Photo by Renee Fisher on Unsplash
At 10:15 am, a gaggle of white guys appear outside of the bookstore with bandanas tight around their faces. They group on the sidewalk with guns tucked in their arms like thick volumes of prose. Think something large and impenetrable, like Ayn Rand.
“Ugh,” David says. He tugs at the bottom his pullover dad sweater. “It’s that James Baldwin display in the window. I knew it. Fucking lunatics.” He means business, the way he curls that “F.” David wonders if they should call the police. Marybelle reminds him the police will bring even more guns. Besides, probably some off-duty cops are behind a few of those bandanas anyway. So, um, no.
The men gesture towards the Baldwin display in the storefront. Their soft bellies jiggle with anticipation. “I’m going to go out there,” Marybelle declares. She says that no customers are going to come in as long as such silliness is at the front door.
Aliya, who said she was going to be late, appears on the sidewalk. She swings her dreads, stops dead still, and frowns. The men notice her — of course they do — and stare. Aliya is Buddhist and not a woman of many words. She crosses her arms and locks gaze with the men. They shuffle and paw their guns like how they paw at their dicks.
“Oh, someone is getting antsy,” Marybelle says.
“Well, shit. What if they shoot her?” David always worries about someone getting shot, or shooting up heroin, while in the bookstore. He is a man consumed with a wide range of fears, but he did find a syringe in the bathroom once, so there.
Marybelle sighs and plows through the front door. The little bell ding-a-lings behind her. Aliya stands completely still on the sidewalk; arms crossed, her hip tilting a little bit. The sun frames her like a goddamned proclamation. She appears unimpressed by the fidgety men. Unimpressed by the tiny whisper that rolls in from the air; one word singular word: nigger.
Aliya doesn’t even twitch. Not yet.
“Okay, which one of you big daddies is in charge here.” Marybelle shakes her ass a little as she walks out. She does have a cute ass, that one. A masked man with an AR-15 cradled around his torso comes forward. “I am,” he says. This one doesn’t have a gut. He’s got a thick, broad chest and a t-shirt with the word, PATRIOT, stretched across his pecs.
Marybelle smacks her lips.
“Mr. Patriot, how are you today?” She takes one finger and traces the word on his t-shirt, her gaze centers on the pale blue eyes hovering over his bandana. She glances at his gun.
“Is that a toy?” she asks.
“It is not,” Mr. Patriot replies. He clears his throat and squints those pale blue eyes.
“I wasn’t talking about the gun.” Marybelle slides her fingers down to the button of his Wranglers. Her finger hovers at his waist. The man takes a half step back. Marybelle latches her finger into the beltloop of his jeans, and smiles wider, her teeth bright white against the red of her lips.
“I hope you are having a great day,” she says. One of Mr. Patriot’s men giggles a little bit. Oh man, a chubby one whispers. He is wearing a baseball hat that, kid you not, has the words WHITE TRASH across the front. These people don’t even know how to be ironic, Marybelle thinks. Aliya slips behind her and walks through the door, the bell doing a little ding-a-ling.
David watches from the window. “Oh no she isn’t,” he mutters.
“I think she is,” Aliya responds. Her hands are shaking.
“You think she’s gonna grab it?” he asks. They notice folks gathering on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Whatever is going on, it is now a show.
Marybelle pops her finger out of the Mr. Patriot’s buckle. She brushes the bangs out of her eyes and examines her nails. Damn, she’s always so theatrical. “Well, I hope you boys have a fine day.” Marybelle turns her tight little ass around and walks towards the door. She doesn’t look sweet anymore. Her cheeks are splotchy.
“What the hell were you doing out there?” David stares Marybelle down.
Marybelle shrugs. “Everything these men do is about their little pink penises,” She takes a deep breath. “I wanted to create a distraction so Aliya could slip in.” She fans herself with her hands. Her meaty voice falls thin.
Aliya is wiping down the coffee bar when she looks up to suggest that she would’ve pulled his jewels right off. She makes big circles on the countertop with the rag. “But he ain’t worth my time,” she says.
The men outside don’t know what to do but feel they must do something since the folks across the street are now filming on their phones. The chubby one pulls a few bent signs from plastic bag. One says WHITE LIVES MATTER, and another, KEEP AMERICA AMERICAN.
Aliya notices Wayne crossing the street. He bends over slightly and his overcoat is dragging the ground today. The thing about Wayne is that he shows up like clockwork. He normally uses the bathroom, buys a cup of coffee, and politely sits down for a while. Most days, he’s okay to stay for an hour or so. Sometimes, they have to ask him to leave because he talks to himself too loudly, or just acts unsettled in a way he normally does around the end of the month when his meds have run out.
And Wayne, being Wayne and all, marches right up to the men. One of the masked men mutters, there’s another one. Aliya, David, and Marybelle watch from inside. Oh shit, David groans.
Brothers! Wayne says. He staggers a bit. Brothers! We are ready to move to Khe Sanh at 12 hundred hours. After my coffee, we will gather the 3rd Infantry Division! Hey, give me a minute, okay? Gotta get my coffee. Wayne is dirty but the men can’t smell him through their bandanas. He pats Mr. Patriot on the shoulder, a friendly pat, and the men part for him to pass. They exchange confused glances.
“Damn fools don’t even know what he’s talking about,” Aliya offers. David laughs and suggests that most of them are too young. They are spoiled, First World Millennials. With guns. If only they’d keep it to Reddit, he spews.
“Good morning, good morning my friends,” Wayne brings greetings. He pulls change from his pocket and asks for his coffee. He is ripe today, thick with body odor and the aroma of deli mustard. He takes his coffee mug to the front table so he can see the boys, he says. What fine men out there. Fighting for our freedom! He takes a sip of coffee, then emits a long aaahhhh.
“Good coffee. Best coffee! Those honkeys out there...” Wayne gut laughs. “Now that’s a word I haven’t said in a while. Let me tell you!” He turns around and tells them he used to have 1968 Ford Truck with a horn that, for real now, sounded just like HON-KEY, HON-KEY.
Wayne slaps the table. “Go ahead! You can laugh. That shit is funny.”
The chubby man with the WHITE TRASH cap pops his head in the door. “Um, excuse me?” Everyone looks up at the same time, then looks away.
“Hello..? Excuse me?” White Trash’s voice is soft, like he’s the kind that says yes sir and no sir. David barks that no guns are allowed in the store. See the sign? No weapons, no firearms. What the hell, man!
“Sorry, sorry!” White Trash says. “I just want to know if I can come in and use the bathroom.” He removes the rifle around this waist and hands it to Mr. Patriot. “I mean, I know this is weird but I have a condition and I really need to….”
David looks at him and offers a curt no.
“Um. Sorry. Okay. But you let that homeless guy in and I really am about to have an emergency.”
No, David says again, and adds that Wayne is a CUSTOMER who is also a veteran.
“Please,” White Trash’s lips tremble, his face now soft and little boy.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” David says. “Just go the bathroom!” What if the man shits at the front door? David might be impressed with these guys if they did something like that. It takes ingenuity to strategically plan a crap. It doesn’t take any imagination to show up with guns and a few clichéd signs. That’s what’s so tragic, he says aloud. America is dangerous in the most boring, predictable way possible. Zero imagination!
White Trash waddles to the bathroom.
Wayne shakes his head. “I bet that boy’s momma still tucks him in at night.”
***
They jump when a loud pop comes from the back of the store, followed by ding and a thud. A thick, short silence hangs in the air as they wait for the noise to explain itself. Then, it does: “HELP ME! Help!” White Trash yells from the bathroom.
Oh, he did not! David’s voice is tight.
Oh yes, he did, Wayne offers.
They move to the back of the store to, thank god, the bathroom that doesn’t really lock. The door is already partially open. White Trash’s foot must have kicked it when he fell. That is where is now; on his back, his face contorting with discomfort. A black pistol is visible on the floor, nudging against the White Trash hat. A gold bullet casing rests in the corner. Everything about the boy is now revealed on the dirty bathroom tile.
Wayne points at the pistol. “The fool shot himself with a CZ 27!” He bends over and laughs, saying this asshole can’t even take a shit right. There’s White Trash, holding his thigh while a crimson stain spreads above his right knee. He’s muttering. I forgot I had it on me. I took it off and put it on the toilet paper dispenser, and it fell and I got nicked. Oh hell it hurts. Oh Lord.
Marybelle looks at David. “I think you now have to call the police. And 911.”
“I told you not to bring guns in the store!” David’s hands cradle his head. White Trash starts crying. I’m so sorry. Aliya runs to the front to lock the door. The men now have more signs. A larger crowd is gathering on the opposite sidewalk. The two sides of the street seem to be throwing insults at each other.
Wayne just laughs, You gonna call the po-lice about that man’s Nazi gun? He’s laughing so hard that his overcoat shakes. The “CLOSED” sign goes up on the door. The ambulance arrives. A news crew shows up. Of course, the police come.
“Why are you here today?” A TV reporter asks Mr. Patriot, who responds about how the bookstore undermines American values. And, he offers, this bookstore consistently makes fun of white people. Just look at their storefront! He points and tells the man working the camera to “be sure and get it on film.”
The cameraman turns towards the James Baldwin display. The sun’s glare is reflecting off the window and it is hard to focus the frame. He leans closer, zooms the lens, and then reads aloud in a measured, slow cadence: the world is white no longer, and it will never be white again.
Finally, the men and their guns leave. They follow the news crews to their vehicles, of course. Wayne goes to his next “appointment” at the bodega. At 12:30 pm, the sign on the bookstore door flips back to OPEN. David resumes his perch at the register. Marybelle begins shelving new books, and Aliya brews a fresh pot of coffee. She takes the bleach rag and starts to clean the counter.
David expresses relief that there wasn’t much blood in the bathroom to clean up.
“Indeed,” Marybelle replies. “At least, not yet.”
“Yes, not this time,” David sighs.
The bell on the door ding-a-lings to announce a customer arrival.Aliya looks up for a minute, then resumes drawing damp, unfinished circles on the countertop, over and over again.
Deonna Kelli Sayed is a writer based in N.C. She works for the N.C. Writers' Network and is the PEN American N.C. Piedmont Region Representative. Learn more at www.deonnaiswriting.com.