T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

Jo-Jo approached the table for the sentence, which was delivered in a whisper. Jo-Jo looked back at Daron once and nodded yes, and looked back at him again and nodded again. Jo-Jo was led away. Daron was called to the front, where he stood before the jurors. There were gasps as he passed. There were also more than a few cross tattoos.

They couldn’t get away with this, thought Daron. The compound. The trial. Mount Rushmore. A constitution. A stenographer. A stenographer? Fuck! They weren’t getting away with jack rabbit shit. They’d already done it. He recalled again the lesson on Nagasaki, how the swimmer surfaced to find a harsh new world. Did he hold his breath to the last minute, as Daron did? Did he relent because he had to know? Were his doubtless brief remaining years irrevocably corroded by the ironic end of that now eternal kicking to the surface, the unexpected outcome of pedaling liquid in his ascent back to life? Did he even recognize his friends’ shadows? Or were they warped, autonomous silhouettes? Can a shadow be ill-fitting? What does it mean when the shadow does not suit the man? Does the man change? Or does the shadow?

You won’t get away with this. Even as he said this, though, Daron feared that he was wrong, that maybe the collective had, and were, getting away with nothing, that maybe Postmaster was right. This was simply what had been, what was, what would be. Forever. You won’t get away with this, he repeated weakly.

Mocking falsettos echoed. Someone yelled, Cut! Take one. That’s a wrap. Say it with gumption next time, son.

My father knows where I am!

Of course he does, young Davenport, of course he does, crooned Lou. We’re sovereign, you see. You tell the officer who gives you the speeding ticket, You won’t get away with it? He tells you to tell it to the judge. It’s the same thing here. You can plead your own case before the tribunal. We can provide you a counselor to familiarize you with the process and the bylaws, and even sit beside you at the hearing, but you got to plead on your own — his voice dropped to a whisper — believe me, son, it’s best you plead on your own.

My father knows where I am, Daron whispered.

Of course he does, son, of course he does. Lou draped a warm, paternal arm around him, his rough hand hanging over Daron’s shoulder, his scabbed knobbly knuckles reminding Daron of the fox stole eyeing him at Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta.

I’m not guilty of anything.

You got to plead on your own, young Davenport.

I’m not guilty of anything. He muttered, unable to rouse conviction, chilled as he was after Lou again called him young Davenport, as had Otis. Chilled because he liked it, and knew he shouldn’t. And once again, that cold feeling — so cold as to feel wet — at the thought, new to him, that Lou was right: Of course he was, son, of course he was.

Lou patted Daron on the back and turned to face the audience. You, young man, are guilty of just about everything. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you set out with a plan to destroy our fine little town here. But we’re assuming you were more foolish than anything else, and led astray by all those leftists. Do you want to make a statement? Do you want a senior member to guide you?

I didn’t do nothing wrong but not be there for my friend.

That you’ll have to reckon with your maker. I take it you don’t have a statement and won’t enter a plea, so we will proceed. D’aron Little May Davenport is charged with treason, moral turpitude, and egregious actions against the state.

I’m not a member of this militia. Daron’s voice splintered. You can’t try me.

He could see Jo-Jo though a crack in the door, his head hanging low, his fingers playing his thighs, pacing back and forth and forth, more agitated with each passing, the smoke trailing behind him from a cigarette he looked to have forgotten as it hung from his split lips.

You appear rightly scared, and contrite, so we accept Jo-Jo’s bargain. Your sentence is twofold. You are banished from the Holler and the town, allowed back only for holidays and funerals.

A hand motion from Mount Rushmore. A quick conference.

Okay. So you can come back for weddings. We’re not stalling.

Another whispered conference with Rushmore.

Okay. We’re not Stalinists, so weddings are in. You are also to deliver Jo-Jo’s punishment. This is his wish.

It was only seven A.M. Daron was reminded of an old joke. How did it go? We do more before eight A.M. than most people do all day. That was true at the lodge. At Berzerkeley, at this hour, he’d usually be sleeping. Sometimes he would get up early for the pleasure of being among the first in the dining hall, when the breakfast bar is fresh and steaming and really does look like the photos. Then, return to the dorm and sleep for a few more hours. Here, he had already eaten oatmeal, witnessed a trial, been tried himself, and now stood behind the barn, watching two yellow rails play tag, all bright bulging buff breasts in the brush, dark wings spotted white in flight. A tree not far away had been felled by lightning, and from the stump new shoots pushed skyward, and under its crumbling trunk, tiered shrooms sprouted from wicked moss. He examined the grounds, wondering who cut the grass, recited the Greek alphabet, and visualized the periodic chart, anything to take his mind off Jo-Jo, who was at that moment being lashed to a pole centered in a ten-foot dirt circle bordered by blue painted rocks, Jo-Jo who was calling to him, Be quick now, when it starts, just be quick.

I can’t do it, whispered Daron.

You gotta. Think about it, D. The poor fella was all made up in blackface and that wig and I thought it was you up there. It wasn’t until he was kicking and choking and sweating off the makeup. It was too late by then. I could tell he was Mongoloid Chinese or had that syndrome or something. But it was your girl. And it was your wig.

That was middle school. And just one night in high school.

And? And? Jo-Jo’s speech was swallowed by sobbing.

No, you don’t, warned Lou, pointing.

Daron had moved closer to Jo-Jo while talking. Two men-at-arms repositioned him a few paces farther away, the distance stepped out by Lou.

The bailiff read the decree. According to statute, for his behavior during the Patriot Days Festival, John-John could be stripped of his rank, but in lieu of that he elects hereby to receive twenty yards of leather, or twenty lashes. This sentence of flogging was unanimously rendered by the tribunal and unopposed by the brethren. Said flagellation is to be delivered by one D’aron Little May Davenport, who delivers said lashes as part of his punishment, said sentence which includes conditional banishment.

Flagellation, Candice liked to say. Oh, yes she did.

Someone pressed the whip into Daron’s hand. The handle was heavy braided leather, eight feet later the tip tapering into little more than a shoestring. All it needed was an aglet, he mused, to make me believe we can tie this all together. I won’t do it. Daron dropped the whip. It coiled at his feet like a dead snake — dead, but daring him to tread on it nonetheless, like the T-shirt popular with soldiers, like the motto on the first U.S. Navy maritime flag. The hashtags mashed. #ZombieDickSlap and #BraggsvilleDickSlap at last came together.

You gotta do it, D, you got to. It’s twenty from you or fifty from them, Jo-Jo whispered. And my rank.

Someone pressed the whip back into his palm, closing his hand around Daron’s. That someone stood close behind, close quartered, close as he’d once wished Kaya would, and then Candice. That someone said, You gotta own this one. That someone said, I ain’t much for philosophy, especially other men’s, but as the Boss said once, You got to learn to live with what you can’t rise above. That someone sounded so much like Quint, so much that Daron couldn’t turn around.