Rion Scott - Insurrections

These fools cost me a job, I said, cutting off my cousin’s ramble. Kept me locked up all day. I missed my damn interview.

That’s terrible, my cousin said.

I wasn’t doing anything.

You know how often I hear people say that? You had to be doing something.

I was walking down the street and then I get accused of being someone named Juba.

Juba? I heard a hint of fear in my cousin’s voice. They actually called you Juba?

Yes.

Did you have any marijuana on you?

What?

Weed, cousin. When they busted you, did you have any weed on you?

Of course not. What are you getting at?

Did they charge you with anything?

No. But I’m thinking about suing. They cost me a great job. This damn condo’s not cheap.

Look, I think you should drop this whole thing. You’re free. No one thinks you’re Juba, thank God. Let it go.

I’m not letting shit go.

I didn’t realize it, but I had raised my voice. My cousin jerked back, somewhat rattled, I think. I softened a bit.

I had everything planned to the second, I said. I was going to arrive early and make small talk with the secretary, so I could look all witty and charming and shit. Then I was going to spend my wait time reading, so I could look sophisticated when the executives passed. After that I was going to sail right into the position. Now all that is ruined, man.

Blame Juba.

Who’s Juba, anyway?

You sounded like him for a minute, yelling like a crazy man, my cousin said. Juba is bad news. Bad news.

Yeah, he has been for me.

Well, cuz, he’s a phantom. A convenient explanation. Juba may not exist, but the cops in Cross River are convinced he does, and they plan on locking his ass up. They been prowling the city for a while looking for this dude. I’m starting to think he’s an underworld myth. An urban legend. Juba.

What did he do?

He’s sold enough weed to keep half the country high. The war on drugs is just a war on Juba. My cousin slapped his knee when he said this. He’s Tony Montana, my cousin continued. The Medellin Cartel, John Gotti, and Black Caesar in one. It’s hell up in Cross River, boy. Juba is one bad nigga. He supplies the Washington, Johnson, and Jackson crime families, and he got them all going to war over his product. You know how many folks are dead behind Juba?

And they think I’m this dude?

They’ve thought a lot of people were Juba. One of my clients, they initially thought he was Juba. Turns out he was a little punk from the Northside who went to Cross River Community College and sold a little herb to look cool. He’s at Freedman’s University now. Probably pretending he’s tough and slinging nicks. One of my dummy clients. Clown.

I’ve never even smoked a joint before.

Not even in college?

Nope.

What the hell have you been doing with your life, cousin?

I didn’t respond to that, just shook my head, thinking of Juba.

We talked for a few hours, had some more drinks, and then my cousin left. Before leaving, though, he told me again to forget about Juba. I hadn’t made up my mind whether or not I would leave it alone, but I told him I would. There was so much on my mind, and most of it involved Juba.

Every day I sat at home without a job I thought about what had happened. I awoke from nightmares where winged beasts with guns swooped in and slammed me to the ground. I felt so weak and powerless and foolish, and still so unemployed.

I kept hearing the name, folks mentioning him in idle conversation. Juba’s name seemed to pass from every lip. I wondered if people had always talked about Juba this much or if something new had seized the consciousness of the town.

In between submitting job applications, I went from person to person telling them about my ordeal. To a man, all knew ofJuba. Some said I was lucky I still had a life. Others tied Juba to a police slaying so many months ago. A good number of people described Juba as a happy-go-lucky guy, the Santa Claus of marijuana peddlers, a grandfatherly guy with good advice and a sack of chronic. Only I, it seemed, had never heard of Juba. One cousin, one I rarely spoke to, said: Juba ain’t shit. That nigga sells nicks and dimes, but he smokes most of it himself. I used to buy weed from him. High off his own supply every damn time I seen him. He ain’t no throat-slitter. He a joke.

Where can I find Juba? I asked.

Fuck if I know. I ain’t seen him in a long, long time.

And that was what most people said. No one knew where Juba stayed. Most had never even seen him. I couldn’t be sure he even existed.

My cousin the attorney checked up on me from time to time. He kept telling me to drop it. I grew sick of hearing from him, so eventually when his number flashed across my phone, I didn’t answer. One time he called, I let it ring, and when it finished ringing, I thought to call a reporter friend of mine. I figured if anyone had the resources to find out more about Juba, it was him. He sounded rushed. Told me he had never heard of Juba and apologized about what had happened to me. Before I could say anything more, he said he had to go and hung up abruptly. I sat in my living room smoking a cigarette right down to the filter, hoping to forget about Juba.

I decided I wouldn’t obsess about Juba anymore or think about that day the police shoved me to the ground. But two things happened to make it impossible to forget.

Each week, I volunteered at K.I.D.S. Community Center in the McCoy neighborhood on the Southside. I forget what the letters stood for, but it could have been Khaotic, Ineffective, and Detrimental Supervision. I taught math skills to children who were behind in school, but mostly I told them to shut up, as the brats were forever talking out of turn and fighting with each other.

Before class one week, an adorable girl with big eyes, brown skin, and hair plaited into one thick braid hugged me as I came in the door. I smiled at her embrace. Most times she was the loudest, most unruly of the bunch, forever threatening to punch one of the other kids, including boys older than her.

Are you going to be boring today? she asked.

I felt my smile wither, and immediately I wanted to go home. I watched the kids scurrying about, finding places to hide from me. I looked down.

Are you going to be boring today? I said, and she jumped back as if I had burned her. Even I was surprised by the heat of my words.

I got through about half of the lesson before I became frustrated with their interruptions and walked off to talk to a pretty counselor with reddish brown eyes and long hair that I later learned was a weave. In the past she had seemed unimpressed with my condo and my watch. I kept telling her about them, hoping to wear her down.

The counselors ignored the children who now ran through the place tossing things about. Occasionally a counselor would shout at a student, but for the most part the adults and the children didn’t at all interact. To make conversation, I told the pretty counselor the story of my confrontation with the police. When I said the name Juba, her eyes widened. She pointed to the cute little girl who had accosted me. The girl, the counselor said, was Juba’s niece.

The little girl raised her head when she heard her uncle’s name and looked over at us, meeting our gazes and the counselor’s pointing finger.

You guys talking about my Uncle Juba? she asked.

No, no, sweetie, the counselor said. No. We’re not talking about your Uncle Juba. No.

Sweetie, I said. Tell me about your Uncle Juba.

My Uncle Juba is tall and his hair is black and gray. And he’s smart. Smarter than you. I bet he knows more about math than you.

I bet he does.

He taught me how to count and he taught me how to spell. And he’s always reading the Bible. His eyes are big like my mother’s, but they’re always red.