They had gathered in the basement again to talk things over. Woods was the last of the group to arrive. He flung the door open and for a moment they overheard pans clanging and the faint drawl of the owner coming from the kitchen. Woods shut the door behind him, nodded apologetically and took a seat. Travis stood proudly between a rickety podium and a Confederate flag hung on the back wall. He cleared his throat. They were ready to begin.
“Howdy,
all. We're congregating once more to discuss the impending freedom of
the South from our Yankee oppressors. On that day our sacred words
will truly come to fruition...” He raised his right hand to gesture
a solemn pledge. “'I'm as free as a bird.'”
The
other four stood to return his hand gesture and chant: “'And this
bird you cannot change.'”
Travis
removed his tan ten-gallon hat and dabs his perspiring forehead with
a handkerchief.
“Hoo-wee,
now that is a lotta fancy talk to begin with,” he confessed.
“You
need to sit down for a sec?” Woods asked, patting his chair.
“Na,
na,” Travis said resolutely. “I ain't no loafer. Now, seein' as
how I'm gabbin' 'bout words, that brings us to our old, familiar
first topic. Same one our great-great-great ancestors started fussin'
'bout way back in 1865...”
“The
South shall come again!” Matthews vowed.
“Horseshit!”
That
was the charge of Barney, the chunky opposition to the reedy
Matthews. “The South shall rise again!”
“Come!”
Woods said.
“Rise!”
The
lone woman of the group, Kelly, sidled beside Barney to reinforce
their stance. Her purse nearly fell off her lap in the excitement.
Travis
buried his face in his handkerchief and shook his head.
“Can
we have one goddamn meeting that don't start this way?” He
produced a gavel and rapped it against the oak podium. “Right. For
the seven-thousand, eight-hundredth week in a row, before we can move
on to our second order of business, we're here to decide if the South
is gonna come again, or if the South is gonna rise
again...”
“Well
hell, Travis,” Woods started, flailing his lanky arms for effect.
“You done just said 'come' 'fore you said 'rise'! Ain't that a
giveaway to yer true feelings on the matter?”
“For
the last cotton-pickin' time, Woods,” Travis said, “I only do
that on account of it's alphabetical order, see? Same decree of my
great-great-great grandpappy. And it don't matter what the overseer
thinks 'cause I gotta be impartial. Now just for that outburst, I'm
givin' opening remarks to the Risers.”
Before pleading his case, Barney turned to Kelly for discreet
counsel.
“Remember,” Kelly said. “We've been at this a while. But we're
tryin' to win 'em over, and so it don't hurt to be subtle.”
Obliged
by the wisdom, Barney removed his Crimson Tide hat and stood up to
address the dissenters.
“Listen
here, you dumb sons-of-bitches! Get yer priorities straight...”
He
glanced at his ally for support. Kelly grinned proudly, gave him two
appreciative thumbs up and signaled for him to go on.
“Rise
vs Come, the winner is clear,” he continued. “Rise first, come
second. A man's gotta rise before he can come. Why, you fellas ever
try to come before you rise? I done it on accident, and it was
a sad, ignoble thing.”
“I
seen it!” Kelly said. “Soooo disappointing.”
“Kelly,
please...” Barney said, his flabby cheeks flashing red.
“Now, in closing, I gotta tell you, if we're ever going to feel the
power of the solid South again, then we gotta rise. My fellow
Southerners, let's all take a hard stance by rising.”
Kelly
clapped her hands rapturously. She leaned in and jeered.
“Comes
are for bums!”
She
got a high five for that.
Travis
struck his gavel with authority to quell the celebration. He nodded
at Matthews, who was receiving last-second conspiratorial whispers
from Woods, his Comer in cahoots. Matthews had opened his mouth to
elucidate, only to ask his cohort a question in a low tone.
“What
was that opening line again?”
Woods
intently cupped his hands to Matthews' ear and whispered. With a
thankful nod, Matthews pointed across the aisle and began his speech.
“Fuck
y'all, Risers!”
“Nailed
it,” Woods said with quiet approval.
“The
South shall come again! You feel that 'come' just rolling off
your tongue? We do, and hoo-wee,
we sure do love the taste. Mmmm, come. Rising's all fine and
dandy, but it don't get nothin' done. It don't create nothin' new.
What a silly debate this is—let's all agree to come so that we can
finally just relax! My fellow Skynyrd box set owners... if we
really wanna make a splash, then we gotta come.”
This
rhetoric garnered applause from Woods and derision from the Risers.
Approaching the moment of decision, Travis retook the floor.
“OK,
OK, we got two fine, well-crafted, articulate arguments as always...”
“Risers
is vaginers!” Woods taunted.
His
impudence was scolded by Travis and his righteous gavel.
“Quiet,
Woods!” he said. “All right, maybe this time it'll all turn out
differently... Let's put it to a vote again. All in favor of 'The
South shall rise again?'”
In
unison, Kelly and Barney proclaim, “Aye!”
“And
all in favor of 'The South shall come again?'”
Woods
and Matthews simultaneously declare, “Aye!”
Travis
took his time pointing at each member of the group, counting as he
quietly murmured calculations to himself. The others waited with
tense anticipation on the edge of their seats, Risers and Comers
tightly holding their respective hands for moral support.
A
minute later, when the outcome was determined, Travis' look of
concentration turned to one of dismay.
“Goddammit,
it's another tie!”
The
others groaned, united by dejection.
“You
know somethin',” a frustrated Travis vented, “We been gatherin'
in this basement of a Whataburger what used to be a Klan meeting
place for a considerably long time, and--”
He
was interrupted by the door slamming open. It was the owner of the
Whataburger, Skeet as his nametag indicated. Skeet was panting, panicked, and as usual, barely intelligible.
“Newsflash... Dag
gum libs gone too far dis time!”
“Yeah,”
Travis sighed. “We know 'bout the damn uppity liberals, Skeet...”
“You
listen to me!” Skeet roared. “TV says day done canceled Dukes of
Hazzard reruns on account of Old Dixie's painted on duh General
Lee!”
Both the Risers and the Comers were aghast. Travis could barely speak.
“You
gotta be shittin' me,” he managed.
“I
wish so, but I ain't,” Skeet said. He gazed solemnly at Travis. “Look, y'all're welcome to use dis here basement to figure our
proper battle cry, but duh time has come fer action! And if dis Whataburger didn't
have three trainees on duh same day as duh rodeo clown convention, I
believe I'd be the one to pull up my britches, take dat dare judge-hammer from
ya, and make the dang decision already.”
His
scowl savaged Travis before he closed the door. The Risers and Comers
chattered and griped, ill at ease.
“Can't
argue that,” Travis said. “All right, I must make an executive
decision. From this day forward, I decree that—and I could
personally care less, I'm doing this strictly 'cause it's
alphabetical and we gotta put this hullabaloo to bed right now—the
South shall come again.”
With
their century-and-a-half of uncertainty culminating in triumph, Woods
and Matthews entwined their spindly arms around each other in a
joyous embrace. In the meantime, Kelly wasted no time digging into her purse for two firearms. Kelly and Barney then rushed the podium, both equipped with the kind of miniature pistols once wielded
by the likes of John Wilkes Booth.
“Lousy
charlatan,” Kelly spat, her pistol trained on the heart of Travis.
“We
got ourselves a mutiny!” Barney announced, his pistol aim roaming
back and forth between the two Comers.
Travis
held up his hands and pleaded as sweat leaked from his pores.
“Please, just gimme three steps towards the door...”
“That's enough outta you!” Kelly shrieked.
She
cocked the trigger. The delicate yet decisive click brought an
expression of euphoric malice to her bloated face.
“That
white man is owed a vote on his impeachment!”
This cry came from Woods. A last resort of reason.
“Yeah,”
Matthews seconded. “Does he look like a black, Jew, Catholic,
Gypsy, libtard, Oriental, cripple, daisy-picker, half-wit,
smarty-pants, Trans-Jenner, beaner, magician, Dixie Chick, or any of the other
47 groups of people we hate to you?”
Kelly
gritted her teeth, her trigger finger itching but a foot away from
the barrel chest of Travis. She glanced at her Riser partner, who bit
his lip indecisively.
“No,
he most certainly does not,” Matthews continued. “He's a white
man. A white man with rights who let the first woman ever into this prestigious club
on account of her spunk and ability to get away with hate crimes, I
might add.”
Two
tears streamed down Kelly's cheeks, then four, then six... When she
next glanced at her Riser partner, he had to nod: He's right.
“Go
ahead,” she said to Travis, her pistol held stationary.
A
massive growth seemed to bulge its way down his throat like a rat
being swallowed by a snake. He licked his lips.
“All
in favor of impeaching me?”
“Aye!”
shouted the Risers.
“All
opposed?”
“Nay!”
shouted the Comers.
Travis
nodded deliberately.
“OK.
Seems close. Now, I'm under a lot of stress here, so the counting
process might take an extra long time...”
Abruptly
and unexpectedly chipper, Barney snapped the fingers of his gunless
hand.
“I
got an idea!”
He
kept his pistol nonchalantly pointed at the Comers as he climbed the
steps and opened the door.
“Skeet!
Could you be a pal and put on a pot of coffee for us?”
“Ooh!”
Woods chirped excitedly, hands aloft. “Double creamer for me!”
Epilogue:
When the deadlock was reckoned four hours later, the Comers and
Risers of the South bickered as usual, but thankfully no blood was
shed. In the spirit of democracy (for whites), they agreed to
reconvene the next week to vote again on the impeachment.
Tragically,
not all members would live to attend that meeting. Shortly after
leaving Whataburger that day, Travis was gunned down beside a bargain
bin at the local Wal Mart. Kelly shot him over the rights to the
store's final copy of Dukes of Hazzard: season three.
The
remaining members hastily formed the tribute band Saturday Night
Specials in time for Travis' funeral, and with help from Skeet on bass, you'd better believe their
rendition of “Free Bird” brought the house down.
Barney
had his throat slit with a jagged whiskey bottle in the parking lot
after the wake.
“The
South shall come again!” the Comers declared.
