to someone who said Troy might be at the camelback. He didn’t remember who told him, but he swore it was the truth. “I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I swear. I’m clean now.” Bud raised his hand. “Hand to God. I’m clean, and I didn’t even know those boys. I just heard people stay there.”

Achilles pushed Bud against the house. Dauphine drew the curtains back.

“It’s okay, baby. Unky B tripped,” said Bud. “You know he gets the itis.”

Achilles made Bud lead him back to the green camelback. Bud was silent this time, no singing, no banter, and, surprisingly, no begging. When he pulled up in front of the burned-out shell, Bud shook his head and whistled.

“Goddamn man. You did that? You in the army? You a cop?” He looked worried now, hesitating when Achilles ordered him out of the car. Achilles ripped the mailbox off the wall and read the names aloud to Bud: Joe, Angela, and Raymond Harper, and in smaller letters, Angie, April, and Amy. Bud didn’t recognize the names, and flinched when Achilles slammed the lid. Bud was right to worry. He was lucky he wasn’t a muzzle muffler. Two months ago, he’d have been whining about the gun at his cheek while Merriweather asked, What’s wrong? You want some lipstick on it? Two months ago, he’d already have a burlap sack over his head and quick-cuffs cutting into his wrists, turning his hands numb, and his karakul, that fuzzy hat that looked like a beaver’s ass, would be under someone’s boot.

If he was spunky — like the butcher in Lai’pur — he might have his kurta stretched over his head and his salwar down around his ankles. If he wore a pakul, the round hat — like the carpenter in Khost — it might be lit on fire and tossed like an angry Frisbee. If he were the suspected insurgent in Nangarhar, his wife’s burqa might be ripped open or her hajib removed, her flawless coppery skin reflected in twelve dilated pupils. His kids might be dramatically, theatrically removed from the room, but not taken so far away that he couldn’t hear them cry. If he were the Jalalabad schoolteacher reported to have Al-Qaeda ties, his dog might be shot and his Koran might be pissed on, after a few pages were ripped out, balled up, and hackey-sacked. He might be stripped. If he survived that, his goats might be slaughtered and dragged through the mud, by the other villagers. He might be beheaded before the mosque. He might be hung in the town square.