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I have learned all this from reading books and watching the History Channel and Discovery because my town is tiny. It isn’t even on most maps, and we never had a representative. All our lives we wanted to matter, and we’ve applied for the Special Olympics, the Georgia Games, and the Capital Seat, all to no luck. We’ve tried, but our resources are limited until someone invests something in us, like time and a little money and a little outside influence.

So I guess what I’m saying is that I’m like my hometown, and I need someone to take a chance on me so I can prove my worth. And, I also would really like the chance to experience in person what I so far learned only on TV.

In regarding my major. There are over three hundred at Berkeley, and it’s hard to choose one when the most popular extracurricular activities here are 4-H, hunting, and Xbox. I like food and I observe that most people do as well. When the whistle blows at the mill the blacks go back to the Gully, the Mexicans to Ridgetown, and the Whites back here. But they all meet at the markets and after they talk about the weather, they exchange recipes. My parents are now making burritos and the Mexicans are eating headcheese, and for the best barbecue, Old Lou Davis has the biggest smoker and makes good pulled pork, but I’ve heard the Gully is where they have the best beef ribs. I think nutritional science and anthropology are my interests. To meet other people and learn how food can bring us together.

Thank you for considering my humble application.

I read on the YouTube advice link connected to the application page that we’re not supposed to end with a quote, especially from a book called “The Road Less Traveled.” Well, I guess I just did that anyway, but only to remind you that to get to some of my relatives we drive partway and walk the rest because they don’t have roads leading to where they live. (I hope you liked that.)

I gave up hunting and I’m a vegetarian and I think I’m ready to be released into society.

On another note, YouTube also said to be honest, so I must admit that the other reason I like UC Berkeley is because the only way I could get farther from home is to learn how to swim.

Sincerely,

Hopefully,

Daron Little May Davenport Class of ??!!

Daron stumbled across those letters shortly before Operation Confederation, as the 4 Little Indians had begun to call it. Rereading them he prickled with guilt.

I gave up hunting? I’m a vegetarian? I’m ready to be released into society? What was he thinking? Community? He’d never used that word so much in his life. Dear parole board! It was as though he had begged to be released from a cage of savage animals. What was wrong with hunting or eating meat? Nothing. Had he felt differently back then, or had he written what he thought they’d want to hear? He feared the worst. Even if it had felt honest at the time, he now recognized a shameful pleading, a palpable desperation, the stench of superiority.

Anxiety redoubled as self-reproach. Spring break was fast approaching, and he had better warn his mother. On the phone he asked her to request that Uncle Roy not use the N-word. His mother paused.

An word? she mused. Oh, in-words? Is that slang?

You know. Nigger.

Oh. Then louder, Oh! So you mean you are bringing friends. Okay, dear. I’ll make all the preparations.

And, ask, no, tell Quint not to make that Chinese joke.

What Chinese joke?

That thing he says that isn’t even funny. When Quint disagrees with something or someone, he says, Hell naw! Start that shit and next thing you know you’re Chinese. Not to mention—most definitely not to his mom—that to Quint, getting Chinese means getting high, and ordering Chinese means ordering dope.

Oh! You’re bringing home company. Don’t fret, D-dear.

Thanks, Mom. I owe you.

No charge, son, no charge. The full cost is no charge. She hummed for a moment her favorite Melba Montgomery song, No Charge. Don’t fret, dear, everyone will be on their best behavior.

And they would be. No one messed with his mother, who could stare a stone into sand. Could you also ask Dad to … well …

Yes, dear. We’ll move The Charlies.

The Charlies were what his father and grandfather called their black lawn jockeys, those two statues flanking the driveway, Serving with a smile. When referring to only one statue, they called it Tom, but together, and collectively, they were The Charlies. As in: Damned tractor went off the shoulder and took out my favorite Tom, they don’t make that size no more so I got to buy two new Charlies. As in: When are we lighting up The Charlies this year, Black Friday or December first? As in: Two Wongs don’t make a wang between ’em, but two Toms make The Charlies. He’d read both the Wikipedia and Uncyclopedia entries on Uncle Tom’s Cabin and found no connection. He knew it was supposed to be funny, but he never understood the joke, and didn’t think he wanted Candice or Louis or—good Lord, goodness, no—Charlie asking for an explanation about The Charlies. Charlie would take it in stride and Louis would say something funny, but Candice would go astral as she had after learning that Ishi meant man, that it was against Yahi custom to tell outsiders your name, that Ishi had no formal Yahi name because there were no surviving members of Ishi’s tribe to name Ishi, that Ishi therefore meant Ishi. She had, as Quint would say, gotten a red-eyed bull up her ass about Ishi, and Ishi wasn’t even alive.

Chapter Eight

¿Por qué? ¿Por qué no?

Porque, as she explained it, Ishi is Yahi for man, Ishi is Yahi for Ishi.

Porque, as she explained it, there was a difference between apologizing and anthropologizing, and neither excuse the desecration of a body.

Porque, as she explained it, they were Ishi’s remains. They are Ishi’s remains. If a picture was a captured soul, what the fuck was a book of them, what the fuck was a history of one people written by another, except an imaginary menagerie, a colonial shadowbox, a little foot warmer for those cold-existential evenings, an amulet against those starless, soulless nights?

You understood none of it, except the part about the foot warmer, which you knew was a myth of Northern aggression, though you daren’t interrupt when the spirit combed her tongue.

Mengapa? Mengapa tidak?

Is that Malay? Uh, you know I don’t actually speak Malay, except for curse words, right?

Mengapa? Mengapa tidak?

Kerana, as she explained it, if everything’s symbolic, then everything’s real. Then when we spread these ashes in Vallejo, people will know. They will know that UC Berkeley, supposedly the best public university in the world, took a man and made him live in a museum like an Epcot Center attraction, that we’re all in prison. That this is what public schools are. People will ask questions. People will demand answers. They will find there are none, and that will be the beginning of a reckoning … (A nod at you.)

What you talking ’bout, Willis?

What I’m talking ’bout, Willis, she explained, is how could any decent human force the last living member of a tribe to live in a museum? Ishi, how Ishi must have dreamed at night, how Ishi must have dreamed. How Ishi must dream even now. Though the museum and Kroeber both promised that Ishi’s body would not be desecrated, Ishi was autopsied in defiance of Native custom, Ishi’s body cremated, and Ishi’s brain wrapped in deerskin and shipped by mechanical conveyance to the Smithsonian. Ishi! How Ishi must dream.

Candice was not reassured to learn that the Smithsonian repatriated the body. Would we commend a stock market swindler for repaying stolen funds? Plan A: We’re taking Ishi to Six Flags and we’re riding Medusa and we’re releasing Ishi at the summit, and …

¿Cómo? Bagaimana? How? A padded bra! With three pounds of ashes double-packed in eight lucky-ass Ziploc bags, duct-taped like Styrofoam padding lining a bike helmet inside a Victoria’s Secret triple-D underwire, she’d put the pied piper out of a job, or at least off of it: the Six Flags guard checking her bag didn’t see anything in that shadow, not the collapsed box that would be the urn, not the clutch of feathers, not the half pint of Old Grand-Dad, none of it. She had borrowed Charlie’s rugby jersey, and damned if a spontaneous folk etymology didn’t cleave your brain as scrum took on a whole new meaning.

(Is it that … could you be … are you … might you be predisposed to objectify women, to remain stunted in what one prof called abject masculinity? Are you unfit for the university, the universe where no one has a body? A shame you cannot name scores you. For one class last fall, you read Andrea Dworkin, Akasha Gloria Hull, Martha Nussbaum, and at least a dozen other feminist authors, including Naomi Wolf and John Stoltenberg, both of whom argue that even the idea of physical attraction is socially constructed, argue that no one is innately beautiful, argue that society just told you so—about certain people. You found, though, that the more you tried looking at Candice and not thinking about her as a body, but as a person, the more you thought about her body. And now this!)

So there you are. At the picnic table. The air at last out of Candice’s balloons; and right before lunch, YOU made extended trips to the bathroom and let some pressure out of yours. But your palms are sweaty, and your feet, and you avoid looking at the guards—who all stare at you—and the ride attendants, too, and you get it. You know what he means. You want to tell him you understand how it feels, but he will say for you this is only today, for me this is everyday, every day—watched, followed, harassed—everyday. But, still, you get it. You wish you knew what to say to him, how to begin the conversation. Instead, you let him sit next to her, which he does in silence, as do the rest of you until the agreed-upon time, eyes on hands, feet, legs, neck, everything but Candice, until show time, when YOU learn that nothing, no purses, no hats, and certainly no glossy cardboard boxes can accompany riders on the Medusa. Because. The attendant Pearl pointed to the sign overhead, a periodic chart of pictograms among which, Candice insisted, she saw no cardboard boxes. One hand on her hip, rocking heel-to-toe in her thick-soled grudge-green Doc Martens, Pearl lectured them on the many perils of high-speed travel in unpiloted vehicles. Ever seen a pair of AA batteries fly out of a camera and slam into someone’s face at 110 kilometers an hour? Know what a can of Mountain Dew can do at those speeds? A book? A Big Mac?

To Daron’s amazement, Candice didn’t try to persuade the attendant to change her mind. As the 4 Little Indians retreated, Candice snorted. All she had to say of Pearl was, She’d wear black nail polish if they let her.

COULD A BEAK BE TOO PINK? Daron wondered as they instituted a hasty plan B. After having been turned away from Medusa and discovering that the highest point in the park, the Volcano, was inaccessible to pedestrians, Candice swiveled her scope toward the heart, the center of the park, the fountain, a circular basin finished in stucco and slate and surrounded by tiny red flowers, a fount from which surged a curtain of mist shaped like an inverted Bundt pan and ribbed by a dozen sprouts of water, and from the center of that erupted three bronze dolphins imprisoned eternally in the hazy bell jar, their bowed bodies predicting long arcs, their eyes on points distant.

The sculptures had appeared to piss Candice off more than anything else. She had rounded the fountain twice, tracing a larger circle with her feet, her backpack clopping loudly whenever she stopped to stomp on the three spots where the dolphins would land were the miraculous to occur. Even the fucking statues want to be free! Hungry, and so tired, Louis and Charlie had taken a seat on a nearby wrought-iron bench. Daron stood midway between Candice and his buddies, between the bench and the fountain, feeling as he had all morning—like an emissary, an ambassador, the diplomatic hotline between squabbling republics. He had encouraged Candice not to give up, if it was important to her. He had encouraged Louis and Charlie to have patience when waiting in line, though he hadn’t expected Louis to interpret that as license to hold a conversation with Candice’s breasts (which she adjusted far, far too often for Daron’s liking). Lastly, he had waved them all together once Candice decided on a spot. Charlie and Louis staggered over with the enthusiasm of teen relations visiting Seventh-Day Adventists on a Saturday morning, taking stilted, robotic steps as if they had no ankles.

Candice arranged them in a semicircle around the cardboard urn, armed them each with ceremonial feathers, furs, and ornaments (all made of red paper, which Louis assured them was okay because Chinese people did that for funerals). Charlie had a Native bracelet he’d received as a gift. Louis donned a Burger King crown, the paper plumes willowed with gaudy jewels, glass trinkets he’d bought at one of Berkeley’s many bead stores. Candice wore a dream catcher around her neck right where her oversize crumb catchers had been earlier. She laid out an arc of smooth rocks between the three of them and Ishi’s urn, and two larger concentric arcs between Ishi and what she called, The Outside World. Atop Ishi she placed a paper tomahawk. I’ll read something I’ve found online. She waggled her phone. It will take maybe two minutes tops. On her cue they held hands and began to hum. Her only instruction being, Hum!, Daron was surprised that they quickly fell into harmony as surely as if they had rehearsed for weeks, and he felt a nervous thrill whenever someone glanced in their direction. She restarted reading her passage at least four times because every fifteen fucking seconds a kid dragged his mommy or his nanny or his daddy or sometimes, because it was California, his mommies, or more rarely, his daddies over to see, Oooooohhhh powwow. Candice always wanted the kid to hear the whole thing. She was like the teacher he’d had in eighth grade who believed, You can only combat absenteeism and truancy with love. If you were late, no matter how late, she’d catch you up on what had happened so far, stopping the entire class to greet every tardy student like the prodigal son. The only reason she wasn’t fired was because, Methuselah be damned, she could trick the sun into oversleeping, as Daron overheard a teacher say one afternoon at Lou’s.

Mrs. Price. That was her name. Eighth-grade D’aron—aka Mr. Davenport, aka Dim Ding-Dong, bka (better known as) Faggot—had always wanted to come in late enough so that for just a minute or two, Mrs. Price would devote all her attention to him and only him, and he would have a feeling all over that was a mix between a warm bath and rubbing his groin against the kitchen sink, which was unavoidable when reaching for the tap. Mrs. Price, smells so nice, Mrs. Price, let me taste your spice, Mrs. Price, let me juggle your dice—always snake eyes, must have come to Daron’s mind because he stood between Candice and Charlie, and the hand Candice’s held—and that hand only—was clammy, that entire arm warm and tingling as if it had fallen asleep and been violently awoken.

Like criminals, kids attract each other, and soon eight children sat in a row before them, clapping at the end of Candice’s every sentence. Fortunately, their parents appreciated the break and relaxed on nearby benches—close enough to watch their children, but not close enough to get a good look at our 4 Little Indians. One of the kids stared like Daron was somebody important, and he had to admit the kid was cute. From a passing first aid attendant—Whassup? From a short black kid pushing a broom—a nod. From a cute brunette driving the handicapped golf cart—a wave. From the fountain—Dribble dribble. Briefly, it all felt very natural. Then came Tweety Bird, whom Daron had never seen up close. Then came a Latina who stopped at the insistence of her two blond charges, twin boys about waist-years-old. The crowd had grown. The kids hummed along as best they could, harmonic as a holiday hymnody. Candice chanted:

You are the sparrow’s song, the crow’s caw

The rose’s fragrance, the spring thaw

In our hearts you live forever,

Children will celebrate your brave endeavors

And we’ll take strength from your resolve

Until we meet again in heaven above

Charlie squeezed Daron’s hand, motioning at the nearby twin boys. One twin did cartwheels while the other coyly reached for a paper feather. Candice hissed him away. The Latina in charge of the twins made an apologetic face, more so, it seemed, for her powerlessness than for the twins’ behavior.

But Tweety deserved the attention, now only yards to their left, her fluffy finger dragging through the air like that of a director shadowed in the stage wings, resigned to her cast’s tendency toward insurgency. But this Tweety, as Louis pointed out in an inching whisper, has a clitoris-colored tongue—a hot one—a clitoris-colored tongue with a soft groove as inviting as a warm hot dog bun. Behold the blessed velvety furrow! And this Tweety, much to Daron’s surprise, is too pink in the beak, too pink for him to be at the same time holding Candice’s hand, too pink for him to be at the same time having random memories of Mrs. Price, such as a vivid image of the scrumptious freckle centered in the cleft of her chin, peeking down the split in her bib, pink enough to threaten a hot and perhaps soon not-so-private bristling, and about this he feels that confusion, that particular confusion he felt after the first time he knew himself in the biblical sense and lay there for some long, huffing minutes, afraid to look down because he thought he’d peed in his hand. It was a particular confusion that provided the only reliable refuge against shame.

Again, Candice hissed away the twins, but these two Willy Wonka rejects were professionals and used their similarity to great advantage. One would dance, try walking on his hands, mime—anything to distract, while the other wreaked havoc, stealing other kids’ toys, poking children, both of them acting all around like midget assholes. Louis tried motioning to the nanny, and Candice shushed him. But I didn’t say anything. Shushed again. One twin danced wild in a scuba mask while the other snuck behind them again and grabbed the paper tomahawk, upsetting Ishi.

Was Daron the only one to notice that Tweety Bird’s eyelashes were too, too long, fine strokes tapering gently up and across the forehead, framing blue eyes almost as big as Candice’s? And again, that particular confusion; he couldn’t bear to look down, the hot bristling now a full-on shadow box, noun and verb, so he dropped to one knee right as the wind scooped Ishi up and along the sidewalk and to the wider world.

Ishi, Candice yelled, Ishi, we commend you to the wind.

Tweety, hand to her temple as if compressing a wound, caterwauled as if she tawt she taw a putty cat, stirring the crowd out of their enchantment. The audience politely danced the ashes off their feet and applauded. Tweety, hand still to mouth, scurried off as best she could, knees cycling as if pushing pedals, those canary clodhoppers working the ground like snowshoes.

Chapter Nine

At the San Francisco airport Charlie discreetly pulled Daron aside and asked if there was anything he needed to know, if he should expect more crazy-Colonel-Sanders types of people in Braggsville. After the Ishi Incident, the 4 Little Indians had been invited to eat with a charming Southern couple who, as promised, made the best fried chicken west of the Mississippi. The couple, by Daron’s mind, had exemplified Southern hospitality by sharing with the hungry Indians what food they had, by making space at their dining table for strangers. Was Charlie offended because that table had been plastic and they’d sat on metal folding chairs? Daron hoped Charlie wouldn’t be so particular when meeting his relations. My mother, warned Daron, despises people who wear shoes without socks, and anyone who eats non-finger-foods with their fingers, like picking up the last pea. They had a good laugh over that, at least Charlie did.

While Charlie, Candice, and Louis were fastening seat belts and returning chair trays to the upright and locked position, it dawned on Daron that though he’d asked his mom to move The Charlies, he’d neglected to mention the mammies from New Orleans, Salt and Pepper Climb on Cucumber, as well as the Bibinba, Zwarte Pieten, and Hajji Firuz dolls his cousins had picked up while stationed abroad, not to mention the Blackface Soap and Watermelon Whistler tins. And that strange guy with the big grin dressed in only a loincloth and turban. That they were antiques, that they were valuable, that they were gifts wasn’t going to make Candice feel any better about them.

It’s not that the Davenports had never had black people around their house before, or even a Chinese guy once, but never a Malaysian who looked Chinese to some and Indian to others, fancied himself black at times, and wanted to be the next Lenny Bruce Lee; a preppy black football player who sounded like the president and read Plato in Latin; and a white woman who occasionally claimed to be Native American. They were like an overconstructed novel, each representative of some cul-de-sac of idiolect and stereotype, missing only a handicapped person—No! At Berkeley we say handi-capable person—and a Jew and a Hispanic, and an Asian not of the subcontinent, Louis always said. He had once placed a personals ad on Craigslist to recruit for those positions: Diverse social club seeking to make quota requires the services of East Asian, Jew, Hispanic, and handicapable individuals to round out the Multicultural Brady Bunch Troupe. All applicants must be visibly identifiable as members of said group. Reform Jews and ADHDers need not apply. Daron felt now as he had when people had started responding to that ad, that he couldn’t help but expect a spectacular disaster.

HARTSFIELD-JACKSON ATLANTA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT was among the most active transportation hubs in the world, in some years ranked the busiest. Daron never claimed Atlanta as his own, nor did anyone at home, but when they landed, he acted as tour guide, sharing all he had read online, and there was much to tell, see, and do on the long journey from Terminal E to baggage claim. Modern art graced the terminals and African sculptures lined the underground walkway. Any kind of food could be found, or movies rented, or prayers proffered, but that’s not what captivated them, not what had Candice shy, Charlie bright-eyed, Louis agape, and Daron feigning indifference, affecting an at-home swagger.

Theyselves were porters, skycaps, desk agents. TSA and armed officers. Businessmen, mothers, families. Teens traveling alone. Clerks and janitors, not to mention the pianist entertaining diners in the international terminal food court. Waitresses, waiters. Flight attendants. Was that Waka and Gucci? A pilot even! Tall short fat. Pretty ugly glamorous. Theyselves were flamboyant and poised. Rambunctious and composed. Svelte and slovenly. But mostly middle class and well-to-do, from the looks of them. Atlanta’s nickname was well earned; a Chocolate City indeed it was.

Beyond baggage claim, the 4 Little Indians were equally mesmerized. Daron was reminded again how different Atlanta was from most of Georgia, and from Berkeley or San Francisco even. It was impossible not to notice when theyselves comprised more than 50 percent of the population (especially when they were only 3 percent of Berkeley). Circling the concourse in vehicles ranging from beaters to Beemers, but mostly the latter, their significant middle class was outdone only by their extensive upper-middle class. Charlie, Candice, and Louis stared in awe as an elegant middle-aged woman clicked past them, the fox staring back as she flung her stole over her shoulder while wheeling a Tumi to a red convertible Aston Martin, the engine idling like Lord of Misrule nuzzling the gate before that famous derby. The driver, of average height and build, greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, leaning back between each one as if to get a look at her. It was impossible not to feel pleasure at their reunion.

Candice nudged Daron, Famous?

Who they were, Daron didn’t know; the driver was obviously no athlete and too old to be a rapper. This was normal for Atlanta. He’d even heard that southwest of the city was a vast tract of milliondollar-plus homes all owned by blacks, a fact he proudly shared. Welcome to the new South.

It’s like being Asian in SF, or it must be, Charlie mused aloud.

Daron was glad it was Charlie who’d said it.

Except it looks like they have more money here.

Daron’s mother nosed her boxy white Ford Bronco into the space behind the Aston Martin. She clapped with glee and skipped to greet her D’aron, smothering him in kisses. Don’t be embarrassed, they have parents, too. She affectionately greeted each of his friends with a kiss on the cheek.

Actually, Charlie doesn’t. Daron regretted how that sounded when Candice glared at him.

Is that so? She tilted her head and turned on her heels to face Charlie.

It’s my dad, ma’am.

So sad. She kissed him again, squeezing his arms. You’re a big boy.

Yes, ma’am.

See! She elbowed Daron. He didn’t wipe his off. Charlie is a young man with good home training. She turned to Charlie, You play football? Cutting her eyes at Daron, she added, Forgive me if I’m essentializing.

Whatever! Daron began loading the luggage into the car, starting with Candice’s Hello Kitty bag, which momentarily reminded him of Kaya, and he wondered what Kaya would make of this Atlanta place, as she liked to phrase things. More importantly, though, what would Candice make of Braggsville? Straining to heft an oversize duffel with Fu Manchu mustache patches sewn onto either end, he was surprised again that the distinction of having the largest bag went not to Candice, but to Louis, whose only explanation was, Stuff.

Your mom’s so friendly, Louis added.

Daron nodded glumly; handlebar-headed was more like it. She’s not normally so saccharine.

Before leaving Cali, they had agreed to speak French or Spanish as necessary for security, but Daron knew his mother wouldn’t know that word anyway, at least not as an adjective. Nonetheless, a hurt look passed across her face.

Play what you like on the radio, she offered in a grim voice, jerking the seat belt as if closing a coat against the cold.

With Louis cooking up a story about every trucker they passed, and Charlie explaining to Daron’s mom what life was like as a poor kid in a rich boarding school, something he’d never even mentioned to Daron, the two-hour drive passed pleasantly enough, and before he knew it, Candice, who read every single printed letter and punctuation mark along the highway (emphasizing the many Indian names)—a fact Daron was glad to have learned before they went on an extended road trip—yelled, Welcome to Braggsville, The City That Love Built in the Heart of Georgia, Population 712. Was there a Bragg? Candice asked.

Sure was.

Signs for the reenactment adorned every corner, each one a line drawing of a Civil War soldier superimposed over the Confederate battle flag. The signs promised THRILLING HISTORY AND HERITAGE, BREATHTAKING SCENERY AND SOUND EFFECTS, and the EDUCATIONAL EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME all at the Pride Week Patriot Days Festival. Red, white, and blue lights strung across Main Street blinked, illuminating the matching streamers wrapped around the light poles. Enormous Confederate flags dressed the watchtower—strung high enough to ensure passersby a clear view of the memorial plaques dotting each of the walls. Four men in full Confederate regalia stepped into the crosswalk, spaced like the Beatles on the Abbey Road album cover, one even barefoot. Candice fumbled over her iPhone.

Dear, don’t you ask people before taking their photograph? asked Daron’s mom as she steered the car into the parking lot of Lou Davis’s Cash-n-Carry Bait Shop and Copy Center.

Excuse me, ma’am. Candice, surprisingly chagrined, powered off her phone and slipped it into her pocket.

Lou’s? asked Daron.

They’re expanding, she explained. To Candice, she smiled. No need to apologize.

Lou’s? asked Daron.

Look at it. They’re expanding.

Lou Davis’s was designed in the style of an old general store with a faux plank face. Old Man Davis had torn down the original dovetail chink log cabin and replaced it with this cinder-block structure back in the forties. For a long time, it was the town’s central landmark. (Everything was measured by its distance from Lou’s, the watchtower, or the tree known as Miss Keen, even though that old sweet gum had long ago been debilitated by canker and had succumbed, at last, to a careening Walmart rig driven by a Mexican barely tall enough to see over the instrument panel and so when the stewing citizens arrived at the scene to find only one slight young man no taller than a three-year-old Christmas tree, they assumed that the operator had run off and took pity on the young Latino. The state trooper had called him, One lucky jumping bean. No one likes Walmart. They tolerate it because it’s cheap, but no one likes it.) When the reenactments were reinstated back in the 1950s in response to mandated integration, Lou installed the fake wood front, For the sake of authentic-nessity. (Lou used -nessity the way Gulls used Texas Pete hot sauce.) A room that doubled the size of the store was now being added to the right, jutting out into the parking lot. A handmade sign with a border of roses drawn with a highlighter promised that dine-in seating was coming soon, though obviously not in time for this year’s reenactment. Daron recognized Lee Anne’s writing and wondered if she’d be working. The exposed cinder blocks contrasted with the wooden front, reminding Daron that the store wasn’t historic, only dirty and cluttered. Inside, though, was cleaned up significantly. It was brightly lit, the new tile floor shiny, and, the biggest surprise, central air had replaced the dusty old black fan. (I love the sound of a compressor in the summer, a line the locals often intoned in the manner of Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now.) Rheanne Davis, Lou’s youngest granddaughter and one of Daron’s early hitches, and with whom he had shared many a milk shake for one summer in high school, sat behind the register reading People. Behind her was the updated copy center, an all-in-one inkjet printer and scanner. Back then he’d been heartbroken by her decision to take time apart, and wrote her every night for a month, though he never mailed the letters. He wasn’t that foolish. He did, however, relish this moment to introduce her to his new friends, but hoped she wouldn’t mention their previous relationship, not with those bleached bangs and the T-shirt dress.