Free Welcome to Braggsville by T. Geronimo Johnson Page B

what had Candice shy, Charlie bright-eyed, Louis agape, and Daron feigning indifference, affecting an at-home swagger.
    Theyselves were porters, skycaps, desk agents. TSA and armed officers. Businessmen, mothers, families. Teens traveling alone. Clerks and janitors, not to mention the pianist entertaining diners in the international terminal food court. Waitresses, waiters. Flight attendants. Was that Waka and Gucci? A pilot even! Tall short fat. Pretty ugly glamorous. Theyselves were flamboyant and poised. Rambunctious and composed. Svelte and slovenly. But mostly middle class and well-to-do, from the looks of them. Atlanta’s nickname was well earned; a Chocolate City indeed it was.
    Beyond baggage claim, the 4 Little Indians were equally mesmerized. Daron was reminded again how different Atlanta was from most of Georgia, and from Berkeley or San Francisco even. It was impossible not to notice when theyselves comprised more than 50 percent of the population (especially when they were only 3 percent of Berkeley). Circling the concourse in vehicles ranging from beaters to Beemers, but mostly the latter, their significant middle class was outdone only by their extensive upper-middle class. Charlie, Candice, and Louis stared in awe as an elegant middle-aged woman clicked past them, the fox staring back as she flung her stole over her shoulder while wheeling a Tumi to a red convertible Aston Martin, the engine idling like Lord of Misrule nuzzling the gate before that famous derby. The driver, of average height and build, greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, leaning back between each one as if to get a look at her. It was impossible not to feel pleasure at their reunion.
    Candice nudged Daron, Famous?
    Who they were, Daron didn’t know; the driver was obviously no athlete and too old to be a rapper. This was normal for Atlanta. He’d even heard that southwest of the city was a vast tract of million-dollar-plus homes all owned by blacks, a fact he proudly shared. Welcome to the new South.
    It’s like being Asian in SF, or it must be, Charlie mused aloud.
    Daron was glad it was Charlie who’d said it.
    Except it looks like they have more money here.
    Daron’s mother nosed her boxy white Ford Bronco into the space behind the Aston Martin. She clapped with glee and skipped to greet her D’aron, smothering him in kisses. Don’t be embarrassed, they have parents, too. She affectionately greeted each of his friends with a kiss on the cheek.
    Actually, Charlie doesn’t. Daron regretted how that sounded when Candice glared at him.
    Is that so? She tilted her head and turned on her heels to face Charlie.
    It’s my dad, ma’am.
    So sad. She kissed him again, squeezing his arms. You’re a big boy.
    Yes, ma’am.
    See! She elbowed Daron. He didn’t wipe his off. Charlie is a young man with good home training. She turned to Charlie, You play football? Cutting her eyes at Daron, she added, Forgive me if I’m essentializing .
    Whatever! Daron began loading the luggage into the car, starting with Candice’s Hello Kitty bag, which momentarily reminded him of Kaya, and he wondered what Kaya would make of this Atlanta place, as she liked to phrase things. More importantly, though, what would Candice make of Braggsville? Straining to heft an oversize duffel with Fu Manchu mustache patches sewn onto either end, he was surprised again that the distinction of having the largest bag went not to Candice, but to Louis, whose only explanation was, Stuff.
    Your mom’s so friendly, Louis added.
    Daron nodded glumly; handlebar-headed was more like it. She’s not normally so saccharine.
    Before leaving Cali, they had agreed to speak French or Spanish as necessary for security, but Daron knew his mother wouldn’t know that word anyway, at least not as an adjective. Nonetheless, a hurt look passed across her face.
    Play what you like on the radio, she offered in a grim voice, jerking the