Flyover States, page 23
To keep from writing, I drink tea and think about the factory, Mona, and Jimmy D., the other guys at the factory who love our president, my brother and his buddies who hate our president. The interesting thing, to me, is that the same guy represents two different types of a man. The down-home country boy versus the elitist oil heir, depending on one’s position and point of view. Obvious enough. I get to thinking about pictures of ourselves that we hope to present to the world. What did a brochure of me playing tennis say? Especially since I’d never held a tennis racket until that damn picture. What would a picture of me working in a factory say to students of color hoping to study at Langsdale? Which picture did I prefer? Which one, if either, was really me? I keep thinking of pictures and politics and start to flip through Morrison’s Playing in the Dark. I stop at the epigraph in the chapter called “Black Matters,” and read a T. S. Eliot quote about fancies curled around images.
Interesting, but nothing helpful. I go to my bookshelf because I remember that I have another book edited by Morrison, a book on the Anita Hill-Clarence Thomas hearings, and “the construction of social reality.” Professor Lind put the book on the suggested reading list, which meant required. I flip through the pages. This is it. Politics. Clarence Thomas. Othello. Both suffering under pictures other people have of them, but both trying to create a picture for themselves that they hope will make their lives easier. Bingo. I get nervous and excited and type my paper title:
A Picture Worth a Thousand Gazes
Othello the Moor of Venice, and Clarence Thomas,
the Supreme Court Justice Nominee:
Two Brothers Who Believed the Hype
I don’t kid myself. I’m no Derrida, Morrison, Žižek or Lacan. But I do have ideas. I have some fun with the paper, and I write all day and all night. I don’t answer my phone, I don’t go out for anything. I stay underground, and I write. I open with a paragraph that’s borderline cheesy but writerly, and I almost delete it when I remember what Professor Lind told me about my last paper: it sucked. I was trying to be something that I wasn’t. Even that obvious observation is so suddenly relevant to my paper, and my paper is relevant—I think, I hope—to life.
In two days, I go from excited about my paper, to tired of it. I can’t wait to hand it off to Professor Lind. I hope it’s good, but I’m so burnt-out that it doesn’t matter. It’s not a Valtek kind of burnt-out, but the kind of burnt-out that won’t allow me to put two words together and have it make sense. But I don’t care. The paper’s done. I’m done. I knock on Professor Lind’s door, which is still a scary thing. I knock softly, almost hoping she’s not there, so I can just put it in her mailbox.
“Come in.”
It’s a sharp and loud command, almost as if there’s no door between us. I turn the knob and poke my head in. “Hi, Professor Lind.”
“Veronica. Sit.” She motions toward The Chair with her glasses.
When I sit, she reaches for my paper. I give it to her and remember that I forgot to spellcheck the damn thing, like one of my undergrads. I’m a fraud.
She puts her glasses back on and lifts the first page by the bottom corner. She reads the title aloud. “That’s interesting,” she says, peering at me over her glasses. I pick at a hangnail while she starts reading with a raised eyebrow, and I imagine my sentences in her head as I watch her read the first paragraph:
One picture. A sharecropper. I was looking at an old photograph of a black man in overalls, sitting in a chair in a field. He looked like he was a sharecropper or some other kind of field worker, much like many pictures of black rural men circa 1930. That’s exactly what it looked like, so that’s what he must have been. But he wasn’t. This man, my grandfather, a man I’d never met, worked in a rock quarry, nowhere near a field or a crop.
I go on to make, I hope, salient, fascinating points about multiple gazes and identity; “decolorizing” and “reclassing” oneself. I cite it up the ass, too, so the paper can be a legitimate, graduate seminar paper with all the obligatory heavy hitters. Of course, it’s probably full of typos, which I try not to think about.
Professor Lind puts the paper down on top of a stack of papers, probably that horrible Iris’s and know-it-all John’s are already there, perfect, not a typo in sight.
“Well,” she says, propping her foot up on her knee. “Do you?”
I clear my throat. “Do I what?”
“Believe the hype.”
“About what?” I’m still feeling like an idiot here, and this conversation ain’t helping me out. I picture Ray staring at me and adjusting his cap.
“Continuing for a doctorate degree. Have you figured out why you’re thinking of doing it?”
Not really. I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll take the MFA and run. Maybe I’ll stay on for five more years so I can walk away with a Ph.D. I ask myself why I’m drawn toward something that I’m calling the Country Club. The answer, I guess, is that I don’t want the club, the MEMBERS ONLY elitism. What I want is the stuff in the club. And I want the stuff in the club to be for me, and for everybody—if they want it. And I know Earl is right. You’re lucky if you end up doing what you love to do. And why can’t I make a life out of books? Why should I have to do what my father wants, take up something more “practical” so I can make the money that he and my mother never have been able to make? Am I supposed to hand over the academic job to people like Iris and John because they’re entitled to it and I’m not? Do I find another La Varian and become a nice little professor’s wife? Hang up my fishnets forever? Does everything have to be so either-or? A perfect fit? I remind myself: Don’t think binaries. A little of this, a little of that. “I haven’t figured it out,” I answer.
Professor Lind gives me one of her long stares. “Fair enough,” she says. “I, myself, am still trying to figure out why I do it.”
I smile. Then I stand up.
“The papers will be graded by next week,” she says, turning away from me and back toward her desk. “You can leave the door open on your way out.”
We’re all standing under a banner that says WELCOME TO THE LANGSDALE COUNTY FAIR—149TH YEAR! The sun is vicious and it smells like hay, swampy mud, animals and corn dogs. James keeps cleaning his sunglasses and bending down to wipe the mud off his fancy running shoes, Paolo rambles on about the baby pageant at one o’clock, Doris is walking hand in hand with Zach, looking like Holly Golightly out on a date with Clark Kent, and I’m standing around in a bright green silk sarong and my dreadlocks pulled up in a loose bun. It’s noon, and Earl’s going to meet us in front of the baby pageant at one.
“It’ll tickle me to see you at the fair, Ronnie,” he’d said when we stopped by the Saloon a few nights ago. I was going to ask, What do you mean by that? But now that I look at us all standing around looking crazier than any hog wrestler—which we, of course, made fun of the whole way here—I see Earl’s point.
“At one is the baby pageant,” Paolo reminds us again. “And then at two-thirty is hog wrestling. We have to.”
James looks around suspiciously. I follow his gaze and it seems like everything at this fair is covered in red, white and blue. “I don’t think we should walk around too much.”
“What?” Zach asks. “Why?”
“The natives look restless,” he says. When Paolo tries to take his hand, he pulls it away. “Toto, we’re definitely not in San Francisco anymore.”
Paolo smirks. “Not standing by your man?” He sighs and looks down at the fair schedule he’s been carrying. “Pictures with Pete the Pony at four,” he announces. “I’m totally doing that.”
“I’m getting my corn dog first,” Doris says. She adjusts her big black hat and pushes her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. Then she fluffs out her red polka-dot skirt, which looks as if it has a petticoat under it. She’s beautifully and appropriately dressed for the fair—if it were 1952.
Zach looks at her, admires her, but also shakes his head. “Aren’t you hot with all that on?”
“Nope,” she says. “I got this skirt, and these shoes, online for a steal. Marc Jacobs,” she says.
“Well,” Zach says, “as long as you’re comfortable.” He puts his arm around her waist and pulls her close to him. Her hat pokes him on the ear, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses her on the cheek.
“I’m getting my fried green tomatoes,” I add. “I keep seeing people walking around with big plates of greasy burnt tomatoes, and I want.”
James scrunches up his face. “Gross. Have you guys heard of these things called arteries?”
“I’m in,” Paolo says. “I’m going to try it all. Corn dogs, corn on the cob, tomatoes, pickles, cotton candy. But baby pageant,” he says. “Let’s at least start walking toward it.”
“Okay,” James agrees, still looking around. “But remember, I was like the guy in the horror films who says, ‘Let’s not go into that abandoned house.’”
We weave ourselves slowly through the crowd and stop now and then at a food stand or game booth. The Langsdale fair does look like something out of a movie. Not a horror film, but any film set that’s supposed to look like any small town in the middle of America. There are American flags everywhere, tiny plastic ones, big banners, ribbons decorating all the booths, show stages and rides. People look robust—hearty and cornfed—or they look thin and raillike, character actors with leathery faces. The kids are tall and lanky or thick and round, with golden complexions and long shiny hair or crew cuts. Every once in a while, we get what I think is a “look” from someone and then I believe James is right about us all walking together. We are an odd group of folks, like stray members of an old-fashioned freak show. Instead of the Bearded Lady, the Monkey Boy or the Giant, we’ve got the San Franciscans, the Anachronistic Fashion Plate, the Man Who Knits and the Lone Negro.
When we reach the pageant stage, there’s a small crowd. I look for Earl but I can’t find him in the crowd. He blends like any other Langsdale man here.
“It’s going to start soon,” Paolo says. He pulls a pink piece of fluff from his cotton candy.
“I’ve never seen a baby pageant—except for on TV,” Doris says.
I look up at the stage, which is still empty. It’s five minutes before the pageant starts. I’ve seen the pageants on TV, and I do think they’re a little strange, the sexualizing of little girls, dressing them up like little come-hither women. But I want to see them anyway.
“Ronnie.”
I turn toward the voice to see Earl grinning at me. “You found us,” I say. I hug him hello and feel self-conscious about it, partly because touching Earl is still a new thing to me, and partly because I can’t help but feel that the Lone Negro hugging the Biker Lawyer is a strange sight.
Everyone says hello to him and I introduce him to James, who immediately glances at Paolo. I’m mad at myself for a second, because that fool’s glance actually makes me more unsure of myself, like a high school kid not sure she can be in with the in crowd.
“Show’s starting,” Zach says. We all turn toward the stage. A woman with a neat bun clears her throat into the microphone.
“Welcome to the 25th Annual Langsdale County Fair baby pageant!”
The crowd claps and whistles.
“In a minute, we gone start the show,” she says, “but first I want to thank our sponsors—Laney’s TV and Antenna, Al’s Glass Service, Hurm’s Pulverized Topsoil and Grandview Aluminum Products!”
More claps and whistles.
“And I just want to remind y’all that the Little Miss Langsdale County, Junior Miss Langsdale County and the Miss Langsdale County Fair Scholarship pageants are all coming up later in the day, and our sponsors have generously donated more than two thousand dollars in prize money!” She tucks the microphone under her arm so she can clap. “And now, let’s start the pageant. Y’all are going to see some beautiful little angels today.”
Paolo turns to look at me and Doris. He winks. Then he hunches his shoulders and claps his hands like an excited kid.
The little girls come out one by one and it is the cutest thing. They’re so tiny and perfect, they don’t seem real. The next little girl who comes out is especially beautiful, with jet-black curls and sharp green eyes. She’s wearing a miniature pink chiffon gown and little pink fishnets.
“Look at that one,” Paolo says. “She’s fabulous.”
The woman with the microphone says, “Tiffany’s hobbies are singing, dancing and playing with her pet frog.”
The crowd laughs and claps.
Someone screams out, “That’s my baby! Yay, Tiffany!”
I turn in the direction of the voice because I know it’s Mona. I’ve never seen her looking so excited and happy. She’s standing next to a tall boy who must be her son.
“There’s Mona Cantrell,” Earl says. He’s been standing behind me the whole time and I’ve been leaning into him, but not too much.
“You know Mona?” I ask. “Don’t tell me she’s your cousin, too.”
Earl laughs. “I know practically everybody, Ronnie. Mona used to go with a buddy of mine.”
“Her little girl’s gorgeous. I bet she wins.”
“Bet you she does, too,” Earl says.
At the end of the pageant, Mona’s little girl takes second place and one hundred bucks. Mona would have to work two days at Valtek to earn that kind of money. I know what that hundred bucks means to Mona and her kids, so I don’t think about Tiffany’s objectification as much as I think about how hard it is for some folks to get ahold of one hundred dollars. And who knows? Maybe Tiffany will go to L.A. and become a big star. Make enough money to buy her hardworking mother a big house. There are worse fates.
We’ve seen it all: the puppet theater, the egg toss, the hog wrestling and the demolition derby. Even James liked that. The sun’s going down, and all of us—except for James—look a little green from all the fair food. We’re walking to the parking lot slowly, looking deflated.
“Why did you all let me eat two corn dogs?” Doris moans and rubs her belly.
“Three,” Paolo corrects her.
“Ronnie?” Earl says. He stops walking. “Let me give you a ride home on my bike.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“You didn’t even think about it before you said no,” Doris says. “You should totally ride it.”
“Yeah,” Zach adds. “I love motorcycles. I would.”
Doris looks at him. “You would?”
“Can we see it?” Zach says, and soon we’re all walking over to Earl’s bike. We stand around admiring it.
“This is my hog.” Earl beams with pride. He runs his hand along one of the handlebars.
It is kind of neat-looking. Earl’s got it shined up perfectly. It’s black with a lot of chrome.
“Wow,” Paolo utters.
“Come on, Ronnie. I ain’t gone let nothing happen to you.”
I’m thinking about it and am almost convinced, when I notice a tall man leaning against the back of his truck. Staring. He’s parked behind Earl’s bike, about two feet away. His arms are crossed and his long ponytail trails down over them. When I see his dark eyes, I have to look away because they aren’t nice.
Earl follows my gaze. “Evenin’,” he says, and nods at the man. When the man doesn’t say anything, Earl says it again. “Evenin’.”
The man mutters something that none of us catch—except for Earl.
“See?” James whispers. “What’d I tell you? We’re going to get strung up.”
Because the man’s leaning against the center of his Chevy, I can read the letters CHE to his left and LET to his right. I can see the stickers on either side of his bumper, too. MY GUN KILLED LESS PEOPLE THAN TED KENNEDY’S CAR and GUN CONTROL MEANS USING TWO HANDS.
Shit. That pain-in-the-ass James is right.
Earl stands up straight. “What’d you say?”
The man says nothing. Then he spits off to the side.
I touch Earl, and he looks down at my fingertips resting on his forearm. “Let’s just go, Earl, okay?” He puts his hand on top of mine and squeezes it before he lifts it off his arm. “No, Ronnie,” he says slowly. “It ain’t okay.” He turns toward the man. “You got a problem?”
The man narrows his dark eyes. “No,” he says. “But it looks like by the company you keeping that you do.”
Everybody’s quiet. The rest of us all stare at one another. Zack points his thumb over his shoulder and mouths let’s go.
“Let’s go, Earl,” I say.
Earl won’t leave it alone, though. “Buddy,” he warns, and takes a step toward the man. “I think you’re tending to somebody else’s business.”
He and Earl hold each other’s gazes for a moment, and then the man finally uncrosses his arms, stands up and walks to the driver’s side of his car. It feels as if we’re all holding our breaths until he drives away.
“I’m sorry, y’all,” Earl tells us.
Doris shakes her head. “What are you apologizing for? That was awesome. Total Clint Eastwood.”
I remember how Charlie shook hands with Pat Boone’s look-alike in L.A. and I’m proud of Earl.
Earl grins. “Sometimes folks can’t help being assholes. Excuse me, ladies,” he says, looking at me and Doris. “I don’t mean to cuss in front of you.”
Paolo’s eyes get big. “Oh, puhleeze,” he says. “These two sailors?”
Earl laughs and then turns to me. He sounds serious. “Get on the bike, Ronnie. I ain’t gone ask you again.”
Maybe it was Earl’s tone that sounded full of machismo and testosterone. Very Italian. But I decide to get on his bike. Earl gives me his helmet, and I have to take my hair down so I can wear it. Earl watches my hair spill around my shoulders. “Pretty,” he says. He hesitates and then he says, “Give me a kiss.”
I panic because I wasn’t expecting that request. I look at Doris, Zach, James and Paolo all staring at us. Doris has a big grin on her face and Paolo looks charmed and misty, like he’s watching a chick flick.
