Rion Scott - Insurrections

Red like a sunset?

Red like when I get cut. My mother said that’s ’cause Uncle Juba never sleeps. He stays up all night and all day long. I seen Uncle Juba asleep before, but mostly he don’t sleep.

Where’s your Uncle Juba now, sweetie?

She shrugged. I haven’t seen Uncle Juba in a long, long, long, long time, she said. He calls me. Sends me e-mails too. Says I’m the prettiest little girl he has ever seen, and Uncle Juba is right. I’m the prettiest little girl in all of Cross River and the whole world.

Juba Franklin. That was his name. That’s what the little girl told me. I didn’t ask any more questions because I didn’t want to let on that I was looking for Juba.

The second thing that happened to keep Juba on my mind was that my reporter friend called back that night. He was just as brusque as he had been the day before, but he had found something from talking to his sources. There was a Juba Franklin who hung out in a bar in Port Yooga, Virginia. He was there every night. Why the police didn’t know, my friend wasn’t sure. Juba had moved his shady business from Cross River to Port Yooga, hiding in plain sight, and the fools couldn’t figure out how to find him. Get me a nickel bag, he said before hanging up.

I’ve never been a religious man. My mother says that’s why I had such a hard time finding a job. Still, I took the turn of events as a sign. Maybe to find a job, I needed to track Juba down. I needed to see his face to understand all that had happened to me. Perhaps I could even say a word or two to him.

I brushed that idea out of my head. There were so many incarnations of him. He could have easily been a cold-blooded killer, but it was just as likely that he was a friendly neighborhood pot peddler. I figured the truth of him rested somewhere in the middle. I called a few people to ask their advice, but I only called those who shared my curiosity and thought Juba was probably not a dangerous guy. Sitting at home all alone, watching daytime television, I had a lot of time to think about things. Such a man, one who knew everyone at all levels from the dirtiest dealer on Angela Street to the well-heeled people on the Hilltop, could explain so much that I, with my limited experience, had never understood. In all honesty, I had made up my mind after I got off the phone with my reporter friend, but it took me a few days to realize it.

I sat in a bar in Port Yooga in the middle of the day drinking a beer called Purple Haze in honor of my potential meeting with the weed dealer, Juba Franklin. I felt preposterous, but less preposterous than I had felt with my cheek to the pavement and my hands cuffed behind my back.

I glanced around, trying to figure which of these men was Juba. It was an easy question to answer, as I was the only black man in the bar. I chomped on peanuts to pass the time and at one point ordered chicken wings. I felt foolish with the grease from the wings on my fingers and asked for a knife and fork. The bartender looked at me strangely and then handed me the utensils. Eating the wings with a knife and fork made me feel like more of a fool, and I stopped, letting the wings grow cold. At about six I realized the ridiculousness of the whole enterprise and planned to leave, but before I could summon the will to walk away, two men strode into the bar. The shorter man had an ashy bald head shaped like the peanuts I ate. The other was tall and dark with black, lightly salted hair. His eyes were bloodred, nearly glowing in his face. Juba. There was a part of me that said, just turn and go home, but I could still feel those metal bracelets pinching at my wrists. I walked over to the man’s table. Nearly called the man Uncle Juba when I opened my mouth, but I caught myself.

I’m new in town, I said. I don’t trust these crackers. They don’t seem too cool. You know where I can get some pot?

Uh-uh, Juba replied. I really don’t know nothing about that.

You Juba?

Sorry, jackson, don’t know nobody by that name.

I twisted my brow, giving him a puzzled look. He blinked a lot, so I wondered if that had some sort of meaning. He shook peanuts from their shell and crunched them in his teeth. It seemed like he was making fun of me.

The other man tried his hand at looking menacing. He gave me a flat look of irritation. It said he was unafraid and would destroy me if I bothered him for too long. His intimidation was a moderate success. I could see myself turning and running, but I held firm.

Well, I said. I guess it’s for the best that you’re not Juba, because I was going to tell that guy that his weed isn’t shit. He’s trying to pass off dirt as the chronic.

The bald man cracked a smirk, his head a flaky white under the dull glow from above. Juba’s face remained flat and expressionless, but he bowed his head and shook it side to side as if lost in prayer.

Boy, why you want to mess around with your life, huh? Juba asked. Don’t even ride yourself like that, my nig-nig. Everybody from Cross River to Port Yooga and all spots in the middle know that Juba got them fire tea leaves, chief.

So you do know Juba?

You police?

If I was, you know I could lie if I wanted to, I said. It’s a myth that I legally have to tell you the truth if I’m a cop. And I’m not a cop. But if I was one, I’d just lie.

Ain’t you a reg duboishead? he replied.

A what?

A regular genius, jack. Keep up, my nig-nig.

You speak fast. It’s hard to follow sometimes.

The bald man’s eyes danced in disbelief.

I’m not rapping fast, Juba said. I’m just talking a different language than you. When two niggas from El Salvador get together and talk, neither one of them complain that the other is all flashy speaking or whatever. It’s just the squares, the outsiders like you — not me, I know Spanish — like you that complain. You a Riverbaby?

I prefer Cross Riverian.

Course you do, he said. Bougie niggas always prefer Cross Riverian.

It’s better than being a baby, I replied. The problem is we always infantilize our people. Folks don’t want to grow up and be men and women. The world would finally respect us if we’d just be men.

Blah, blah, blah; right and sure. Tell me, if y’all niggas got money and houses and things over there on the Northside, and I can already tell you a Northside nigga, then why y’all so cross? Cross Riverian literally means angry river person, you know that, right?

Looks to me like Southside folks are more angry. That’s where people get robbed and shot and stuff like that.

Checkmate. I tell you what. You look like a true. I’ll griff you some of that Starr Product if you give me a fumi.

Huh?

Juba sighed. The bald man grunted and crunched peanuts between his teeth.

Riverbabies don’t even own their own tongue no more. Nigga, give me a cigarette and I’ll sell you some weed. Shit, may even have a story to tell you too.

I handed him a cigarette and he asked me to follow him. Juba and I left the bar; the bald man stayed behind.

Juba took me into a basement apartment so small it seemed like a cell — a spacious cell, but still a cell. A few beams of natural light came in from the streets above. Juba’s bed took up most of the space. He had a bookshelf filled with holy books and books about the holy books. In the corner sat a little desk and atop it a thick raggedy Bible with torn pages and Post-It notes sticking out from the edges. It was opened to the first page of the Book of Revelation. Juba had several sentences underlined and notes running up and down the margins in a graphomaniacal frenzy.

Juba rolled a joint, lit it, and offered it to me, but I passed. He sat it at the right corner of his mouth and blew smoke out of the left. Then he spoke rapidly about the flow of the Cross River for minutes on end, the way a man might speak about a lover he missed.