After the Lynching Museum

“Nigger take this! Take it, I tell ya!” Howard yells at the black carhop. It is 1951 in Macon, Georgia. I am eight years old. My brother, Toby, is six. We are in the back seat of a 1948 Ford. I am cringing. I do not know what Toby is doing—probably laughing and picking his butt.

“Naw, sah. Naw, sah.” The black carhop shakes his head, backing away from the brown paper bag my stepfather, seated in the driver's seat, holds closed in his fist. From the bag comes noises that sound like a hurt and angry animal.

“Nigger, ya want me to whip ya? I tell ya, take this here bag,” Howard yells when no sounds come from the bag. As the man steps to take the bag, screeches and growls erupt from it again. The carhop, eyes wide with terror, jerks away until again my stepfather yells, “Nigger, ya know what is good for ya, ya take this.”

The thin, dark man stands four feet from the car, frozen still, his eyes flashing their whites. He says, “Yas, sah. Yas, sah.” He does not move for what seems like an hour, until Howard throws the bag at him and it erupts in louder noises. The carhop runs.

Laughing raucously, Howard snickers. “Stupid niggers,” he says to his friend, Buck, in the passenger seat.

Buck stops his ventriloquism to join the laughter and yell, “Hey, nigger, ya butta do wha yer told, or we get you. Get here an' take our order. Don't you drop nuthin neither. These childrun need some french-fried potatoes and a Coca-Cola. Them potatoes better be hot and them Coca-Colas good and cold.”

Still almost choking with laughter, Howard reinforces Buck's order, “And ya be quick about it.”

The thin carhop turns, runs. When he returns with fries and cokes for Toby and me, his shaking hands can barely hold the tray, causing another explosion from Howard. “Nigger, ya good for nuthin'. Cain't ya even carry no food? Why ya even alive?” Laughing, Howard and Buck pass another brown paper bag between them, taking swigs of whiskey from the bottle hidden inside.

For as long as I can