Paul Beatty - The White Boy Shuffle

“Gunnar, you got to have patience. I’ve been planning to steal this thing ever since I was ten. You remember how the toy department in Montgomery Ward’s was like twenty-five feet from the door?”

“Yeah, that was stupid. Fools used to run through there, grab a G.I. Joe doll or a Hot Wheel car and break.”

“Well, there was this race-car set that I wanted, the Tommy Thunder 5000. It came with a racing helmet, the headlights on the cars worked, the whole nine. But it was too big and heavy to pick up and walk out with — I had to get it closer to the door. So every day after school I moved the box one inch closer. I did this for the entire fifth grade.”

“Straight genius.”

“Little by little, my Tommy Thunder 5000 was steadily easing toward that front door. Finally I had the box close enough to the door. On the day I was going to take it, I was so happy, I invited every kid I knew over to my house to race them cars. I get to the store and my Tommy Thunder 5000 is gone. In its place is a potted plant. In one day Montgomery Ward’s turned the toy department into gardening supplies. Where the electric trains used to be were mounds of fertilizer. The video game cartridges were transformed into seed packets. I went berserk and started yelling for the manager. ‘Where’s my goddamn Tommy Thunder 5000? Who moved my race-car set? I demand to speak to the manager.’ Security tried to get me to leave, but I wouldn’t leave. I started pissing on rosebushes, demanding to see the manager. The manager comes down and escorts me to his office on the second floor in the back, near the linens. He asks me why I’m so upset and I explain to him how I’d been slowly stealing the Tommy Thunder 5000 and by moving the toy section near the escalator he fucked up my summer. So to cool me out he says, ‘Sorry about the Tommy Thunder 5000, but to make up for your troubles you can have anything you see in my office.’ I look around. He got lollipops, candy canes, and stuffed animals in there. I see the safe sitting in the corner. I go, ‘I want that,’ pointing to the safe. He goes, ‘You can’t have that, young man. That’s valuable property,’ and hands me a candy cane. I’m like, ‘Motherfucker, you said anything. That safe is mine, you watch.’ And ta-da, nine years later, look where the safe sits, in my living room.”

“You are patient, yeesh. Must be that Apache blood. I hope you ain’t waiting for the white man to disappear too.”

I looked closely at the safe. The tag dangling from the handle flapped in the current of a household draft. The tag read, “Montgomery Ward Duro-Safe. This safe is solid tungsten. Airtight, fireproof, and guaranteed to withstand pressure up to 3500 pounds per square inch.” I knew there had to be a way to open it; this was a Montgomery Ward product. Nothing they made worked. Their television sets came with wire hangers and a pair of pliers to turn the channel after the knobs fell off.

I had an idea. I asked Abuela Gloria for her safecracking kit. I set the small metal box about three feet behind the safe, asked Scoby, Ms. Sanchez, and Psycho Loco to help tip the safe onto its back. There on the bottom of the safe was the combination, written on a dirty white label.

4 turns to the right to 67

3 turns to the left to 23

2 turns to the right to 55

1 turn to the left to 63

The best thing about treasure is the assortment. I didn’t think gold bars really existed. I thought they were a movie prop used to speed up the plot. Yet there was a shoebox full of domino-size ingots stamped MONTGOMERY WARD 24K. Stacks of dusty paper money sat in the back, looking afraid to come out from their hiding place. Silver and platinum rings, brooches, and tiaras inlaid with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds glittered under the lamplight.

It was surreal to watch Psycho Loco divide the bounty, tossing stacks of money and gold bars around the room like so many paperweights. We played The Price Is Right for the jewelry. Whoever was closest to guessing the stickered price won the bauble.

For a while living in Hillside was like living in the Old West in a thriving goldmining town’s bubble economy. Psycho Loco customized his van. Scoby bought a car and every jazz CD on his extensive list. Joe Shenanigans, who let out a hearty “Mama mia” upon receiving his share, moved to Brooklyn and tried to join the Mafia. Ms. Sanchez went door to door selling jewelry at discount prices. No M.O. Clark got plastic surgery to remove his fingerprints. His hands looked like they’d been steamrolled, sanded down, then varnished. He got a kick out of harassing the palm readers on Hollywood Boulevard. Those soothsayers who didn’t pass out after looking at his glassy palms usually had the temerity to bullshit about No M.O.’s clearheadedness and his smooth future.

I refused any payment for my part in the heist. I only wanted to satisfy my curiosity, not fence gold bars and pray that the money I was spending was untraceable. Psycho Loco overlooked my morality but said he would make sure I profited. He began to take a strange interest in my personal life. What did I plan to do with my future, what size family did I want, did I believe in corporal punishment for kids. When Psycho Loco asked, “What would you do to instill respect for human rights throughout the world?” I realized that I was filling out an application of some sort by proxy. I didn’t know what I was applying for, but at the time I thought maybe Psycho Loco was entering me in a beauty pageant.

* * *

I spent the last two weeks of my sixteenth summer away at camp, not shooting rapids and learning Indian folk songs but shooting baskets and learning when to double-down and give weak-side help.

E-mail from Camp

Dear Ma,

How you? I know Christina and Nicole are a little chubby but I can’t believe you couldn’t tell they were pregnant until they were eight months gone. I guess when you work at a free clinic sometimes “you can’t see the forest for the…” Never mind, I never understood that proverb anyway. I’m sorry to hear that you all aren’t getting along, but why don’t they stay at the unwed mothers’ home rather than live with Dad? Sorry for the third degree, the thought of my sisters having babies at the same time is a little unsettling. Maybe things will be better when I leave the house. I know I haven’t been the ideal son.

Thanks for the Nabokov, it’s appropriate in this place with these bossy white men slobbering over skinny kids. Ma, I swear they look at you like they want to fuck you, using every and any excuse to slap your butt. “Gunnar, your shoes are laced properly.” Butt slap. “Kaufman, you ate all your lima beans.” Butt slap.

Life as the one hundredth best high school basketball player in America is a trip. As numero ciento I’m the last in line to do everything. Last to eat. Last to use the shower. Last to get issued the camp sweats and practice uniforms with 100 emblazoned on the back. In the “college prep” class, I have to sit way in the back. Not that I’m missing anything. College prep amounts to an etiquette lesson on how to behave once we get there. “Don’t get involved with any student groups, and uphold your professionalism and the school’s honor on and off the court.” Then they pass out a crib sheet with the definitions to twenty words guaranteed to be on the SAT.

The best part about camp is you get to meet people from other places. I’m living in a dorm room with Khalil Ibrahim and Zane Cropsy, campers ninety-nine and ninety-eight, respectively. Khalil is from Miami. He’s always complaining that he should be rated higher than ninety-nine but the coaches discriminate against him ’cause he’s gay. He’s right. I overheard one counselor telling a scout that the reason Khalil’s court sense is so good is because his “homosexualness gives him a heightened awareness of where other boys are on the court, but his presence may be detrimental to a team of normal kids.” Khalil’s sexuality gives him one advantage, though: no one slaps his butt.