Rion Scott - Insurrections

Sorry, Juba, man. It’s just that I ain’t seen you in so long. It’s good to see you, man. You still up to your old tricks?

I had an idea what sort of tricks he might be talking about. The man looked old, but it was an artificial old. The kind of old that seizes a person who abuses himself. That sort of old comes from too many late nights. The old of hard liquor and worse. He was scarred in the face and on the arms, but also on his wrinkled hands. He wasn’t the sort of man you saw around here very often.

I’m sorry, buddy, I said, but I’m not Juba.

Stop messing around, Juba. You always was a trickster. Stop playing games, man. You still hustling?

Sir, I’m hustling to catch this bus. Other than that I don’t hustle, and I really have to go.

I really did have to go. I had a job interview at an accounting firm downtown in an hour, and I had timed everything perfectly. If I caught the 12:45 p.m. B58, I would make it there exactly fifteen minutes early. I had performed a test run the day before and another one a day before that. This was my second interview, and I could tell the woman who ran the office liked me. All I had to do was show up. Since the layoff I had been out of work for several months. In another couple weeks my unemployment checks would be at an end.

There was something odd in this man’s smile, perhaps something in the webs of wrinkles at his cheeks.

Juba, you something else, boy. The man let out a wheezy, whining squeal. Man, I’m trying to buy a dub. Can you help me out with that?

A dub?

Yeah, a dub. Remember when you used to be selling nicks down by Riverhall? But then one day you said since times is hard it’s dubs or better.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, I said. I think you have the wrong person.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $5 bill. Here, buddy, I said. Go get yourself a sandwich or coffee.

The man stared at my hand, curling his lip in disgust. Man, I don’t need your money, he said. I’m tryna buy some green.

I turned and started to walk when the man grabbed at my elbow.

Hey, Juba, man, he said. Stop playing games, all right?

I thought I heard his voice change. I snatched my arm from him and nearly tumbled backward, but I caught myself. I hadn’t been in a fistfight since I was a young man at District Central mixing it up with guys from the Southside who thought I was a punk because I lived on the Northside. I wondered if I even remembered how to fight. I balled my fists and stepped backward a bit. He was big guy, and his hands seemed built for strangulation. I used to be so skinny back then, nearly frail. In college I lifted weights to give myself some definition, but it didn’t work, so I stopped. It was important not to get wrapped in his massive arms, because then I’d never break free. I had to strike first, and then strike again and keep moving if I had any chance. All that was jumping the gun, though. I had no intention of getting into a fight.

He appeared to be looking over my shoulder. I glanced back to see three men approaching me with guns drawn. Confused, I raised my hands over my head. They wore badges around their necks and light black jackets. There was one to my left with a puffy pink face and a brown mustache. He appeared tense. I looked from man to man quickly, disoriented by their shouting. I put my hands out in front of me, but I wasn’t sure if that’s what I was supposed to do. They kept calling me Juba. All I had to do was explain that I didn’t know this man and that our very conversation was a simple misunderstanding. If only they would stop shouting.

Juba, get down on your knees and put your hands to your head, the man with the puffy pink face said.

I… Am… Not… Juba! I screamed it as loudly as I could. You can check my ID. My name is not Juba.

I became aware of each and every one of my movements, each individual heartbeat and blink. I slowly moved my arms to reach for my pocket where my IDs were, but that seemed to make them more agitated. They screamed at me, and I could barely understand them. I looked over at the man who had started all this confusion. They didn’t seem to be troubling him. It dawned on me that he was with them, perhaps an undercover or a neighborhood snitch.

I fell to my knees as they asked. The officer with the brown mustache shoved me face down so that my cheek pressed flat against the sidewalk. One of them wrenched my arms together behind my back and pinched cuffs tightly around my wrists.

For some reason, even with all my attention on my movements — both involuntary and otherwise — I didn’t realize that I had been yelling, screaming all along: I am not Juba! I am not Juba! I am not Juba! They had been telling me to shut up, but I kept screaming, I am not Juba! as I lay there on the ground. I suppose I had said it so much that it lost all meaning. It was the truth, though. I am not Juba.

They didn’t release me from the police station until after midnight. All I got was a halfhearted apology from some detective who remained unconvinced that I wasn’t Juba. They showed me photographs of myself leaving my condo, driving, going to catch the bus, and meeting with family members on the Southside. One officer slid me a cup of coffee after it was established that I wasn’t Juba. He told me to watch my back because Juba is still out there. I had only a vague sense of what he meant. But they had to let me go, as there was no evidence that I was Juba.

Still, no one told me who Juba was or what Juba was supposed to have done. For all I knew, I was uncomfortably close to lying strapped to a gurney with chemicals streaming into my veins.

I called the accounting firm in the morning to explain my absence. The office manager told me she was sorry, but they filled the position when I didn’t show. She asked why I didn’t call, and I couldn’t make up something fast enough. I turned off the telephone and threw it across the living room of my condo. It slapped against the wall and nicked it.

I thought about suing. I invited my cousin over for a drink that night. He was a few years older than me and ran a private law firm downtown. I would have offered to go to dinner, or at the very least a happy hour or something, but thanks to the CRPD I was still unemployed.

My cousin always made an impression. He stood tall as a professional basketball player and had the sturdy build of one. Women seemed to like him. Guys wanted to hang around him. I wanted to hang around him, but I was always too broke to keep up. When he came to my door, he wore a sports jacket over a white shirt with thin brown vertical lines and a stiff, stiff collar.

He slapped my hand and held it firmly, pulling me into him and embracing me tightly. My cousin often went overboard with his handshakes and hugs. It was like something out of the seventies.

Cousin, he said sitting on my couch. I haven’t been here in such a long time. I been meaning to come see you.

Yeah, I replied. Man, you look like you’re here for a job interview.

Just trying to look as fly as my cousin. Speaking of job interviews, what happened to the one you were supposed to have by the place near my office?

Man, I said, and paused briefly. We’ll get to that one.

He nodded, peering down at me quizzically. I didn’t want to seem as if I’d just called him to do me a favor, so I led the discussion to any number of things from politics to his cases to family — the normal topics people usually talked round and round.

Listen, jack, I said. You’ll never guess what happened to me. I got arrested, man.

What? I told you to stop going to those grimy Southside Row clubs, man. Don’t nobody go to The Garden no more, anyway. I got some clients trying to get some of them dirty buildings torn down so we can get some condos up—