They Come in All Colors

by Malcolm Hansen

  I opened the window and poked my head out. Does your mama know you’re here?

  That bitch sent me out for cigarettes and matches. I’m probably not coming back ’til dark.

  That was the Derrick I knew and loved. Listen, he may have been a little particular when it came to keeping his eyeglasses clean, but he had the mouth of a sailor. He was a lot of fun to be around. Hell, if I had to live with that bitch, I’d probably run away for the afternoon, too. Anyway, Mom had this thing about ticks, which meant that I had to wear socks, sleeves, and trousers no matter the heat. I slipped on some clothes and hopped out the window, and the two of us headed off.

  On our way through Mister Noonan’s orchard, a shiny can half hidden in a tuft of grass caught my eye. I thought it was an unopened cola. I dropped the peaches that were tucked within my bulging shirt and called Derrick over. He wanted to use a rock to get it open, but we couldn’t find one pointy enough for a two-mile stretch of Oglethorpe.

  We got lucky poking around behind Mister Buford’s barn. The bulging can exploded in my face, and Derrick cut his lip on the jagged edge where I’d driven in a rusty screwdriver. The warm beer mixed with blood and dirt tasted like pure adventure. We sat with our backs leaning against the warped pine shingles. The sun was about to disappear behind Mister Noonan’s peach trees up the road and gave the blood dripping down Derrick’s chin a golden tint. It made him look like some grunt over in Vietnam who’d just taken a round in the gut but who was pressing on for honor and love of country—either that, or something I’d seen in a Coke commercial.

  • • •

  MOM WAS IN the middle of serving up supper when Missus Orbach tossed the front door open and stood there holding Derrick in front of her with a bandage covering half his face.

  Your boy did this!

  I figured what with all the alcohol we’d sloshed around our mouths it’d stop bleeding by the time he got home, but it’d just gotten worse. Dad got up from the table and asked what had happened. The dumb ass panicked.

  He hit me!

  With what, a knife? Dad looked genuinely confused.

  Missus Orbach barged into our kitchen and explained how that wasn’t the worst of it. Apparently someone had seen us chugging cans of beer out behind that old barn that Mister Buford converts into a haunted house every October. Lord knows I couldn’t do anything without someone finding out about it. And there Derrick was, cowering behind his mother, pale as a ghost. He didn’t even have the decency to look at me.

  Mom returned from the bathroom with her first aid kit and offered to “patch Derrick up.” Missus Orbach looked like she was about to faint, said she’d just as soon see Derrick harelipped as let her touch him. She declared to Dad that Mom was hardly fit to be a mother and that he needed to rein us both in. Then Missus Orbach stormed out the front door, dragging Derrick and his bloody lip along. Dad shook his head, closed the door, and asked whose idea it had been.

  Of course it’d been mine. But what did that matter? Derrick only ever did something if I did it first. Truth is, I was just bored. What else was there to do with the pool closed? Dad sent me to bed without dinner. The rest of that night, I lay beneath a thin sheet with a flashlight and worked on a puzzle I kept hidden under my mattress for times like this. I overheard Mom tell Dad how I should be out swimming instead of drinking rodent-infested cans of near beer and how she had a mind to march me back down to that pool herself just as soon as Mister Abrams opened it back up. Aurelia had warned her that I was up to no good. Then she warned Dad not to expect her to look the other way the next time that crazy woman shouted at her in her own house.

  • • •

  FOR THE NEXT two and a half days, the spectacle of that afternoon was all anyone talked about. Even talk of Mister Abrams’s pool died down. The two of us sharing a thirty-two-ounce can of Falstaff became me zigzagging down Cordele Road, unable to hold my head up, which soon became me crawling down the middle of the road, drunk out of my gizzard, which soon became me practically passed out buck naked on the side of the road. Which was the version that Toby had gotten wind of from Miss Della, who’d gotten word of it from Missus Orbach, who probably found out from Mister Buford himself. What do I know?

  All I know is that I was helping Toby load up stack poles later that week when he asked me if it was true. I blushed when I said yes, because Dad rarely touched the stuff, and here I was feeling like a boozer at the ripe old age of eight. I braced for Toby to take his turn at being disappointed, but he just asked if it was near beer or rotgut.

  What the hell’s that?

  Well, was it in a can or a bottle?

  A can.

  How tall was it?

  I held out my two pointing fingers about a foot apart from each other. Yea big.

  Did it have a picture of a mule on it?

  A mule? Naw. A lightning bolt.

  A lightning bolt? Toby looked impressed. You sure?

  Sure I’m sure.

  Well, was there any writing on it?

  You ever seen a beer without writing on it?

  Well, what’d it say?

  I was a little scared.

  Go on. Spit it out.

  “High-Octane Hot Springs Distillery. Makes Even the Ugliest Bitch Look Purdy.”

  And you drank the whole damned thing?

  Derrick said it made him walk funny. But I didn’t feel a thing.

  Toby kept his woolly hair cropped close and had a well-defined jawbone. He was handsome, even when he laughed at me. He stood up straight, rubbed his hand over his head, and struggled to suppress the last of the humor lingering in his mouth.

  Oh, boy. And to think your mama said, “Just you tell me how the heck a boy who can’t get down a tablespoon of bitters can chug a warm can of beer?” That weren’t no beer, son! That was Sam Nelson’s rarefied hickory home brew!

  By the lights of Toby’s reckoning, I had two choices should I ever find myself in that particular predicament again. One was to hunt him down posthaste and deliver it to him for safekeeping. The second was, well, to drink it.

  But for heaven’s sake, whatever you do, don’t guzzle it. You sip that stuff, hear? And stick to the back roads next time. You never do something like that close to home; someone’s bound to see you. If you’re hell-bent on seeing what it feels like to pass out, do it where no one will find you. ’Cause they’ll just wake you up and put you back to work if they do.

  • • •

  WHEN THE TRUCK was all loaded up, Toby and I headed out. I was standing in the back holding on for dear life, with two tons of stack poles skittering around my ankles and feet. Every twenty yards, Toby would pull over beside our field and tap the horn. I’d let a dozen poles spill over the side of the truck, happy just to clear the tires, then slap the side panel. Then he’d go another twenty yards and I’d do the same thing all over again.

  We finished setting out our load for the next morning, then headed home. I was starting to get a little worried, because it’d been almost three days and I still hadn’t heard a peep from Derrick. On our way past his house, I shouted out for Toby to tap the horn, thinking that maybe Derrick would come to the window. He didn’t.

  Ever since Toby and Dad squabbled that day out in the middle of our field, Toby just did his work and left. So when we pulled into the drive and he cut the engine, I hopped out of the back and climbed in up front and cornered him. I demanded to know why he didn’t hang out with us in the kitchen anymore. Toby just sat there with both hands on the steering wheel and clammed up. When I pressed, he looked over and sighed.

  There’s a difference between waiting for someone to pack up your food and hanging out.

  Which cut me to the quick.

  Listen. Your old man’s a good guy. He really is. It’s just that he’s the kind of boss who, if I don’t put the brakes on myself, he’d work me until I’m plum out of gas. Okay? So I’m just tired, is all.

  I knew what he was talking about. It was true: Dad couldn’t resist the temptation t
o squeeze as much work out of every single day as he could. I reached down and plucked up my dive mask from the footwell and pondered it. I’d forgotten all about it. I must’ve left it there the day the Camelot’s pool closed. Toby leaned over and rubbed his fingers through my hair. He grinned wide.

  It’s almost as curly as mine.

  You’ve got a dark sense of humor, Toby Muncie. You know that? Dark. And I don’t appreciate it one bit.

  • • •

  I WAS STARTING to suspect that Dad’s little talk with me about Mom being every Southern housewife’s nightmare probably wasn’t the only reason she didn’t come to Mister Abrams’s pool. Early the next morning, Dad shook me awake, I thought to go to the bathroom. My bed-wetting was an ongoing source of conflict. It wasn’t like it happened every night, but my folks had let me know that I was too old for accidents like that. Anyway, he whispered in my ear for me to keep quiet. Said he had a surprise for me, then told me to meet him out in the truck. I got dressed and tiptoed out the front door, wondering what the heck was so important that Mom couldn’t know about it.

  The S&W in town is long and narrow and has booths running along the wall opposite the lunch counter. It was my second time there. I stood in the open doorway for a moment and took in the chrome fixtures. They were all shiny and bright. The checkered tile floor was spotless.

  Dad shoved aside two half-filled cups of coffee and an ashtray and uneaten toast someone had left on the counter. He slapped the stool next to him.

  Whaddya feel like, partner?

  He had this way of talking that made him sound like he could have bought me anything in the place: “Steak and Egg Breakfast.” “Triple Stack of Hot Cakes.” “Banana Split.” “Hot Fudge Sundae.” “Vanilla Cream Soda.” “Malted Ripple Shake.” Which I Knew Wasn’t True. But I pretended like it was.

  I hopped up beside him and swiveled around. How about a sundae?

  Two hot fudge sundaes coming up.

  I jerked around, surprised. The last time that had ever happened, I wasn’t big enough to sit on a stool by myself. I remember him telling the soda fountain boy how we weren’t going to be long. I figured it was because of the mess I made while sitting on his lap.

  What’d I do to deserve this?

  Dad looked at me like we ate ice cream for breakfast every day of the week. He sure could be hard to read when he wanted to. Anyway, it was right about then that a bus pulled up out front. I remember thinking it strange because the bus station was down the street in front of the Rexall; they had a stall inside where passengers could buy coffee and use the bathroom. Not to mention it being so early it was still dark out.

  The driver got out and opened the side hatch and started unloading suitcases onto the sidewalk. A colored man got off after him and lit a cigarette and slapped at his rumpled clothes in the quarter light. Pretty soon there was a crowd standing on the sidewalk with him. They looked like Jehovah’s Witnesses, all dressed in short-sleeved button-downs and neckties as they were.

  It dawned on me that they were probably Seventh-Day Adventists who’d come down for a convention or something—probably for their annual open-tent revival meeting, which they held every fall out on Mister Parker’s land. Mister Parker was so devout he burned crosses in his fields like the big ones they had back in the time of Pontius Pilate.

  I elbowed Dad. Looks like they brought the whole congregation.

  Dad wasn’t paying me any mind. He was leaning over the counter, asking Tyler if he’d mind giving us an extra squirt of hot fudge. I picked up the salt shaker and started playing with it. Mister Chambers joined Mister Orbach at the front window. I saw him in the mirror behind the counter.

  What time does Phil open the ticket desk?

  Not until eight.

  What time you got now?

  Six.

  Ted, get Ira on the phone, will you? Tell him to get down here.

  He don’t usually go into the office until nine, Les.

  Just call him!

  Next thing I knew, Mister Schaefer slapped the front door open and stormed out and started tossing bags back into the luggage hatch. One of the colored men tried to stop him. That’s when Mister Orbach ran out. So did Mister Peterson. And Mister Bradford. And Mister Prewitt. Pretty soon me, Dad, and Tyler were the only ones left in the place.

  I stuffed my mouth with ice cream. What’s going on, Pop?

  The words came out in a jumble. No matter how fast I tried to eat my sundae, I couldn’t seem to keep it from drowning under all the hot fudge. When I came up for air, Dad was gone, and Tyler was standing with his face pressed up against the front window, looking out. I shoved as much as I could fit in my mouth, hopped down, and ran out with the others. I wriggled through the crowd of men pushing and shoving and barking over each other. It was impossible to hear what anyone was saying, except for Mister Schaefer. He had a shaky old man’s voice that could be heard a mile away.

  SNCC? What’s that?

  Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee!

  Mister Schaefer asked Mister Orbach if he knew what the colored man was talking about. Mister Orbach shrugged no. A patrol car pulled up. All of a sudden, I could hear the chirp of a starling flitting gleefully from branch to branch within the thick green canopy of elms lining the street. The sun was just starting to creep up over Missus Henniger’s flower shop, but the sky was hardly lit. A colored man with puffy hair and glasses was standing with his back to me, addressing the crowd of coloreds gathered around him with several duffel bags strewn about. He was wearing a necktie and Windbreaker.

  Remember, if anything happens, it’s hands behind your back, down on your knees, and head down—pray.

  Seventh-Day Adventists had never caused this kind of a hullabaloo before. Not to mention that I didn’t remember ever seeing so many coloreds among them.

  I tugged on Dad’s sleeve. What’s he talking about, Pop?

  The sheriff got out of his patrol car and brushed past me on his way toward Mister Chambers, who was barring the open doorway with his arm.

  If they want a burger and fries that bad they can just as well go to the Blue Flame, on the other side of the Thronateeska, and be served by a colored just like them, and with a smile to boot.

  Or would it kill them to eat in? Spending money they have no business spending on things they can’t afford and have no business buying.

  No wonder they’re broke all the time. Christ.

  Tyler brought out a cup of coffee. The sheriff stirred it, then took a sip. As he handed back the spoon, there came the pop and crash of a bottle shattering against the side of the bus. Glass sprayed over the street and sidewalk. Dad snatched my arm and tugged me through the fleeing crowd. I ran like a bat out of hell and glanced over my shoulder, unsure if he would be able to keep up. I heard his voice.

  Looooook oooooooouuuuut!

  I smacked into what felt like an oven range. What it was doing on the sidewalk, I have no idea. All I know is that everything stopped. I remember lying on my back, floating off toward heaven’s pearly gates, ready to make my grand entrance, wondering what in the hell had just happened.

  IX

  DON’T LOOK AT MY LIPS, look at me. Here, Jerry, you can take these. Smelling salts. Now, how many fingers am I holding up? Not there, here. Good enough. All the way to the back. On top. Just keep squeezing my hand. Atta boy. One hundred over sixty? Jesus. He’s going to need some Demerol. Yeah, you can go ahead and get rid of that. No, about sixty seconds. Now, you’ve got to make sure each of these is snug. On three. Ready?—Umph. I promised Iris I’d take her to the pictures. Because of that swim-in yesterday up in Albany. Where’ve you been? No, same ones, I think. Just like what they did here, except at the Cozy Oaks. Spoiled everything.

  Pop?

  Keep your head down, son. And told her may as well put me back on rotation. So I came in to do a quick four. Hours. No, after. When we were at the— Put your head back down.

  Mister Peterson?

  Atta boy. Hold steady
. Over the curb. To the left.

  Mister Orbach?

  Two steps thisaway. Kitty-corner, steady as she goes. Easy does it. Little bump. Up. Ready. Umph. And in we go.

  Mister Chambers?

  No, he’s gonna be just fine. Not too tight on that strap. You’ve got to slap that buckle good ’n’ hard for it to click in. There.

  Where’re they taking me, Pop?

  I understand that you’re concerned, sir, but it’s against regulations. And, Jerry, I’ll put in a repair order when we get back. No, we didn’t see a thing, just picked him up like this. Hey, do me a favor and give us some wiggle room. Yeah. You in? Ain’t nothing in the world like a—you’ve got to slam that door. So, like I was saying. Am I clear on that side? Anyway, me and Iris were at the Cozy Oaks, over on Route 19 toward Leesburg. No, just north of the connector. Three-fifty. For a single. No, all of them have two beds. I just paid for the single.

  Pop?

  I’m not your pop, son.

  Where’s my pop?

  Right behind us in his truck. He’s gonna meet us at the hospital. Now, put your head back down and relax. The medicine should be starting to kick in any second. Anyway, Jerry, like I was saying. We put both beds together and wedged the sheet into the seam. Sure, it’s worth saving fifty cents—but that’s not the point—the point is we were there last night for our second honeymoon. Huh? Five years. See, and since checkout time wasn’t till noon, we figured to stay late for one last dip, only around ten I hear a great big to-do. No, poolside. I thought it was a skunk or something. So I step outside and what do I see but the owner running around the pool, trying to fish out a bunch of niggers. Yeah. Because he was working the front desk the night before. Told me he was worried about getting people to come back. Because it was probably going to be in all the papers. Anyway.