T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

Even in Braggsville, no one fucked with Quint. He always said it was because he looked out for Sheriff’s son when they were both away at vo-tech, in the penalty box, as Sheriff Jr. described it. But the wariness, the caution, was more than quid pro quo, or reciprocation. Everyone somehow knew Quint was as he’d described Louis, shook up. His first year at Berkeley, Daron finally felt like he was one up on Quint. But what if Quint had gone to Berkeley? He would have been a king.

After the bowling alley, they relaxed on Quint’s narrow porch under a fitted sheet awning. The nylon-webbing lawn furniture was black and gold, Yellow Jacket colors. The sun was set but it was still sticky humid and every few minutes they adjusted their necks and arms to find the cool spots on the chairs’ metal frames. Gnats swarmed under the porch light, so Maylene, his old lady, lit a homemade citronella torch constructed of a wick and a whiskey bottle, in the process complaining that it was amazing what all people paid for now. Soon there’ll be a surcharge for someone to chew your food. Like a bird.

Daron laughed.

Yeah, that’s right, she continued, like a bird. Maylene took a seat in the lawn chair farthest from the rest, avoiding Quint’s eye. Quint and Maylene had been together since high school. When they first met, Quint had referred to her as one sweet lick. Within a few months he started to spit whenever he said her name, like it started with a B. It was then that they’d moved in together. They’d broken up more times than Daron could count, usually after Quint broke the law, but they always ended up back together.

She sat with them for a few minutes, letting her nails dry. Q’s playing it cool ’cause you’re here, but he loves a pedicure and manicure. I give him one each year on his birthday, and whenever he walks away from a fight. And, as a treat for a few other special favors. When I rub his feet, his tongue hangs out like a hot dog’s. She winked.

Daron laughed again, this time more at Quint’s expression. Embarrassed, was it? But why? It must be nice to have a woman rub your feet. Why Quint would need it at his age, Daron didn’t know, but it should be nice. And Daron had never before noticed, but Quint’s fingernails did look buffed and shaped with professional polish.

C’mon, Lee-Lee, leave it alone now, or I’ma have to put something in your mouth. It was his usual joke, but there was an edge to his voice. Maylene had already apologized thirty-hundred-and-one times for missing Daron’s welcome home barbecue on account of work. The third time, Quint snapped, He ain’t deaf. And you don’t have to apologize for working.

If she was working second shift, thought Daron, at least that meant more money. When he was in high school, D’aron had crushed hard on Maylene, the sharp jaw and pockmarks offset by an ample chest the perfect height for hugging. She cursed a lot and was quick tempered, but always had a kind word for D’aron and so seemed like the kind of woman that could protect you, a hard woman who melted into embraces. Like Quint said, You want a pit in the pit, and a puppy in the bed. She had also worked out of town for a spell, acquiring an exotic air. Now, she seemed coarse and gauche, which made Daron feel even more tenderly toward her as his former affection became pity. He wondered if she could sense that, because every time he had seen her lately, she went out of her way to appear ladylike. This evening she wore a skirt, which she usually only bothered about for church, and her hair was bunched in a bun with a few tendrils pulled down on either side to frame her face.

Maylene asked Daron about a Berkeley science professor who had a new theory about dinosaurs as herd animals and a business professor who won a Nobel in Economics. He didn’t know either.

Quint sucked his teeth.

Maylene bit her bottom lip, thin, so thin, but tonight embellished with overdrawn lipstick.

Go on, then. Quint fanned the air as if after a bad odor. Tell D about your dinosaur theory.

She stumbled through an attempt at explaining how dinosaurs were more like humans than we thought, how each new theory was different in that way. First, scientists thought dinosaurs abandoned their eggs, but now they’ve learned they’re good mothers. Thing is we’re more alike than we know. She repeated that a few more times, like a mantra. Yep, she added, we’re all more alike than we know.

She could start a fan club with that back in Berkeley, but it was hard to follow the overall argument. Her word choice was vague and therefore confusing, reminding Daron of one professor’s choice advice: Be a word herder. The powerful intellect leashed by an impoverished vocabulary is a myth. Without a vocabulary, a language, the intellect cannot develop.

Quint stared at his feet the entire time she talked. When she went back inside, the smell of polish lingered, and for as long as it did, Daron said nothing, thinking of Candice.

Quint chucked his can. Some people shouldn’t read. All it does is confuse them.

I don’t think I’m going back.

Here’ll drive you flat shit bat. Next thing you know, you’ll be Chinese.

But there drove him crazy, too. Ever feel like you just don’t fit in? Daron asked.

Nope.

They enjoyed the silence for a few minutes before Daron asked, You seen Jo-Jo lately?

Quint shrugged.

Know where his church is?

Quint grunted. Ever saw me in church? That don’t even sound right. I’ll go to a goddamned gay bar first. At least they admit they’re trying to screw you.

Know if they rebuilt that one back up in the Holler?

I don’t keep up after that fool, snapped Quint, so Daron decided to leave it alone.

Quint lived at the very edge of town. His father built the house right before he went off to Operation Desert Storm with Daron’s father. Good thing too, because he never came back. It was a covenant broken. Forty-two soldiers from Braggsville fought in Vietnam. After the war, forty-three soldiers returned to Braggsville. Frank Enders married an army nurse he met over there. As long as they volunteered, they’d considered themselves immune. Everyone asked, How can anyone take what you give? After Desert Storm, everyone in town asked, How could a war with almost no casualties happen to take one of our sons? No one had an answer. They just added Quint’s daddy’s name to the plaque mounted on the watchtower. They gave D’aron’s father the hairy eyeball until confirming that he was stationed nowhere near his brother-in-law. It was during that period D’aron came to understand what other folks meant when they said Braggsville was a town where every wrong turn was a dead end.

Through the thin copse behind Quint’s house, light glowed faint like hanging lanterns were suspended from the trees. Daron always forgot how close the Gully was.

Quint saw him looking. You wanna walk over there?

I been wondering about Otis. About what he said. He had a whole different history for Braggsville.

You were swatting at the same beehive back when you was writing those school letters, belching all about your mom’s interference, kicking more racket than a drunk wingnut in a metal bucket, clicking about how you didn’t remember her stories. Seems like you got in. She must have did something right. Quint raised an eyebrow. I’ll tell you same thing I said then. History’s personal. People are better off keeping some things to themselves, like when they last went to the bathroom or to visit the ass doctor.

Daron chuckled. There was no point in telling Quint that he’d written a new letter, trashed the one his mother wrote. After another patch of silence, a rough one he didn’t enjoy as much, Daron ventured to ask, You know anything about a militia? This Denver guy, the FBI guy, keeps asking me about the Holler.