Percival Everett - Damned If I Do

“I guess.”

The truck looked a little rough, a pale blue with a bleached-out hood and a crack across the top of the windshield. Travis opened the driver’s side door and pushed the key into the ignition. “It’s a strong runner,” he said. Daniel put his hand on the faded hood and felt the warmth, knew that Travis had already warmed up the motor. Travis turned the key and the engine kicked over. He nodded to Daniel. Daniel nodded back. He looked up to see a blond woman looking on from behind the screen door of the back porch.

“The clutch and the alternator are new this year.” Travis stepped backward to the wall of the bed and looked in. “There’s some rust back here, but the bottom’s pretty solid.”

Daniel attended to the sound of the engine. “Misses just a little,” he said.

“A tune-up will fix that.”

Daniel regarded the rebel-flag decal covering the rear window of the cab, touched it with his finger.

“That thing will peel right off,” Travis said.

“No, I like it.” Daniel sat down in the truck behind the steering wheel. “Mind if I take it for a spin?”

“Sure thing.” Travis looked toward the house, then back to Daniel. “The brakes are good, but you got to press hard.”

Daniel nodded.

Travis shut the door, his long fingers wrapped over the edge of the half-lowered glass. Daniel noticed that one of the man’s fingernails was blackened.

“I’ll just take it around a block or two.”

The blond woman was now standing outside the door on the concrete steps. Daniel put the truck in gear and drove out of the yard, past his car and down the street by the man and teenager who were still at work on the Charger. They stared at him, were still watching him as he turned right at the corner. The truck handled decently, but that really wasn’t important.

Back at Travis’s house Daniel left the keys in the truck and got out to observe the bald tires while Travis looked on. “The ad in the magazine said two thousand.”

“Yeah, but I’m willing to work with you.”

“Tell you what, I’ll give you twenty-two hundred if you deliver it to my house.”

Travis was lost, scratching his head and looking back at the house for his wife, who was no longer standing there. “Whereabouts do you live?”

“I live over near the university. Near Five Points.”

“Twenty-two hundred?” Travis said more to himself than to Daniel. “Sure I can get it to your house.”

“Here’s two hundred.” Daniel counted out the money and handed it to the man. “I’ll have the rest for you in cash when you deliver the truck.” He watched Travis feel the bills with his skinny fingers. “Can you have it there at about four?”

“I can do that.”

“What in the world do you need a truck for?” Sarah asked. She stepped over to the counter and poured herself another cup of coffee, then sat back down at the table with Daniel.

“I’m not buying the truck. Well, I am buying a truck, but only because I need the truck for the decal. I’m buying the decal.”

“Decal?”

“Yes. This truck has a Confederate flag in the back window.”

“What?”

“I’ve decided that the rebel flag is my flag. My blood is Southern blood, right? Well, it’s my flag.”

Sarah put down her cup and saucer and picked up a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table. “You’ve flipped. I knew this would happen to you if you didn’t work. A person needs to work.”

“I don’t need money.”

“That’s not the point. You don’t have to work for money.” She stood and walked to the edge of the porch and looked up and down the street.

“I’ve got my books and my music.”

“You need a job so you can be around people you don’t care about, doing stuff you don’t care about. You need a job to occupy that part of your brain. I suppose it’s too late now, though.”

“Nonetheless,” Daniel said. “You should have seen those redneck boys when I took ‘Dixie’ from them. They didn’t know what to do. So, the goddamn flag is flying over the State Capitol. Don’t take it down, just take it. That’s what I say.”

“That’s all you have to do? That’s all there is to it?”

“Yep.” Daniel leaned back in his rocker. “You watch ol’ Travis when he gets here.”

Travis arrived with the pickup a little before four, his wife pulling up behind him in a yellow TransAm. Barb got out of the car and walked up to the porch with Travis. She gave the house a careful look.

“Hey, Travis,” Daniel said. “This is my friend, Sarah.”

Travis nodded hello.

“You must be Barb,” Daniel said.

Barb smiled weakly.

Travis looked at Sarah, then back at the truck, and then to Daniel. “You sure you don’t want me to peel that thing off the window?”

“I’m positive.”

“Okay.”

Daniel gave Sarah a glance, to be sure she was watching Travis’s face. “Here’s the balance,” he said, handing over the money. He took the truck keys from the skinny fingers.

Barb sighed and asked, as if the question were burning right through her, “Why do you want that flag on the truck?”

“Why shouldn’t I want it?” Daniel asked.

Barb didn’t know what to say. She studied her feet for a second, then regarded the house again. “I mean, you live in a nice house and drive that sports car. What do you need a truck like that for?”

“You don’t want the money?”

“Yes, we want the money,” Travis said, trying to silence Barb with a look.

“I need the truck for hauling stuff,” Daniel said. “You know like groceries and—” he looked to Sarah for help.

“Books,” Sarah said.

“Books. Things like that.” Daniel held Barb’s eyes until she looked away. He watched Travis sign his name to the the back of the title and hand it to him and as he took it, he said, “I was just lucky enough to find a truck with the black-power flag already on it.”

“What?” Travis screwed up his face, trying to understand.

“The black-power flag on the window. You mean, you didn’t know?”

Travis and Barb looked at each other.

“Well, anyway,” Daniel said, “I’m glad we could do business.” He turned to Sarah. “Let me take you for a ride in my new truck.” He and Sarah walked across the yard, got into the pickup, and waved to Travis and Barb who were still standing in Daniel’s yard as they drove away.

Sarah was on the verge of hysterics by the time they were out of sight. “That was beautiful,” she said.

“No,” Daniel said, softly. “That was true.”

Over the next weeks, sightings of Daniel and his truck proved problematic for some. He was accosted by two big white men in a ’72 Monte Carlo in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven on Two Notch Road.

“What are you doing with that on your truck, boy?” the bigger of the two asked.

“Flying it proudly,” Daniel said, noticing the rebel front plate on the Chevrolet. “Just like you, brothers.”

The confused second man took a step toward Daniel. “What did you call us?”

“Brothers.”

The second man pushed Daniel in the chest with two extended fists, but not terribly hard.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Daniel told them.

Then a Volkswagen with four black teenagers parked in the slot beside Daniel’s truck and they jumped out, staring and looking serious. “What’s going on?” the driver and largest of the teenagers asked.