T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

Again, Candice hissed away the twins, but these two Willy Wonka rejects were professionals and used their similarity to great advantage. One would dance, try walking on his hands, mime — anything to distract, while the other wreaked havoc, stealing other kids’ toys, poking children, both of them acting all around like midget assholes. Louis tried motioning to the nanny, and Candice shushed him. But I didn’t say anything. Shushed again. One twin danced wild in a scuba mask while the other snuck behind them again and grabbed the paper tomahawk, upsetting Ishi.

Was Daron the only one to notice that Tweety Bird’s eyelashes were too, too long, fine strokes tapering gently up and across the forehead, framing blue eyes almost as big as Candice’s? And again, that particular confusion; he couldn’t bear to look down, the hot bristling now a full-on shadow box, noun and verb, so he dropped to one knee right as the wind scooped Ishi up and along the sidewalk and to the wider world.

Ishi, Candice yelled, Ishi, we commend you to the wind.

Tweety, hand to her temple as if compressing a wound, caterwauled as if she tawt she taw a putty cat, stirring the crowd out of their enchantment. The audience politely danced the ashes off their feet and applauded. Tweety, hand still to mouth, scurried off as best she could, knees cycling as if pushing pedals, those canary clodhoppers working the ground like snowshoes.

At the San Francisco airport Charlie discreetly pulled Daron aside and asked if there was anything he needed to know, if he should expect more crazy-Colonel-Sanders types of people in Braggsville. After the Ishi Incident, the 4 Little Indians had been invited to eat with a charming Southern couple who, as promised, made the best fried chicken west of the Mississippi. The couple, by Daron’s mind, had exemplified Southern hospitality by sharing with the hungry Indians what food they had, by making space at their dining table for strangers. Was Charlie offended because that table had been plastic and they’d sat on metal folding chairs? Daron hoped Charlie wouldn’t be so particular when meeting his relations. My mother, warned Daron, despises people who wear shoes without socks, and anyone who eats non-finger-foods with their fingers, like picking up the last pea. They had a good laugh over that, at least Charlie did.

While Charlie, Candice, and Louis were fastening seat belts and returning chair trays to the upright and locked position, it dawned on Daron that though he’d asked his mom to move The Charlies, he’d neglected to mention the mammies from New Orleans, Salt and Pepper Climb on Cucumber, as well as the Bibinba, Zwarte Pieten, and Hajji Firuz dolls his cousins had picked up while stationed abroad, not to mention the Blackface Soap and Watermelon Whistler tins. And that strange guy with the big grin dressed in only a loincloth and turban. That they were antiques, that they were valuable, that they were gifts wasn’t going to make Candice feel any better about them.

It’s not that the Davenports had never had black people around their house before, or even a Chinese guy once, but never a Malaysian who looked Chinese to some and Indian to others, fancied himself black at times, and wanted to be the next Lenny Bruce Lee; a preppy black football player who sounded like the president and read Plato in Latin; and a white woman who occasionally claimed to be Native American. They were like an overconstructed novel, each representative of some cul-de-sac of idiolect and stereotype, missing only a handicapped person — No! At Berkeley we say handi- capable person — and a Jew and a Hispanic, and an Asian not of the subcontinent, Louis always said. He had once placed a personals ad on Craigslist to recruit for those positions: Diverse social club seeking to make quota requires the services of East Asian, Jew, Hispanic, and handicapable individuals to round out the Multicultural Brady Bunch Troupe. All applicants must be visibly identifiable as members of said group. Reform Jews and ADHDers need not apply. Daron felt now as he had when people had started responding to that ad, that he couldn’t help but expect a spectacular disaster.

HARTSFIELD-JACKSON ATLANTA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT was among the most active transportation hubs in the world, in some years ranked the busiest. Daron never claimed Atlanta as his own, nor did anyone at home, but when they landed, he acted as tour guide, sharing all he had read online, and there was much to tell, see, and do on the long journey from Terminal E to baggage claim. Modern art graced the terminals and African sculptures lined the underground walkway. Any kind of food could be found, or movies rented, or prayers proffered, but that’s not what captivated them, not what had Candice shy, Charlie bright-eyed, Louis agape, and Daron feigning indifference, affecting an at-home swagger.

Theyselves were porters, skycaps, desk agents. TSA and armed officers. Businessmen, mothers, families. Teens traveling alone. Clerks and janitors, not to mention the pianist entertaining diners in the international terminal food court. Waitresses, waiters. Flight attendants. Was that Waka and Gucci? A pilot even! Tall short fat. Pretty ugly glamorous. Theyselves were flamboyant and poised. Rambunctious and composed. Svelte and slovenly. But mostly middle class and well-to-do, from the looks of them. Atlanta’s nickname was well earned; a Chocolate City indeed it was.

Beyond baggage claim, the 4 Little Indians were equally mesmerized. Daron was reminded again how different Atlanta was from most of Georgia, and from Berkeley or San Francisco even. It was impossible not to notice when theyselves comprised more than 50 percent of the population (especially when they were only 3 percent of Berkeley). Circling the concourse in vehicles ranging from beaters to Beemers, but mostly the latter, their significant middle class was outdone only by their extensive upper-middle class. Charlie, Candice, and Louis stared in awe as an elegant middle-aged woman clicked past them, the fox staring back as she flung her stole over her shoulder while wheeling a Tumi to a red convertible Aston Martin, the engine idling like Lord of Misrule nuzzling the gate before that famous derby. The driver, of average height and build, greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, leaning back between each one as if to get a look at her. It was impossible not to feel pleasure at their reunion.

Candice nudged Daron, Famous?

Who they were, Daron didn’t know; the driver was obviously no athlete and too old to be a rapper. This was normal for Atlanta. He’d even heard that southwest of the city was a vast tract of million-dollar-plus homes all owned by blacks, a fact he proudly shared. Welcome to the new South.

It’s like being Asian in SF, or it must be, Charlie mused aloud.

Daron was glad it was Charlie who’d said it.

Except it looks like they have more money here.

Daron’s mother nosed her boxy white Ford Bronco into the space behind the Aston Martin. She clapped with glee and skipped to greet her D’aron, smothering him in kisses. Don’t be embarrassed, they have parents, too. She affectionately greeted each of his friends with a kiss on the cheek.

Actually, Charlie doesn’t. Daron regretted how that sounded when Candice glared at him.

Is that so? She tilted her head and turned on her heels to face Charlie.

It’s my dad, ma’am.

So sad. She kissed him again, squeezing his arms. You’re a big boy.

Yes, ma’am.

See! She elbowed Daron. He didn’t wipe his off. Charlie is a young man with good home training. She turned to Charlie, You play football? Cutting her eyes at Daron, she added, Forgive me if I’m essentializing .

Whatever! Daron began loading the luggage into the car, starting with Candice’s Hello Kitty bag, which momentarily reminded him of Kaya, and he wondered what Kaya would make of this Atlanta place, as she liked to phrase things. More importantly, though, what would Candice make of Braggsville? Straining to heft an oversize duffel with Fu Manchu mustache patches sewn onto either end, he was surprised again that the distinction of having the largest bag went not to Candice, but to Louis, whose only explanation was, Stuff.