Angry Black White Boy (29 page)

“Well, guess what, Leo?” Burleigh said, releasing his neck and rubbing Leo’s shoulders with vigor. “This man here’s a bona fide friend of your people. Likes ’em better than his own, matter of fact. Nothing he’d love more than to take all my hard-earned cash and give it to you, boy. Why, if you ask him nice, I bet he’ll suck your big black ding-dong. How would you like that, my friend?” Burleigh shoved him from behind and Leo lurched forward, skidding to a halt near Macon. He was a small man, scarcely over five feet, and standing in front of Macon, he looked like a duckling seeking the protection of his mother’s wing. He was so close that Macon could feel the heat of his body; Leo’s fear was in the air and it calmed Macon somehow.

“Whip it out, Grandpa,” laughed Johnnie. “Show him old Mr. Peter.” The old man was too terrified to move, but his eyes roved from face to face, frantic and immense, in search of something human.

“Aw, hell,” said Anton, bored with all the talk and taunting. He found it unmanly somehow, and so he did what he knew how to: lifted his leg and kicked the nigger in the gut. Anton had been an all-county placekicker three times in high school. They’d made it to regionals his senior year, and in the months between Anton’s league-championship-winning forty-five-yard field goal and graduation, he’d had more pussy than he knew what to do with. Not a day went by that Anton didn’t recall that game, or raise his beer mug with practiced bashfulness when somebody toasted the famous kick.

He still had some leg left on him. The way Leo crumpled reminded Anton of the balloons at his daughter’s last birthday party. Annabel had run up to him right after the cake and ice cream, with one flopping in each hand: “Daddy, Daddy, will you do Squeaky Bear for us?”

“Of course I will, Sugar.” He took a blast of helium and had the kids practically wetting themselves. They didn’t let him stop until he’d gone through three balloons and every Squeaky Bear routine he could muster, head aching like a sumbitch.

“Thing is, Macon,” Burleigh was explaining as the four of them looked down at the writhing Leo, “somebody’s gotta be the nigger. If it ain’t Leo there, it’s got to be you, or me. That’s how this great nation of ours works, son.”

He stepped forward and squeezed Macon’s cheeks together with one hand, as if trying to force him to spit something out. “You’re attempting to niggerize me, Macon,” Burleigh said. He stepped back and turned sideways, lining up the angle. Macon watched, scared into a stupor. He didn’t even register what was about to happen until the clerk’s boot come into focus inches from his own stomach. Macon read the sole. Timberland. They sure did make a comfortable boot.

The kick connected and pain exploded inside him, burned and spread. The next thing Macon knew, he was gasping, flat on his back, clawing at the floor as if he might happen upon some secret pocket of oxygen. Leo was lying next to him. He tried to catch the older man’s eye. But he couldn’t.

“And,” Burleigh resumed, “I resent it. Hell, I’m halfway niggerized already, working this shit job.” He circled a few steps to the left, as if the two prostrate men were a campfire, and stroked his beard in assessment. The boys weren’t hurt too bad, Burleigh decided, gratified. He enjoyed knowing they were capable of fighting back, but wouldn’t. It felt like an admission of guilt.

A package of peanuts had fallen out of Macon’s pocket. Burleigh stooped and snatched it up. “Stealing from me, too, huh, Make?” He snorted in derision. “S’pose that figures.”

He stared at Macon as he spoke. “Got your truck, Anton?”

“Sure do.”

“Well, be so kind as to bring it around back. I’d just as soon continue this conversation away from the surveillance cameras.”

“Will do.”

“I’d like to invite you boys to hang with us today.” Burleigh crouched before them, patted Leo on the shoulder, then straightened. “You’ve got my word, Macon,” he said, winking, “we’ll treat the both of you as equals.” He jogged away, and Macon heard keys jangling as Burleigh locked the register, ejected the videotape. Row after row of fluorescent ceiling tiles flickered off. The store grew quiet, the men’s collective breathing loud.

Macon managed to fill his lungs. “Please,” he wheezed, scissoring his legs and trying to push himself up into a sitting position. “This guy’s got nothing to do with us. Just let him . . .” His air ran out and Macon coughed and fell back on his elbows.

“What did you say?” Johnnie bent at the waist and peered at Macon like he might a writhing lizard, tail pinned underneath a rock. A note of wonder crept into his voice. He glanced toward the front of the store and worried his brow confidentially. “You’d best to start worrying about yourself, man.”

“You thirsty, race traitor?” Burleigh was back. “Johnnie, grab a couple sixers for the road, huh? Put your wrists together, boys.” Rough twine bound Macon’s hands in a prayer position, so tight he felt them numbing. Anton honked his horn, and Burleigh pulled his guests to their feet and handed each one a six-pack of Miller High Life. The bottles banged against Macon’s thighs as he stumbled toward the door.

“Gimme that,” said Johnnie, aggravated. “You’re shakin’ ’em all up.”

Leo’s eyes glowed tumescent in the freezer case’s footlights; Macon could hear the old man’s labored breathing as Burleigh led him by the arm, calm as a bailiff. The four of them passed through the rear door and clambered up into the flatbed of Anton’s pickup—Macon and Leo on the inside and Burleigh and Johnnie pressed against them, shoulder to shoulder. Anton fired up the engine and a scrim of dust kicked into the air, particles of mica glinting in the sun. He rambled his rig down the narrow, flat back road that trailed away from the little commercial lot.

The backs of the rest-stop buildings wizened, shrunk, and joined the past, and soon the road was surrounded by dense, intense greenery. Tangles of creeping wild vines formed a ground cover, and majestic, ancient-looking trees dotted the flat, endless land, casting wide nets of shade that provided the only relief from the yellow heat of the peaking sun. It was hard to know where the air’s humidity ended and your own perspiration began. Drops trickled down Macon’s forehead, into his eyes and ears. He blotted them as best he could, lifting his shirtsleeve to his face.

Johnnie opened beer after beer with his teeth, and passed them around. Macon gripped his bottle tightly, wondering what would happen if he turned and smashed it against Burleigh’s head. The hunting rifle lying across Anton’s passenger seat winked its one-eyed hypothesis.

“Much obliged,” called Anton, lifting his brew in tribute. Johnnie responded in kind, and there was quiet as both men took long tugs at their already-sweating bottles.

“So what would you boys like to see?” asked Burleigh, suddenly avuncular. He swung an arm toward the uncultivated fields, serene in their wildness. “It isn’t every day we get a visitor from up north.” Silence. “We could take a ride into town, huh, Leo? Show Macon how your people live—all crowded together in their shacks, too lazy to work? We might get shot at, though.” He lifted his hat, squinted appraisingly at the sun, and wiped his brow with the back of his bottle-hand. “More than a generation since the Honorable Dr. Martin Lucifer Coon got these niggers equal rights under the law, Macon, and you know what? They’re doing worse now than they were when my daddy was coming up. I swear, they were better off as slaves. From my mouth to Holy Christ’s ear, man. I seen ’em. Babies having babies, can’t take care of ’em. What’s the problem, you think, old-timer?”

Leo stared at him. “People like you,” he said, voice low and un-inflected. A bump in the road jostled them. Burleigh and Johnnie steadied themselves. Macon and Leo tipped briefly against their captors.

Burleigh was incredulous. “People like me! See, Macon, that’s just what I mean. How is this man’s problems my fault? I work honest hours, save my money, help my kids do homework. Earned what little I got. Meanwhile, niggers got affirmed-action jobs just waitin’ for ’em, welfare food, fuckin’ get-outta-jail-free cards. Hell, I’m broke as any one of ’em. But I got dignity. I came from something. Niggers got no self-respect, and hell, I wouldn’t either if I was one of ’em. But it ain’t my fault, old man. We done gave niggers a fish
and
taught ’em how to use a rod, and they’re still starvin’ to death!”

“So let them starve,” said Macon. He gestured at Leo with his bottle. “This is not letting them starve.”

“Well, no,” Burleigh admitted. “This is something else.” They rode in silence for a moment. Then Burleigh spoke again. “I can’t just let ’em starve, Macon, because they’re invading my home now.” He swigged his beer. “Tell him what you was tellin’ me about Bob Nathan, John.”

Johnnie pitched forward and Indian-crossed his legs, talking to Macon like they were old buddies chatting during the lulls in a Little League game. “I came home from hunting last Saturday, Macon,” he confided, tossing his empty bottle over his shoulder. The vegetation absorbed it soundlessly and Johnnie opened a new one. “And found my son Bob Nathan, eleven years old, with his hair all covered in gel and twisted up with rubber bands. Jumping up and down on my new couch and speaking in goddamn tongues, sounds like to me. His mother’s baking in the kitchen just like nothing’s wrong. I grab him by the arm and say, ‘Son, what the hell’s got into you?’ He looks at me and he says, ‘I’m a rapper, Paw, I’m Busta Rhymes.’ He seen some fuckin’ porch monkey monkeyin’ around on cable TV and now Bob Nathan thinks bein’ a nigger’s just the cat’s ass. I beat him till his butt was nigger-black, I tell you what. Put a quick stop to that foolishness.”

“No, you didn’t,” Macon said. He felt like laughing despite everything, laughing in the face of whatever they had in store for him because Bob Nathan, some anonymous Alabama cracker child, had done the East Coast Stomp and tried to lock his hair: The struggle hobbles on. “You didn’t put a stop to shit. That was how I started. Your son found something that moved him, and he’s gonna keep on looking for it. And if you try to stop him, he’ll just quit paying any attention to you at all.” A stupid, untrue bluff, thought Macon—Obi-Wan Kenobi telling Darth Vader, “If you strike me down, I shall grow more powerful than you can possibly imagine,” right before he bites the dust. And why did Macon want them to believe it, anyway? Stop trying to win, he told himself. You gave up on winning when you left New York. Try to survive instead.

“The legendary soulfulness of niggers.” Burleigh smiled, tilting his cap to provide more shade as the road turned and the vegetation grew sparser. “Never did see what the fuss was, myself. I watch them videos and all I see is asses shaking and coons cooning. And hell, I’d admit it if I saw it. White race doesn’t have to be the best across the board. If niggers could sing better, dance better, I’d say so. Hell, niggers can jump higher, stuff a basketball harder, probably run faster.” Burleigh’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “None of that wins ballgames, though.” He tapped his forehead. “Game’s ninety percent mental.” Another pickup was approaching, flatbed loaded down with lumber: the first vehicle they’d seen. Anton and the other driver exchanged waves.

“Shoot,” said Johnnie, glancing at Burleigh. “I’m a Michael Jordan fan. Nigger or not, that man was the best at what he did. I even bought my kid a Jordan video.” He snuck another look at Burleigh, who leaned back and crossed his arms reflectively. “I don’t hate niggers the way Burleigh here do,” he told Leo. The old man, his face a death mask, refused to even look at him. Envy flickered across Macon’s mind. Now that was dignity.

“I never said I hated niggers neither, Johnnie.” Burleigh stared daggers at his buddy. “And don’t you speak for me, you hear? Barely capable of speaking for yourself.” He drained his bottle, tossed it, and beckoned for another. “Niggers stay invisible to me, I ain’t gonna search ’em out and start no trouble. I don’t want my kids around ’em, I don’t trust ’em or like ’em, but I ain’t no Ku Kluxer. Hell, I used to work with several niggers down at the brewery, remember? Never had no problem with ’em whatsoever. Boys knew their places and we got on fine. Hatin’ niggers is like hatin’ cattle. Waste of time.

“What I do hate,” Burleigh continued, turning sideways to look at Macon, “is a man who doesn’t know who he is. You, Macon Detornay, are a disgrace to the white race.”

“So let Leo go,” said Macon. “You just said yourself he doesn’t matter.”

Burleigh and Johnnie looked at each other, then at Macon in disgust. “You goddamn faggot,” Burleigh said. He drew his knee back to his chest and kicked. His boot crunched sickeningly against Leo’s face, and the man’s head snapped back and then lolled to the side. Blood poured from his broken nose, seeping into his white cotton shirt.

“Hoo-whee!” whooped Johnnie, leaping up to examine him. With one hand on the cab for balance, he turned backward at the waist. “You knocked ol’ Leonardo into the middle of next week, Burl.” He thumped the roof with his fist. “Hey, Anton, looks like there’s a new placekicker in town.”

Burleigh raised his palms to his shoulders and shrugged, the reluctant disciplinarian, then let them fall into his lap and settle comfortably around his beer. “Now you can stop worrying,” he told Macon. “He don’t feel a thing. Far as him not mattering . . . well, Macon, he matters to me because he matters to you. You’re my primary concern.”

The land around them had opened up; parched yellowish grass stretched wide in all directions, three feet tall and buzzing with crickets. Strongholds of vines clumped here and there, huddling as if exhausted. The heat seemed to be too much for everything. Trees appeared infrequently now, and they were less imposing, more grandfatherly.

Burleigh squinted again at the relentless sun. “Quiet, huh? Not a soul for miles. Don’t know how y’all can function in New York. Think I’d ’bout lose my mind in all that ruckus.”

It wasn’t long before road dust caked Leo’s bleeding face like makeup. Johnnie slugged the dregs of his second beer and grinned. “He’s sure lightenin’ up some, ain’t he?”