Gary Shteyngart - Little Failure

Which one will be my Jane? Which one will trace the W of my weak chin with her pewter fingers? Which one will take me on her boat and introduce me to the millionaire and his wife? You know something, Daddy? Gary survived Communist Russia just so he could join the GOP. I think that’s very courageous, son. Would you like to throw the old pigskin around with me and Jack Kemp after cocktails? Just leave your Top-Siders in the mudroom .

“Hey,” one of the lovelies says.

Me, debonair, unconcerned: “Hey.”

“So, I’ll have a rum and Coke, just a splash of ice and a lime. Mandy, you said no ice, right? She’ll have a Diet Coke, lime, no ice.”

I have been mistaken for the waiter.

The racism inside me is dying. A difficult, smelly death. Looking down at others is one of the few things that has kept me afloat through the years, the comfort in thinking that entire races are lower than my family, lower than me. But New York City is making it hard. Stuyvesant is making it hard. What’s there to say when the smartest boy in school is of Palestinian descent by way of South Africa? His name happens to be Omar, the name of the evil scientist in my adolescent novel The Chalenge . And how can I not notice that the prettiest girl in all of Stuyvesant, a brief glimpse of her strong, miniskirt-clad legs in physics enough to lower my average by 1.54 points for the semester, is Puerto Rican? And that the masses around me, blazing their sleepless paths toward the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, are, simply, not white?

When the racism goes away, it leaves an empty, lonely place. For so long I have not wanted to be a Russian, but now, without the anger-fueled right-wing fanaticism, I’m really not a Russian. At dining tables across the Eastern Seaboard, among little ryumochki of vodka and slicks of oily sturgeon, I could lean back and join in the hate and be a part of something bigger than myself. Two decades after Bush Senior’s campaign against Dukakis, from the mouth of a relation expressing herself in English for the benefit of the few non-Russians at the Thanksgiving table: “I think Obama should be president. But of African country. This is white country.”

Only suddenly it’s not a white country. Or, for me, a white city. A white school. The awful words still come out of me, but now they’re just meant to be antagonistic and contrarian, or maybe just funny. Welfare this. Trickle-down that. When the toxic and outré American right-wing pundit Glenn Beck declared himself a “rodeo clown” a few years back, I understood his recipe well: part clown, part bully. How many fingers, Vinston?

After the debacle at the Bush victory party, I write a fifty-page novella for a social studies class, set in the independent Republic of Palestine in the then-distant year of 1999. The novella, pretentiously titled Shooting Rubberbands [ sic ] at the Stars , features my horniest line to date, something about “the smooth expanse of thigh, breast and shoulder.” But Rubberbands is also, for me, surprisingly evenhanded. Six years after the intergalactic racial insanity of The Chalenge , the Palestinians are, like my fellow student Omar, human. “Your materialist exterior hides a sensitive aesthetic soul,” my teacher, a white-bearded leftie, has written, along with a grade of A++. I focus on the grade, my average now inching slightly past Michigan on the College Highest Average Rejected, Lowest Average Accepted Chart, and I put away the description of my sensitive, aesthetic soul for college. Specifically, for a woman named Jennifer.

But back to that “smooth expanse of thigh, breast and shoulder.” My dying Republicanism and provincialism aren’t the only things keeping me from getting some. I don’t know how to talk to a girl without either going into pathetic overdrive ( Hey, baby, want to listen to my new Aiwa Cassette Boy? ) or swallowing my tongue. Sophomore year, somehow the tongue finds its way into the mouth of another, a blond, tie-dye-wearing girl from one grade junior, on a park bench in the western, more manicured half of nearby Stuyvesant Square, or the Park, as we call it. I am too scared to enjoy the moment for its actual value: the fact that someone I just met wants to share a mouth with me. At the time I’m more attuned to the fact that some of my new stoner friends over on a neighboring bench are shouting “Wooo!” and “Go, Shteyngart!”

If only I could have slowed myself down that night, enjoyed being alive with someone equally young and, I assume, happy to be there with me. Those soft skinny legs, the awkward overhang of her arms around my neck, the seriousness with which we go at it: my first real kiss, maybe hers as well. In any case, when I see the young lady the next day at school, there’s just the exchange of awkward looks, and nothing more happens. Forget it, Jake, it’s Stuyvesant. She goes back to her studies and friends; I go back to tallboys and gold-stamped hash.

It’s one o’clock at the Park. Do you know where your child is?

Me, I’m drunk and stoned. I’ve been drunk and stoned for three years now.

I’ve rigged my senior-year schedule so that I take meteorology, one of the amazing horseshit classes taught by one Mr. Orna, a middle-aged hero for us burnouts who revels in nonsensical, self-invented, quasi-Yiddish phrases such as “Ooooh, macha kacha !” and “Oh, schrotzel !” conducts cloud-watching field trips to the Park, does not take attendance all through the semester, but then takes your final exam for you , guaranteeing my one perfect grade at Stuy. Between Mr. Orna’s meteorology and his other Jacques Cousteau — like undersea adventure, oceanography, I’ve slotted in two lunch periods. Now I have four periods to get high and crush twenty-four-ounce tallboys or to roam around the city with my friends. Around 2:00 P.M. I will check into the one class I still have an interest in attending, metaphysics. The class is run by Dr. Bindman, a psychoanalyst-guru whom we all adore but whose grading practices are far tougher than Mr. Orna’s, and far more metaphysical — a coin flip determines your grade. I stop into Dr. Bindman’s class because he lets me lead a tantric-sex demonstration, whereupon we lower the shades, light scented candles, and I get to lock my forehead with one of the many girls I’m in love with.

Her name’s Sara, and she’s a half Filipina with terrifyingly true hazel eyes and lungs that can hold in a bowl of pot smoke for an entire lunch period. The closest I will get to her seagull lips is the rim of a paper cup. We buy diner coffee cups in bulk, the ones with the Greek-styled legend WE ARE HAPPY TO SERVE YOU, and fill them with Kahlúa and milk so that the school guards think we’re sipping coffee with a drop of cream. Back in Dr. Bindman’s metaphysics, with the shades drawn, with four cups of Kahlúa and milk inside me, I touch Sara’s warm forehead with mine, concentrating on not sweating all over her, as our classmates om pleasurably around us. Par for the course, Sara’s in love not with me but with Dr. Bindman, his kind American face, his calming voice and luxuriant mustache.

Back at the Park, I’m still wearing that idiotic Union Bay sweater down to my knees, a kind of homage to the girls of Solomon Schechter, but I’ve accessorized it with a studded leather cuff around my left wrist, and my feet are shod in Reebok Pump sneakers, a new kind of high-tops that inflate when you press a stylized orange basketball hanging off the tongue. One of my inane catchphrases: “Hey, baby, you want to pump me up?”