Cypress branches hang like the code to dead links. They wilt, dejected, in the squalid Floridian heat. Their reflection in the water suggests an as-below with greater implications than anyone present is trying to consider this afternoon. Lil Pump drinks from a can of Busch Lite. He stares, has been staring, at a Seminole logo, its face frozen mid war cry and emblazoned on the red-and-white-striped sweat-wicking Under Armour golf polo of Dale Briley, owner of the largest Ford automotive dealership in the Tallahassee metropolitan area whose Suncatcher Elite 326 pontoon now drifts across the lake behind his house. Two high school football players, Jaden and Darius, lounge warily next to Lil Pump. Briley, a major booster for the Florida State University football program who has enlisted, for some reason beyond the rapper’s understanding, Lil Pump’s help in recruiting the players.
Lil Pump doesn’t feel good, poor guy. He feels like the big Bopper at the bottom of that lake, moldering in Chantilly lace. It’s that withdrawal sidling up and grabbing the seat next to him is what it is. He feels like he’s sweating out that Busch Lite quicker than he can get drunk.
The players, for their part, seem nonplussed by the rapper, ignoring him mostly. The whole thing feels like a joke at his expense, one he doesn’t know the punchline to.
The day slouches into late afternoon.
Briley asks him if he ever met Nelly. His panhandle accent is slicked by years of salesmanship.
Lil Pump hasn’t.
“I met him last year,” says Briley. “He performed at the National Auto Dealer’s convention. Nice guy. Didn’t really care for his music though.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t have anything against rap,” he adds, less to Lil Pump, the rapper, than to the recruits, both of whom are, happen to be, Black, a distinction that now hangs in the air. The players might share a look.
A rather uncomfortable intervention of flesh: Lil Pump has become aware of his own body.
How distant it feels from him.
How small it is.
The players are the size of football players.
Heath Ledger’s Joker smiles wide from Darius’ forearm, which is saran-wrapped and bleeding faintly.
“I met Brooks and Dunn one time. The nicest guys,” says Briley.
Abu Garcia Zen-S70 proprietary glare-resistant carbon X-matrix fishing rods hang off the edge of the boat, maybe looking to hook a bass, but maybe content to just hang, ok, it's fine to just take it easy sometimes, you don’t have to always be on.
Briley is telling about the latest auto dealer convention, which was in Las Vegas and by his telling seems a real blow out.
“Wow,” says Darius.
“We can’t do it in Vegas again though,” Briley says. “Too many divorces.”
He laughs.
The sun reflects off the fire iridium lenses of his Oakley M2 frame wraparound sunglasses.
The lake is ebbing low, revealing the base trunks of the trees. They are covered in moss. Lil Pump takes a drink of Busch Lite. He wonders if he can even get drunk anymore. He doesn’t need a beer. He needs a Xanax. That old Cotardic feeling: maybe he is already dead? Mosquitoes buzz.
“When you work hard as hard as I do you have to let the steam out somehow,” says Briley.
“I know you boys work hard. It’s hard work being an athlete,” he says, to the athletes. “You deserve a weekend off. Hopefully I’ll be able to show you a good time. Tallahassee has a lot to offer two young men such as yourself.”
The sun grins disingenuously above them like Briley’s whitened teeth. The darkness descending on Lil Pump is not entirely commensurate with the summer afternoon. Withdrawal creeps like vines at the edge of his vision. The moment is stretching and contracting, a slack and tense that feels, is feeling, not present, so much, but somehow simple and continuous and Jalen meanwhile sweats through his khakis. The can of Busch Lite in his hands is open but undrunk. He rubs his thumb against the jagged nub that held the tab he pulled off an hour ago. He lets it prick him. It helps him feel less anxious, the slight puncturing of his skin, the slight sharp pain. The tiny point gives him something to focus on to keep the swamp from overwhelming him. Briley continues talking. The man can talk, you can’t deny him that.
There are all sorts of merits to Florida State University, Jalen is learning.
“How did you boys like the training facilities?” he asks.
“They was nice,” says Darius, somewhat circumspect.
They had been more than nice. They had been state of the art. They had been a shining accumulation of TV money that, due to the peculiarities of the NCAA, couldn’t really be spent elsewhere.
“I gave money for that renovation, you know. Of course you don’t see my name anywhere. As much money as I’ve given you’d think they’d at least name a toilet after me. But knowing I’m helping the program is all the reward I need,” Briley says.
“It’s a great football program,” he says.
“A great school,” he says.
“In an ideal world that would be enough to convince you to come play here, but I’m a practical man and I understand that there are other factors that a young student athlete has to take under consideration these days, especially what with the economy. But the Florida State community wants you at Florida State and the Florida State community is invested in getting what it wants,” he says.
Darius and Jalen might exchange glances.
“I don’t know,” says Darius. “I’m not trying to get my ass busted for taking your money.”
“I’m not talking about anything like that,” says Dale. “No money under the table. Nothing against the rules. That’s not how I operate. But there are other arrangements we can work out, I’m sure.”
“What do you have in mind,” says Darius.
He scratches at the saran wrap on his arm.
“I’m always looking for capable hands down at the dealership and I’m sure you boys would make as fine of additions to the Briley Automotive team as you would to the Florida State football program. Nothing wrong with a little work. It builds character. Even the hardasses at NCdoubleA can’t fault you for that.”
“A job?” says Darius.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be nothing too onerous,” says Briley. “Just a few hours a week. I promise you’ll be well compensated. You’re gonna want some walking around money. Two young men of your caliber should be able to enjoy their college experience.”
There are all sorts of perks to being a football star at Florida State University. A job at a car dealership is only the beginning. Briley patters while Jalen and Darius wait for him to get to ask the question that he inevitably will.
Inevitably, he does, and while Jalen does answer “yes sir” when Briley asks him if he could see himself at Florida State University, he doesn’t quite meet Briley’s eye.
“I’m sensing some hesitation there,” says the astute Briley.
“I like the program. I like the coaches. But to be honest with you, my mom doesn’t want me to come to Florida State,” says Jalen. “She’s worried about the culture. She says it’s nothing but a party school.”
Nothing about today’s experience, with strung out C-List rappers and automotive dealers giving beers to minors, has proved her wrong.
“She says I won’t be able to get a good education here. What I really think she wants is for me to go to a Christian school.”
Briley takes off his sunglasses and lets them dangle by the Croakies.
He squints sunward at Jalen.
Something about the intensity of the gaze upon him compels Jalen to take his first drink of the day. For sociability’s sake.
Briley puts down his own beer.
“I understand,” he says, ever offering a compassionate ear to young men in a world growing increasingly hostile to them.
“Florida State’s got a bit of a reputation and maybe that reputation is not entirely undeserved. But it’s not something to worry about, if you don’t want to. I promise you you can get a good education here. You’re a Christian?”
“Yes sir,” says Jalen.
“You can get a good education and you can live a Christian life. Tallahassee’s a small town in a lot of ways. It’s a community. A religious community. A Christian community. We like church and football. And, ok, maybe having a beer while we fish on the weekend. If you’re worried I can put you in touch with a friend of mine. He’s the head pastor of New Life Church. He has a Florida State education and he’s built something great. He’s grown a huge following. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to talk to you. I’ve given him enough money over the years.”
“That one of those big churches?” asks Jalen.
“Yessir,” says Briley. “It’s a near feat of engineering. How many people they fit in there. 12,000 people every Sunday. A man can’t help but feel the presence of the lord in a place like that.”
Jalen is skeptical. He had been raised going to a one room Baptist church in a town with a population barely a tenth that of the weekly attendance of the church. He had gone to a megachurch service the summer he stayed with his aunt and uncle, the summer his mom had been sick. He had turned 14 that summer. It was the summer before he started high school. He had felt more lost than he ever had and when he tried to turn to God that summer, in that arena cathedral, he had been unable to find Him. He hadn’t been able to hear Him over all that noise. Jalen says nothing. He stares into the muggy distance and listens to the sound of the lake. He takes a drink from the can and then a larger drink. It’s not like he doesn’t drink. The afternoon is quiet. Many of the animals of the swamp are resting, waiting for the evening to resume their crepuscular activities.
“Maybe,” Jalen says.
He goes to take a drink only to find the can is already empty.
Briley is a professional. He knows that the key to a sale is to keep the conversation moving. He is undaunted and, as the shifting light is revealing, at least a little unshaven, stubbleflecked with gray. Without his sunglasses he is leereyed, even desperate looking. The beer is now back in his hand.
“You should at least speak with Pastor Jason. I can set up a meeting for tomorrow if you’d like. He has his ear to the ground. I’m sure there’s something for you here in town.”
“He white?” asks Jalen.
It surprises him to hear the words coming out of his mouth.
“He is white,” says Briley.
Jalen says nothing.
“Does that matter?” asks Briley.
“No,” says Jalen.
He has never seriously considered the racial dynamics of his church experience. It is not something he has ever noticed himself having strong feelings for. Maybe he has always just taken having a Black pastor for granted. The beer hasn’t made him drunk so much as thirsty and irritable. He tries to ignore that sticky stale feeling in his mouth.
“It’s just that, to be honest, sir, I can’t imagine myself worshiping with a white pastor. I’m not racist, I just can’t imagine that.”
Briley doesn’t know what to say here.
Jalen catches a mosquito out of the air.
Humidity is ungluing something in both of them.
“I just don’t think this is the right school for me,” Jalen says.
“We have Black pastors in Tallahassee I’m sure,” says Briley.
Jalen laughs.
“It’s not just that, man. This whole experience has been very strange. Like, why the hell is Lil Pump here? Is that supposed to impress me or something? What, am I supposed to go home and brag that I met Lil Pump?”
And well, is he?
Is that the punchline?
There is a silence like a DMCA takedown notice.
A light breeze: branches dance halfheartedly. It is hot under the sun but the sun is beginning now to crest, leaching red into the sky. It will still be hot after the sun goes down. Even without the sun it will still be hot. In the hot night there will be a moon and the moon will shine over Tallahassee. The moon will shine the over the stirring animals, the snakes and foxes and wild turkeys, it will shine over the boats docked in the swampy lake and the divorced men passed out on their couches, it will shine over the desperate and not so desperate and who knows what kind of trouble deadeyed rappers can find themselves in the rest of the unrendered world, in this unenviable expanse of their own psychogeographic swamp. Briley is looking towards the sun, which, he can tell by its position in the sky, is setting. He is looking at his watch and saying “well boys it’s about time we head back” and promising the players the best damn steaks in the city before revving up the boat’s engine. It is swamp here and Lil Pump will be glad enough to leave, as glad as leaving ever is. Good luck Lil Pump. You’ll need it.
-- Jacob Stovall was born in Chicago but raised in Massachusetts and Tennessee. He has recently moved back to Chicago and is books editor of APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL. His work can be found online and in print.