But they were all the same to Merriweather: ziggas. Anytime they weren’t fighting, that was how he greeted the young males, enveloping their limp hands in his huge paws, two quick pumps and a What’s up, my zigga? They responded with smiles, as if they and Merriweather shared some common bond. They probably didn’t completely understand what he was saying but recognized the tone as friendly, like dogs reacting to pitch. And his was so casual. What were they? Waiters? Sir, would you like a side of shrapnel with that grenade? Achilles wanted that confidence and connection, Merriweather’s habit of acting as if theirs was the most normal job in the world, but he didn’t have Merri’s aw-shucks grin and using that word in front of other people didn’t jive with him. He couldn’t apply it to so many people, and make it sound natural to do so. A farmer is beating his mule: That zigga’s getting it. A kid meandering through the market slips an apple up his sleeve: That zigga’s got skills. A goat darts into the road and gets hit by a car: Achilles and Troy eye each other; laughing, Merriweather says, That zigga got fuuuucked up. The president fails to approve the budget for new safety gear: That zigga better get on his job.
Merriweather explained it: “Dick and W are obviously ziggas. They’re like pimps, players, like the old Ice Cube song, “Who’s the Mack?” The rest of these motherfuckers — well, if they ain’t ziggas, they got no excuse to be treated this way. Look around. Their shit’s all tore up, they keep their women in check, they live ten to an apartment, they roll six deep, everyone else thinks they know what’s good for them, and every time they get a leader we cut him down. Who’s that remind you of, except the pork thing, right? But even we got some crazy ziggas won’t eat bacon,” thumbing his nose at Jackson, who was a Seventh-Day Adventist.
Merri’s talk greatly offended Ramirez, who said that the Afghans could blend into the barrio and accused Merriweather of being like a black politician and trying to claim everything for himself.
Merri looked to Achilles for support. “I’m like Paul Mooney. I say it a hundred times every morning to keep my teeth white.” Pointing at random objects as he spoke, he said, “Say it with me, Connie: zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga, zigga …”
“Alright! I got it,” Achilles had yelled.
“Leave him alone,” said Wages.
Merriweather continued, “It’s a beautiful word. It’s our word. That’s what connects us. You might think you’re different or lighter or darker or smarter or better-talking, but to a racist motherfucker, we’re all ziggas. That’s why we’re lucky. We only have one enemy. These poor ziggas got us here, the whole of Europe, plus they’re fighting each other. Know-whatta-mean?”
Achilles didn’t, but thought that one day he might, that he would feel a click, a switch flipping, and be able to speak this new language with new freedom. But after using the word at Kikkin Chikkin, all he felt was dirty, like he’d admitted to understanding something he didn’t want to, the same way he’d felt for clearing up the confusion when the chaplain said he was going to try the Donkey Punch on Friday night. He brought it on himself by saying things like “I’m God’s inbox,” or “The Bible is God’s Myspace,” but it was still disrespectful. Achilles didn’t know who was feeding the chaplain that misinformation, but the poor old man (who was Achilles’s father’s age and looked somewhat like him, except that both of his arms were covered in tattoos) thought that felching, the Rusty Trombone, and the Statue of Liberty were all New York cocktails. He imagined the chaplain inviting an infantry dog hot off a fireworks show back to the tent for a Rusty Trombone. To save him the embarrassment of actually hearing the acts described, Achilles informed Chaplain Weidman that they were slang for drugs and that someone was playing a joke on him. When the word got around that Achilles had said this, they started calling him Urkel and Carlton and every other black television character known as an oreo, but no one called him a zigga.
He removed his shoes and wrapped his damp shirt around his head before entering Wages’s house. He went straight to the bathroom to wash his face. His left cheek was raw from being dragged against the wall, his right eye rimmed with blood. Raw hairless patches dotted his scalp; the right side of his face was a rainbow of black and brown bruises. Then there was the limp. He didn’t know when or how he’d started limping. He shouldn’t have come back. Wages couldn’t see him like this. It wasn’t pride. He simply didn’t want Wages involved. If his friend saw Achilles like this, he’d get sawed off.
Blood dotted the porcelain sink, one spot then another, then another and another in greater concentration, until it was dappled like the ground under sudden rain. When he tried to clean up, the drops streaked across the bowl, long stripes trailing. He needed more water. Dots now stripes, stripes now streaks. Blood splattered on the toilet seat. On his arm, a gouge he hadn’t noticed before.
As he undressed to shower, the locket dropped to the floor, hinges twisted and glass cracked. The photo of his mother’s father, now badly scratched, popped out of the frame. Gliding through his slick fingers as he tried to reassemble it, the locket fell again, this time breaking open and revealing a small crucifix wrapped in cotton and hidden behind the photograph. The back of the cross was engraved AHC for AHC. He often forgot that he and his mother, Anna Holt Conroy, shared the same initials. He rubbed his finger across the tiny golden Jesus he had unknowingly carried around the world — and he’d thought his mother’s faith was a new thing.
After his shower, he quietly opened the bathroom door and slipped into the hall. Wages was mopping the living room. Achilles reached for the mop, but Wages insisted on continuing, which was unusual. People should clean up their own messes, he always said, especially when anyone mentioned the possibility of being transferred to Iraq.
“Bethany’s going into labor if I don’t get this up. She’s sensitive about blood being scattered around. Germs and all.” He laughed. “She thinks I’m paranoid about not sitting with my back to the door or going to the window twenty-nine times a night, complains I sleep like a baby, up every few hours, but let her see someone eat without washing their hands. Boom!” He waved his arms around to indicate an explosion.
While Wages mopped, Achilles sat, curling and uncurling his fingers, stretching his toes, checking in with his battered body. After a few minutes Wages asked, “So what the fuck, dude?”
Achilles told as much of the truth as he thought it prudent to share: No, Troy wasn’t at that house, though there was a guy named Tony who looked similar enough to confuse an old man with cataracts.
Wages wasn’t convinced. “Does this have anything to do with why Troy was in that line? Is he into some shit?”