T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

The staff? What staff?

Lee Anne and Rheanne.

Those are his grandkids. I went to school with Lee Anne for a spell. I dated Rheanne. They’re crazy. Jealous. And they’re not exactly staff.

You must think California made you slicker than snot. You’re already in a bad odor with hell-all everybody else, so you best stop exercising me, D’aron Little May Davenport. Sheriff spun an old penny, the orb of flashing edges hummed across the blotter, lurching erratically off the desk before teetering to a stop on the industrial tile floor, camouflaged by grime. It wasn’t a penny, but a dirty dime marked by verdigris. Sheriff raised his eyebrows at D’aron. Lee Anne said, They took pictures and acted suspicious. I repeat, They took pictures and acted suspicious. These’s her words, Sheriff pointed. They looked mighty suspicious, like they were up to something, but I couldn’t figure out what because I knew they wouldn’t be shoplifting, not in front of Miss Janice, but they were scheming all right. He shuffled the papers. I also got reports from some of the festival participants.

Festival participants?

The local citizens who voluntarily participate in our annual celebration of our American heritage.

Lee Anne and Rheanne were informants? The reenactors were festival participants? The reenactment was our American heritage? Or was it: Our America? Daron stifled a laugh.

Sheriff planted his elbows on the desk, scowling, making the drill-sergeant face he used to intimidate them throughout their childhood. He was a big slice of cop, one of those people no one could imagine as anything else. Had never been anything else. You’re in this up to the elbows, and you disgraced us, so I figure you best pay better attention. I’m trying to help you here, D. For your family’s sake.

At that Daron straightened up.

I’ma need you to go around the way and meet with Otis, the mayor of Gully, and make a statement.

What?

This Nubian fella already met with Otis, and he’s Twittering and Facebooking and Yahooing and YouTubeing and Googling and what all and what have you.

In the past few days, one protester had emerged from the crowd as the de facto leader, Francis Mohammed, a self-proclaimed high priest of the so-called Nubian Fellowship, which the followers called a spiritual liberation army and everyone else called a three-legged jackass black separatist cult. Mohammed issued a nightly statement on the status of the Braggsville Four. Yesterday, he said that this proved how dangerous it was to be a black male, a strong black male. Even impersonating one could get you killed. Mohammed didn’t wear a kufi or dashiki, but he nevertheless struck Daron as violent and unpredictable, like the crazy guy in Invisible Man, the one that Ellison obviously despised.

You know this joker I’m talking about, Francis Mohammed?

Yessir.

Right now he’s getting more press than anyone else in town. He can’t be our spokesman. Listen up good now. I heard from the participants who saw the whole event and none of them recall seeing anyone get beaten. When these participants got there, your friend was already dead and the young lady was screaming. They cut him down and laid him out on a makeshift gurney, which they then placed on one of their personal vehicles, disregarding their paint job, mind you, and rushed into town where they met the ambulance. Are you with me? This is their report. He snapped the paper. Nod if you understand.

Daron nodded.

I also heard from people at the Git-n-Go gas station. Them and the crew at Lou’s and everyone says the same thing. Y’all was acting funny.

Wait a minute, Sheriff, my friends were looking at bumper stickers.

Keep it buckled. Sheriff lifted one finger. If you would be patient, I will be coming to that momentarily. As I was fixing to tell you, I done talked to everyone everyplace you stopped between Hartsfield and here. That Agent Denver has heard from them, too. Problem is Denver. Big problem. I’ma be straight with you, Little D. Between the festival witnesses, the Waffle House, Lou’s staff, and all the rest… I’ll just be honest here… With all those photos on Facebook and all of these bumper stickers and slogans your friends all tweeted and posted and whatnot, well, D’aron, I hate to say it, but I gotta be straight with you, D, I think this FBI fellow might have a case against you.

You found the guy with the tattoo?

You’re not listening, D’aron. Ain’t no tattoo. No one remembers no tattoo, and even Miss Candice says she wasn’t sure. You got a bigger problem here. It appears to the United States federal government, and it would to me, if I didn’t know you so well, but I remember when you wasn’t but yea high — he held his hand out at desk level for emphasis — but it appears to the United States federal government that you orchestrated a hate crime. We’re fixing to have paper airplanes flying in every direction in a New York minute, all the legal eagles, and the culture vultures, too. Everyone suing everyone. And judging by your black friend, y’all had a special relationship. Each of you liking the other. Some might say could be motives there. His voice dropped to a whisper. I know California’s different. I’m not judging you. I’m just letting you know it’s gonna get real ugly for everybody the longer it drags out, and this office, in an effort to keep the peace, and adhere to our duties, is obligated to recommend to the Feds that they escalate this hate crime investigation. That’s an obligation, not a wish. If you make an appearance with Otis, and explain what you were doing, and that you didn’t mean it, maybe you can beat them to the pass. You could win the public over, and it would be a good thing, ’cause, frankly, right now, most everyone is hot with you.

Those bumper stickers were a joke.

Hunting is the best anger management? Don’t sound too funny to me. Sheriff handed him several pages of screen captures from Louis’s and Candice’s Facebook pages and a few Twitter feeds. Candice had tweeted several of the bumper sticker slogans, sans explanation.

They didn’t write those. Daron pointed at the Facebook screen shots. This isn’t serious. They don’t mean this. Those tweets are slogans from the bumper stickers at Lou’s. You can see right there in the photos. The tweets are from those bumper stickers in the photos.

Look closer. Look again at the Instant-gram one. If you’re caught up in a cult, Little D, I might could help you, but only if you’re honest.

A cult?

Look at that — he licked a pencil eraser and used it to thumb through his little yellow notebook — look at that old hashtag, that’s what you call it, right? Hashtag? Way at the bottom.

Daron hadn’t read the hashtags. Rather, he had read over them. There were three. #ZombieDick appeared once with a photo of a man in Hartsfield Airport getting his shoes shined. Of course the shiner was black and the shinee was white. When had Louis even taken that picture? #HomeOfTheKingKongZombieDickSlap appeared under a photo of the WELCOME TO BRAGGSVILLE sign. Daron checked the time stamp, and was relieved to see that the photo of the town’s sign was posted after their visit to Waffle House. He took that to mean that at least Louis had thought about it first, and had spent some time in the town, and had some reason for writing that, even if it was known only to him. #ZombieDickSlap had been Louis’s favorite. It graced photos of bumper stickers and The Charlies and a mammy doll (where had he seen that?) and tweets with only the text of the bumper stickers and rebel flags and rebel flag T-shirts and rebel flag hats and rebel flag bikinis and rebel flag bras and rebel flag pacifiers and Lou’s Cash-n-Carry sign, the color scheme of which Daron only now realized, with great embarrassment, was Confederate inspired: red letters, blue background, and around the perimeter a regiment of white stars.