Reed says, “Darryl Senior was a good Christian. The man respected and celebrated our heritage. Of course, Darryl Senior was a Real American.”
With all this talk of ‘Real Americans,’ Imogen lurking in the doorway to the hall is adding to my considerable discomfort. She’s looking kinda melanin-rich. Nobody ever talks about melanin-rich people being ‘Real Americans.’ I catch her eye, and without moving my head, use my eyes to gesture ‘Get out.’ She raises her phone at me and slips away.
“Damn straight, he was a Real American!” says Darryl. “So that has me thinking that maybe the problem is the word ‘great.’ What does ‘Great’ mean to you, Mike? Does it mean stripping health care, the little access a man has to treatment?”
I picture Imogen dialing 911 as she slips into the alley. How long did it take the police to respond to the Parkland shooting? Fifteen minutes?
“Now, Darryl, I think you might be a little confused. And that’s perfectly understandable.”
In addition to being a Trump-supporting asshole, Mike Reed appears to be sufficiently intellectually impaired that he thinks it’s a good idea to patronize a bereaved, angry, armed man.
“Confused, huh? Why don’t you explain it to me, Mike?”
Reed says “I’d be happy to, Darryl. But I need to point out that waving a gun around isn’t going to bring your dad back. So let’s put the gun down before anybody gets hurt.”
“You trying to disarm me, Mike? Trying to interfere with my Second Amendment rights? ‘An armed man is a Citizen, an unarmed man is a slave,’ right, Mike?”
Reed raises his hands in supplication. “Of course, Darryl. I am truly sorry for your loss. I was very sorry to see your father fall into the temptation of drugs.”
“The ‘temptation of drugs’? Are you saying it’s Dad’s fault?”
“Darryl, a man has to take some responsibility for himself. If the government does everything for people, it’s infantilizing. If people do risky things—buy houses they can’t afford, drink, or do drugs—the government can’t simply bail them out.”
“Dad didn’t ‘do drugs.’ He wasn’t some crackhead! The docs prescribed him OxyContin! Addiction is an illness. Drug treatment is health care. Trump said he was gonna make health care better!”
Reed looks shocked. “Government has no business in health care, Darryl. We’re capitalists, not communists. We supported Trump to save the unborn, not to undermine self-sufficiency and encourage dependence.”
Fifteen minutes is starting to feel like an eternity.
Darryl turns abruptly to me. “Iz, help me out, here. You tell him. Jobs, health care, Real Americans.”
57
White Welfare State
Monday afternoon, November 5th, 1 day until the midterms
“You know what?” I say. “Let’s get out of here and go grab a drink. This has gone a little sideways. But nothing’s happened, really. Let’s go grab a drink at the Branding Iron. What do you say, Darryl?”
Darryl says, “What do you mean, nothing’s happened? Corey’s dead.”
Kathy leans forward abruptly, the sudden movement in the left field of my vision drawing my attention. When she says, “Shut up, Darryl,” I realize she’s processing information faster than I am. I’m the thunder to Kathy’s lightening, the last person in the room to realize what Darryl is saying.
“Darryl—” Kathy’s voice is rising, but Darryl speaks right over her.
He says distinctly, “I killed Corey.”
Reed, Kathy, and I are still, like furry woodland creatures in the presence of an apex predator. After a moment, the crappy little fridge Reed keeps his Dr Pepper in cycles on, buzzing its irritating, insect-like hum.
Darryl says again, “I killed Corey. He was a shit about my dad—you were there, Iz.” Darryl is inviting me to back up his story. “We fought and I killed him.”
I say, “You’re talking shit. We fought, sure, but Corey left. We wrapped up the RAPAC business, then we took off too. We took the elevator down. I walked you to your truck.”
Darryl looks at me, genuinely surprised. “Well, yeah, we took the elevator down. But the elevator goes up too.”
Darryl resettles himself in his chair before continuing.
“Sunday was kinda rough, thinking about Dad and all. I turned the radio on, to distract myself. Talk radio. I’m only half listening, but then all of the sudden I realized they were talking about us. About RAPAC, about something they called Corey’s Master Solution. The host had some crazy left-wing guest on, somebody from the ACLU, or some such. He kept talking about how elites lied to voters on purpose. Pretended they’d fix Obamacare, but always intended to gut Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid, so they could give rich folks tax cuts. The host called the guy a commie and invited folks to call in. The callers took turns calling the guest a commie—one of them even called him a dirty Jew.
“But you know what? All I could think about was how my dad’s clinic closed and rich folks got a tax cut. All I could think was that Corey and Mike lied to me. And now Dad is dead. I couldn’t get it out of my head.”
Darryl switches the rifle to his left hand, runs his right hand over his face, through his hair and back. By the time I realize he’s provided an opening, he’s switched the rifle back into his right hand.
“I swung by the Branding Iron. I thought maybe you and Charlene would be there. Had a couple belts, trying to relax. I texted you, but I guess your phone was off. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Corey lied to me on purpose. I drove back to the office, thinking you might be there. But the lights were off. There was a spot a block up the street. I sat in the truck, and it can’t have been fifteen minutes later, I saw Corey walking up the street to the Swindler building. A minute or two after he went in, the office lights came on. He shouldn’t have had a key anymore—he had no business being in the office. And I thought, that shit, he’s going to trash the office. So I went back up to the office too.”
“Stop talking, Darryl. Stop talking right now,” says Kathy.
“Shut. Up. Kathy.”
Darryl’s voice is savage. Kathy’s face is white. With shock maybe, or anger. He might as well have slapped her across the face.
“But. Why? Why kill Corey?” I ask.
“I couldn’t let go of what he said, so I went back upstairs. He was in your office, Iz. He was going through your desk, trying to use a letter opener to jimmy the drawer that has a lock. I think he was even drunker than I was. I told him I’d seen the Master Solution, that I knew that he’d lied to me.
“He said it was obvious to anyone who could do simple arithmetic that no one had a plan to fix Obamacare—not Trump, not Paul Ryan, not anyone. So either I was stupid or I was a liar. He laughed and asked was I still pretending I didn’t know why I voted for Trump? If so, I was the worst kind of liar, the kind who lies to himself. He said I didn’t deserve the Great DJT as my president.”
Darryl switches the rifle to his left hand again, but it’s to free his right hand to pull the Ruger from its holster. So now he’s holding a firearm casually in each hand. A part of me is starting to see the logic of the sentiment ‘an unarmed man is a slave.’ The rational part of me remembers the impressively tight groupings of Darryl’s shots on his paper targets.
“He said, ‘Let’s talk about pussy. Trump is on the record bragging about grabbing pussy, something a lot of us would like to do, by the way, and something a bunch of women say he actually did. But you say you don’t believe it, you say it didn’t affect your vote. See, this is your problem, Darryl. You don’t have the nuts to admit that when Trump talked about Mexican rapists and Arab terrorists, when he bragged about grabbing pussy, a part of you was excited. A part of you thought, if Trump’s against women and minorities, who is he for? Who will he Make America Great Again FOR? Christ! Stop being such a pussy.’”
“I said he wasn’t making any sense. I asked him why he thought I voted for Trump, if not for jobs and health care. Do you know what he said?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“‘A white welfare state,’” Darryl snorts. “What does that even mean? I told him, I had no idea what he was talking about, but that I voted for Trump because he promised jobs and better health care, to fix Social Security. Well, you know, Iz. We’ve talked about it a million times.”
I nod, supporting him—of course we’ve talked about it. Darryl nods back at me. We are on the same page, the same team, both ready and able to testify to Darryl’s consistent claim that jobs and health care and Social Security drove his vote for Donald J. Trump.
“Corey laughed in my face. He said, ‘Health care? Social Security? Are you a fucking socialist, Darryl? Do you think the genuinely hard-working people of America should pay for your dad’s welfare?’
“I told him it’s not welfare, my dad paid into Social Security. Dad earned his disability. Corey said that was bullshit, that what my dad paid in didn’t come close to covering what he took out, that Social Security is a Ponzi scheme. That we, along with every other entitled, whiny taker, expected the folks who really work hard, who build job-creating businesses and really make something of themselves, to subsidize our ‘shiftless’ asses.
“He actually used the word ‘shiftless.’” Darryl’s voice rises with incredulity and outrage. “Like my dad was some kind of inner city welfare queen.”
It’s getting hard to look at Darryl, to keep an empathetic look on my face. ‘Shiftless,’ ‘inner city’—code words for lazy blacks. Darryl is drawing a line under the distinction he makes between government help for white people, who are deserving (his dad ‘earned’ his disability), and non-white people, shiftless black and brown folks. Aid for black and brown folks, well that’s welfare.
“I don’t have anything against blacks who keep their noses clean, earn their way. Like your friend Imogen. I could imagine Kathy and me hanging out with you guys. But there’s a difference between folks like Imogen and people who just don’t want to work. And there’s a chasm between inner city welfare queens and my dad.”
I struggle to keep my eyes off the guns in Darryl’s hands and consider that ‘some of my best friends are insert-minority-here’ is the fig-leaf of last resort for bigots. Darryl is clearly in pain; it is an act of compassion to allow him that fig leaf. And if I can just manage to keep from looking at the automatic rifle he’s waving around so casually as he gesticulates, I just might believe it is compassion, not cowardice, that keeps me silent.
Darryl has not registered my withdrawal. He’s barreling on.
“I said DJT promised to fix Obamacare and Social Security. He promised to Make America Great Again. How is destabilizing the health care market great?
“Corey said Trump ran as a Republican. And every Republican who can read knows that Medicaid, Medicare, and Social Security create dependency and make Americans weak. The only way to ‘fix’ them is to get rid of them. He said I’d twisted the Great DJT’s words, ‘Make America Great Again.’ He said I thought ‘again’ meant to look to the past, like Roy Moore, back when there was slavery. That I thought we can have free medical care and free disability, just not for everybody. Obviously, we can’t afford them for everybody. It’s not like everybody is equally deserving, anyway, right? Corey said that in my twisted, racist little heart, I’d twisted the Great DJT’s words to mean a white welfare state. White men getting stuff on the backs of blacks and women. But, he said, a white welfare state is still a welfare state.”
Darryl pauses, regrouping following this torrent of words.
I look up to find Darryl’s eyes on me, his eyes searching my face, gauging my reaction.
He’s not fully satisfied with what he finds there because he says, almost plaintively, “But it doesn’t make any sense. I’m not a socialist. And I’m definitely not racist or sexist.”
I try not to look at the assault rifle in Darryl’s left hand and the Ruger in his right hand. I try to keep my face neutral as I meet his gaze.
Darryl tries again. “You know, Iz. You know that racial stuff, that sex stuff, that had nothing to do with my vote. I’m not a racist, Isaiah. I don’t hate black people. I voted for Barack Obama. Twice. I played football in high school with Sean Washington and Damian White, I—”
“Darryl!” I say, to stop this recitation of every non-hostile interaction Darryl Gniewek has ever had with an African American person. “I don’t think you hate black people.”
His eyes search mine, testing the strength of this absolution.
He says, “I don’t hate women. I would never ‘grab a woman by the pussy.’”
“Of course not,” I say.
Does Darryl hear what I leave unsaid?
That I don’t bother to point out that not ‘hating’ African American people doesn’t rule out being perfectly content that society’s benefits be reserved primarily or even exclusively for white people. Most white folks would never dream of going out and stringing up an African American boy. But most white folks who get on juries won’t convict a police officer when they shoot unarmed African American children. Those folks would be offended if anybody suggested they were racist. But what other word is there for thinking blackness is sufficient justification for a death sentence?
Darryl hunches forward in his chair, firearm clutched in each hand. His eyes drift to my left, to Reed and Kathy, and finding no comfort there, come back to me. I can tell he’s decided to take me at my word. He believes we are teammates, on the same page, singing the same cover story: Jobs. Health care. Social Security.
He says, “I told him. I told Corey. But he wouldn’t listen.”
Darryl gathers himself; the end of the story is in sight.
“Corey said, ‘White folks are dying, dropping like flies. White life expectancy is going down. Did you know that?’ He fished around in his briefcase and came up with that stupid little pistol, the Beretta Pico. ‘Whites are dying of booze, opioids, and guns. First time since industrialization. You know why? Because of pussies like you, Darryl. Pussies who lack the testicular fortitude to own up to what they’ve done and what they want. And you know what? It’s just as well.’
“Corey was flailing around, waving the gun. He was a menace.”
Darryl’s eyes are focused in the mid-distance, remembering. He nods to himself, reassuring himself that he’s remembered it correctly, gotten it right.
“So, I took the gun.
“Corey looked surprised at first, like he was surprised I had it in me to disarm him, a drunk old man.
“He said, ‘That’s right, take the gun!’ As if it had been his idea for me to take it, as if he’d given it to me, instead of being disarmed. He said, ‘You didn’t believe when he said he grabbed pussy but you believed he’d fix health care? How do you live with yourself?’ He was all up in my face, trying to force my hand with the gun in it towards my temple. He said, ‘Go ahead, shoot yourself, you spineless commie pussy! Better to die than live like a pussy.’ He wouldn’t shut up, kept calling me a whiny, racist, sexist commie pussy.”
Darryl settles back in his chair.
“So I shot him,” he says, a note of wonder in his voice.
58
Always Gotta Be Right
Monday afternoon, November 5th, one day until the midterms
Darryl’s gaze ranges over the three of us and comes to rest on Reed, the gun tracking with his gaze. Reed shrinks into his folding chair, trying to disappear.
“Which brings us back to Mike. You’ve been awful quiet there, Mike. You didn’t think I forgot about you, did you? How you introduced me to Corey. How you recruited me for Trump. How you lied to me? You, and Trump and Corey, how you lied?”
Darryl is up out of his chair, looming over Mike, who cowers in his seat, hands raised above his ducked head. Darryl has got the semiauto in his left hand and the Ruger in his right.
But Kathy is up out of her seat too. “DARRYL!”
Which brings Darryl up short, drawing his gaze to her face, though the guns are still traine
d on Reed.
“Mike’s an asshole,” says Kathy. “And, yes, he voted to repeal Obamacare a million times. But the repeal failed. He had nothing to do with Trump withholding payments and creating that God-awful mess in Ohio. Trump did that on his own. Mike had nothing to do with your dad’s death.”
“Well, now, that’s where I think you’re wrong, Kathy. I would never have voted for Trump if not for Mike. If not for people like Mike and Corey, Trump would not be President.”
“What a crock of shit!” Kathy is nearly spluttering. “Are you saying Mike held a gun to your head and forced you to vote for Trump?”
“He talked me into voting for Trump,” Darryl insists. “I voted for Obama. Twice. I would never have voted for Trump if Mike hadn’t talked me into it.”
“Oh, so you’re nothing but Mike’s puppet?”
Kathy is not letting him off the hook.
“Mike recruited me, Kathy. You think he has no responsibility here?”
“Mike is a snake oil salesman of an Evangelical. He’s a man whose every action gives the lie to Christ’s teaching, ‘Whatever you do for the least of my brothers, that you do for me.’ Honestly, listening to him screech that it doesn’t matter what Trump does, come nuclear war or high water, support for Trump is justified to save the unborn, it makes me want to shoot him myself. How such a person can call himself Christian, I don’t know.”
Maybe Mike cannot abide being criticized by a woman, or perhaps he’s emboldened by the fact that Darryl’s guns have swung in Kathy’s general direction. He takes this moment to stop cowering and butt in. “That is a complete mischaracterization of my positions—”
Which causes Darryl and Kathy to shout in unison, “Shut up, Mike!”
Which in turn causes them to look at each other in surprise.
“Jinx,” says Kathy, quietly.
“You know what I can’t understand, Darryl?” The accusation has gone out of her voice. It is almost plaintive. “Given what we went through in high school, I just can’t believe you would get on board the Trump train to put an end to abortion in America, to put women who’ve had abortions in jail. Tell me that’s not you, is it, Darryl?”
Rules of Resistance Page 22
