T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

I have to piss, too. Lee walked off.

Not the best idea, huh? Kain turned to face Damon, squeaking in the seat. I’m glad it’s your party and not mine.

Not the worst either. Damon had kind of enjoyed the attention.

When Lee returned, he sat with the door open until the incessant dinging of the warning light prompted Kain to lean over the console and remove the keys from the ignition, at which point he saw Caitlin’s phone on the dash, and asked, Who’s going to go look for her (Johnson 2015, p. 280)?

Initial findings

Damon took a knee for personal reasons, but what good could come of telling a hungry person you cracked their last egg while they worked? That was like igniting the burner under an empty pot.

SIX FLAGS PART THREE: TO BE, OR TO BBQ (THAT IS THE QUEST, SON)

There were acres of RV. In every direction stretched rows of white-and-tan campers lined up like a model town, the shared spaces between them too neat and orderly for it to be a trailer park. At each corner Damon stopped and looked all four ways, waving when necessary, which was often. RVers were irritatingly friendly. He both wanted to find her and not. In D’amonville (There is no ideal world or perfect world, so let’s be honest and call it your fantasy, or D’amonville, his parents decided the year D’amon read the Economist for class and introduced his every suggestion with, In an ideal world…), so, in D’amonville, he would not find her, at least not in despair, he decided. He would meet her just before she returned to the car, missing the crying episode but having enough time to fall into a meaningful conversation they could continue as they walked back and pick up later when alone again. He might hug her, would let her compose herself, could allow her grief to be a private thing, a secret between them.

When at last he heard her in conversation, though, Caitlin sounded happy, or at least her normal self. He followed the sound of her voice and saw her some yards away, thanking an elderly couple for letting her use the toilet. They stooped over her like concerned grandparents. Maybe that was why grandparents always appeared concerned, because they stooped over you like you were the center of the world and they had to hear everything you said, like you were the only source of heat in the cave. Had Nana stooped over him like that? Had Nana stooped at all? Caitlin waved at Damon over their shoulders, a quick motion, like rubbing the head of a child she didn’t like. When he waited, she waved again, calling him over with her hands, where he met Colonel and Mrs. Richard Sanders, whom she had interrupted making, Ironically, they knew, fried chicken, and who not only had been nice enough to let her use the bathroom, but were insisting that all four of them stay for dinner.

Damon refrained from correcting that misuse of irony. The Sanderses’ twang struck chords of home. Besides, You never correct your elders.

We have plenty, oh plenty of food. Mrs. Sanders smiled broadly (as if to prove that she still had her teeth, Caitlin later said). But this is not charity, we need a favor from you in return, we were hoping you good young people could help us with our Internet.

While Damon texted Lee and Kain, the Colonel added, In exchange for your… technical support, y’all’ll dine on the best blessed fried chicken this side of the Mississippi. He was a slim, elegant Southern gentleman who stood tall, always scanning the horizon, who wore his T-shirt tucked into his dungarees, both pressed like dress blues. He was, as he described it, The best kind of bald — completely so. No comb-overs, no sprays, no hair clubs whose presidents are also members, just a good old-fashioned smooth pate. Too much testosterone, he explained, with a wink at the wife. It might happen to you, if you’re lucky, son.

The Sanderses’ Airstream was brand new, appointed with, More damned bells and whistles than General Schwarzkopf, the Colonel proudly claimed while giving them a tour.

Were they a little surprised by Kain when he and Lee joined them? Damon couldn’t be sure. Mrs. Sanders called Kain a big boy and squeezed his biceps before letting her tiny paws drift down to his wrist, bringing to mind a Little Leaguer straining to heft a regulation slugger. The Colonel asked Kain what sports he played, and he took it all in stride.

And why not? Indeed, it was real Southern cooking, their brag no boast. Tasted so fine made you want to chew your tongue. The best cluck-cluck Damon had tucked away since home. Under the retractable awning, Junior Brown playing in the background, they ate food so finger-lickin’ good Lee didn’t even make a single joke about Kentucky Fried Chicken, or about how he and Kain sat on the RV’s iron stairs because there weren’t enough chairs. Mrs. Sanders had also prepared mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, mac-n-cheese, and grilled corn. She said that her Colonel demanded colorful meals, that her Colonel swore that was the best way to get all the good nutrients.

The Colonel winked at Kain. Not bad. Not bad, right? She’s got a little soul, right? Gesturing with his hands, he added, Well, a big one, but you know what I mean.

Mrs. Sanders giggled.

The Colonel winked at Kain once more.

Kain agreed, and the Colonel laughed — a laugh like a rusty pump — seeming not to notice that Kain had cut his chicken, but not actually eaten any. Maybe, thought Damon, Kain was not taking it all in stride. He never ate red meat, but when asked about chicken said, That’s the craziest shit you’ve ever asked me. I’m only vegetarian when I don’t like the food or the company. Damon looked at Kain’s plate again and hoped that night would see no hot weevil about the misappropriation of soul food. Thomas Jefferson invented mac-n-cheese, and the Scots invented fried chicken.

Mrs. Sanders wiggled in her chair like she was settling in for a long spell. She did it again before Damon understood that she was dancing to demonstrate her soul. (Lee later said, I thought she was going to throw her back out. Kain later said, Maybe she was expressing joy, like when you wriggle and say, hmm-mm.)

The Colonel hummed a few bars of the song then playing. Lee joined in, having learned the hook: You’re wanted by the police and my wife thinks you’re dead. Damon rocked rhythmically in his chair.

Caitlin, who sat across from Damon at the folding table, ate in silence with prim bites. She wore two burns from the grill, buff pink welts a cryptic brand, a cracked nail on her ring finger, a scar on the back of her hand that she sucked at between cool sips of sweet tea, a stubbed toe, and that bee sting on her elbow. He wanted badly to kiss each one. He had inventoried her injuries earlier in the day, when her temporary augmentation prevented him from regarding her directly. Without the ashes stashed, she was approachable and cute in ways he hadn’t before considered. With the fake breasts she had stood straighter, almost in challenge. Without them, she again slumped a little, cupping her shoulders as if to protect her real ones. As Quint always said, Can’t hold more than a handful or suck more than a mouthful. She appeared uncertain, as she had the night of the dot party. At the time he thought she was a blubberer. Damon liked this contemplative, almost shy Caitlin.

Damon! rushed the Colonel. Your girlfriend’s pouring her own water.

Caitlin’s happy hands went still.

In a faux sérieux tone, he added, You know us Southern gentlemen cannot allow such things.

Caitlin licked her fork and placed it beside her plate with the care one shows when setting the table for a first date and gave Damon an angry smile. He wanted to correct the Colonel, and probably would have if Caitlin hadn’t smiled at him like that. It made him feel that they shared a secret, and he was powerless to voluntarily dispel the illusion.