Paul Beatty - The White Boy Shuffle

Cuz, I been having nightmares in this hole. Woke up last night sweating and shit, screaming, shaking. Scared the piss out of Z-Groove and Touch. Z-Groove tried to play it off by saying, “What you dreaming about, having a threesome with Gary Coleman and Emmanuel Lewis?” Very funny, right? I didn’t know what the hell I was carrying on about. All I knew was that it had something to do with death. Like I was running through different scenarios of how I’d like to die. So we got into a conversation about death or more specifically our demises, from which I concluded that niggers aren’t afraid to die but are worried about how to die. We was up till five in the morning talking shit.

Me: Touch, how you wanna go out?

Touch: Definitely on the floor dunking, bang. (Raises his hands in the air simulating a dunking motion.) And you know that. Word up. Have a mad large funeral. Big-ass tomb and shit. Mausoleum with eternal candles, and I’d hire some out-of-work actors to cry at my grave twenty-four hours a day.

Z-Groove: I hear you, kid. Not a bad way to die, but everybody goes out dunking, word up.

Me: What you mean?

Z-Groove: Did you ever see Come Back Charleston Blue?

Me: No, I read the book.

Z-Groove: Figures. I don’t know about the book, but in the movie there’s this hit-man, bodyguard-type nigger named Stretch or some shit, and he playing ball in the park at night. He goes up to stuff this two-hander and gets machine-gunned in the chest and dies hanging on the rim with his ’fro still perfectly combed.

Touch: That’s make-believe. Any real motherfuckers die dunking?

Z-Groove: You ever hear of this disease called Marfan’s? I did a book report on it last year. It affects tall, elongated motherfuckers. They’re born with a thin aorta, and if they overexert themselves it tears and they die. A while back Sports Illustrated did a story on Marfan’s, talking about this gangly-type brother who had the disease but didn’t know it and died dunking in a pick-up game.

Touch: What about Hank Gathers? That baller with the weak heart who died a few years back after finishing an alley-oop in front of a house full of folks.

Z-Groove: That’s awright, only thing is I don’t want white people saying I went out happy like a good b-ball-playing nigger. Know what I’m saying?

Touch: What I want to know is, how come none of these overweight, hysterical coaches never bust a gut on the sideline and collapse in the middle of a big game? That shit never happen to white folks.

Me: All I know is I want to die, but I don’t want to die alone.

Scoby, this death thing is for real. I can’t avoid it so I might as well embrace it. Right? Dude, am I going crazy? Have you finished with Ella Fitzgerald yet?

Later,

Gunnar

P.S. I know, I know, you’re saying what was my starting five? Midnight movies at shooting guard, Joan Miró at point guard, thunderstorms at small forward, the beach at power forward, and metamorphic rocks at center.

* * *

Dear Psycho Loco,

Enclosed are the photograph and medical records you requested. Why won’t you tell me what this is for? The photo is a bit mug shot-ish, but the best I can do. I been thinking about death out here, something about being surrounded by rickety old ex-athletes trying to relive their youths. I’ll talk to you more about it when I get back. Thanks for the money, Robin Hood, I hope you kept your promise not to lend me any ducats from the heist. I snuck out and went downtown to buy some books. Here are the answers to the questionnaire you sent me.

Height — 6' 4"

Weight — 187 lbs.

Favorite authors — Zora Neale Hurston, G. K. Chesterton, Richard Pryor, and Charles Chesnutt

Favorite foods — Fish tacos and grape juice

Greatest inventions — Right on red, multiball pinball machines, and the ballpoint pen

I should have the results of the sperm count by the end of the week. Incredible medical care at this mug, they got to keep they niggers physically fit.

Miss ya and stay up,

Gunnar

* * *

Scoby,

Since I’m writing you this letter, it means I played against Leon Tremundo and survived. Leon didn’t kiss Missy Gibson once, and after the game she refused to let him touch her. “How you let that black white boy dog you!” The coaches tried to offer me jersey number eight (apparently I don’t penetrate enough), but I turned them down.

Easy,

* * *

Mama,

You can do something with my part of the college money, I don’t think I’ll need it. I was sitting in the bleachers when a white man wearing a Raleigh State shirt sat next to me. He didn’t say anything, but he took out his wallet and opened it so I could get a good look at what was inside, a brick of hundred-dollar bills. I thought about taking it and sending it to Christina and Nicole, but unfortunately, you raised me better than that.

Your still poor

ghetto child,

running wild,

Gunnar

* * *

Dear Motome Shimimoto,

I want to thank you for never screaming at me, but I’m not sure if I should. I threw the ball cross-court yesterday and this coach from Wyoming Tech, whose name I don’t even know, started yelling at me. As if it were an honor for the greatest coach within spitting distance of the Grand Tetons to shout at me. The other kids put their heads down for a moment, then kept playing. I took one step up-court, then beelined straight for Coach Crude. When I got over there, he tried to stare me down. I put my nose on his forehead and told him if he ever raised his voice in my direction again I’d kill him. Did I overreact? Coach, as soon as I said it, I knew I didn’t mean it. So did he. But the fucker still crumpled to his knees and started pleading for forgiveness. Afraid I’d never consider attending his powerhouse program. Guess I’ll never be one of those black role models who “transcends race,” will I? Thanks for never yelling at me, but maybe if you had I’d be used to it and wouldn’t take these assholes so seriously. I think you should tell the coach over at El Campesino not to yell at me. I’d appreciate it, thanks. Can you ask Christina and Nicole not to do anything gross like saving the afterbirth in a jar?

Sincerely,

Gunnar

IN RETURN for my father’s not pressing charges against me and my friends for stealing the safe, I agreed to go quietly to El Campesino Real High, an elite public high school in the San Fernando Valley. It was hoped that the reinfusion of white upper-class values would decrease the likelihood of my committing another felony, but the two miserable years I spent at El Campesino had the opposite effect. If you want to raise the consciousness of an inner-city colored child, send him to an all-white high school. Five days a week I woke at 5:30 A.M. for the hour-and-a-half bus ride from our shtetl to the pristine San Fernando Valley. The migrant student-workers and I trudged off the bus like a weary chain gang, fighting to stay awake and trying not to be intimidated by the luxury cars in the student parking lot, the self-assurance of everyone from the students to the cafeteria workers. I often found myself short of breath from the change in economic and cultural altitude. Gasping for air, I almost took the remedial schedule and the weeks’ worth of lunch money my counselor, Ms. Baumgarten, offered me, but my pride got the better of me.

“Ms. Baumgarten, I appreciate your eleemosynary concern, but have you checked my records?”