T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

They packed into the Bronco.

WAFFLE HOUSE, A SOUTHERN ICON, the black lettering on a yellow background a beacon of gastronomical joy to the road-weary traveler, the Chapel of Carbohydrates where the high priest dispensed waffles to salve the soul, to satisfy every spiritual desire, even with chocolate chips. Then there were the hash browns, which could be ordered as a double portion, scattered, covered, smothered, and spiced. In Yankee-ese that meant with onion, cheese, chili, and jalapeños. Not quite home cooking, but a welcome treat because each location was locally owned and operated, and so felt like part of the family. The Braggsville kids traveled distances to circle BK or McD’s on Friday nights, but when munchies took over the wheel, it was here they came. In this Awful Waffle, as it was affectionately known, Daron had broken up, made up, and broken up again with Rheanne. In high school, Daron often stopped here for midnight meals on his way home from parties as far as fifty miles away. It was fifteen miles from home, twice the width of San Fran, a short jaunt to Daron.

That country mile shit is true, complained Louis as they sat in a Goodfellas seat, as he called corner booths. Up the road my peach ass.

Peach ass?

Like that? I’m adding it to my routine. If you’re Asian but act black, you’re a peach. It’s like the opposite of a Twinkie. The peach pit is reddish brown, though. So if you look Asian generally, but you’re Indian specifically, does that make you double Asian? Or maybe if you look Asian, but you’re Indian like, How, on the inside? That’s Asian-Indian, which we already have. All right, all right. Wait, wait, wait. He waggled his finger. Malcolm X was reddish-ish. So, peach means you’re Asian, but you’re angry inside. Switching to his best black voice, Louis asked, Can you spell peach ass? Up the road my peach ass.

Everything is bigger in the country, Daron explained.

Hmmph. Charlie eyed the waitress and cook, leaning back as if at the base of a monument.

It sure is, Louis agreed. Even the parking spaces.

Please, hushed Candice.

They’re fat. And I can say that. We’re in the South. We’re free to talk. Daron waved his fork like a magic wand. The muzzle was lifted. What had his mom told his uncle? Forget about unbuckling your pants, eat another bite and you won’t fit your coffin.

Charlie studied the menu, mouthing out the options as if he had only recently learned to read.

After taking their order, the waitress stood at the end of the prep line and called out to the cook in a code only part of which they understood.

That’s it? asked Candice.

Daron nodded. That’s it. He remembers it all just like that.

They watched as the cook laid out plates and bowls in a mnemonic arrangement. Charlie continued to read the menu until Candice snatched it from his hands. Well?

It’s one thing to talk about it. It’s another to do it, answered Charlie.

We agreed, Louis reminded him.

Yeah. Candice’s voice was both low and sharp. Remember. Make a difference. We’ll have better luck in the real world, where people actually listen, not an amusement park.

It’s different for me. Charlie held up his hands.

You think you’re the only one? asked Candice. Okay, back to me on the tree and Louis issuing orders and you two asking questions.

Charlie cut his eyes at Daron and Candice banged the table, scowling as she realized that both Charlie and Daron were backing out.

Louis placed his hand over Candice’s clenched fist, so tiny. I got this. Think about this a minute. Come on, Candy—

— Candy! thought Daron. When did that start?—

— Think about it a second. We’re asking a lot of him. Besides, if anyone sees Daron, they might think it’s a joke anyway. So this is better. I’m surprised Charlie ever agreed to this. For all we know, we could show up and they could shoot him for sport, just for the hell of it. They could have a past life flashback and try to hog-tie him and sell him; they could think he’s a runaway and try to collect a bounty. They might eat him. Or maybe they’ll only ask him to pump their gas or bag their groceries—

— Wait now, Loose, protested Daron. You’re out of hand and making it sound—

— Like something that you two don’t want to do, and for good reason. Right?

I live here.

Candice asked, So that makes it okay? Look around. We’re raising the diversity level by one thousand percent everywhere we show up. You don’t even know how to get to that black neighborhood, the Gutter.

I do. It’s just you don’t walk there. It’s like, like, like, you fly over the ocean because it’s quicker than swimming. And, it’s the Gully, the Gully, like — he thought a moment — Like a gully, which is not a gutter.

Louis adopted his Indian, the other Indian accent. Me on your side, Kemosabe, but that no pearl. Maybe you should ’splain self later.

I only mean that as the crow flies isn’t the quickest way. But I know how to get there. We could go there right now.

Nice try. Candice wriggled her fingers as if beckoning him to try again. This was your idea.

No, it wasn’t. I mentioned it in class, and—

Charlie cut him off. Cut it. He’s not backing out. His father asked him not to do it. He has to respect his family’s wishes.

— It wasn’t my idea, Daron insisted.

Candice was no longer listening to him. She’d turned to face Charlie as if he were the last man in the world. Charlie, Charlie, please don’t back out now. There was real pleading in her voice. Remember what you said? Remember. You wanted in. We wanted to put this BS to rest and you said we can’t dig a grave without a spade. You said that. You. I was like, whoa, right on, that’s my friend. We do need the right tools. Performance is a tool. Intervention is a tool.

Charlie hung his head at half-mast. The food came. Charlie, Daron, and Candice picked at theirs. Louis wolfed his down like a dog on death row.

Southerners. Candice snorted. Louis and I will go, and Daron and Charlie can do some interviews, okay? But you must do the interviews while we’re there. Go to that weird store or wherever and ask people on the street what the war was about. You can’t ask them after. If you do it afterwards, it’s too late. Will your daddy let you go downtown? she asked, her tone saccharine.

My family came over as farmers. Then they worked the mill. They never owned slaves. If my uncle Roy said anything about crackers, he meant the sound of the whip cracking over cattle. No slaves.

Okay, Herr Vandenburg. And Ishi never lived at Six Flags Vallejo with Tweety Bird, but the Miwoks did, and they were massacred for gold.

That didn’t work. He laughed at us. Vandenburg was the Six Flags park director in whose office they had spent, to Daron’s mind, far too much time after their demonstration, or, as Candice called it, their performative intervention.

So you can go downtown? Can you go to the Gully? Why not ask them what they think?

D, can you at least drive Charlie downtown? asked Louis. We have to complete some interviews while the event is going on, before news of the performative intervention spreads.

That sounded fair enough to Daron. He wanted to contribute more, but Louis was right. If anyone saw him, they would think it was a joke, and their efforts would be wasted. He only wished he had thought of that sooner.

Charlie hadn’t spoken for some time, and just sat there before his nearly full plate, his lips pulled into a sneer, tapping his incisor with his fingernail, which he often did during tests, and which Daron only now associated with nervousness.

I still can’t believe this. We flew all the way out here. We had a plan, insisted Candice, making her hurt face.