Paul Beatty - Tuff

Spencer, who’d been quiet since Winston had announced his candidacy, finally spoke. “I feel that we must admit to ourselves that we’ve laid out some stipulations and guidelines for Winston to follow: his vocation should pay a decent living wage, contribute to the social good, be an exemplar to his son, and be racially, I don’t know — righteous. I think Winston has chosen to pursue a course of action that while on the surface is infeasible and bullheaded does meet the agreed-upon exigencies. I have only one question. Winston, are you certain this is what you really want to do?”

“No, but it’s what I’m going to do. The only people who want to become politicians are the third-grade snitch-ass hall-monitor types. Why can’t I do it? You just put up some posters in the neighborhood and people vote for you. All I need to know is how much does the job pay.”

“I’d say about seventy-five thousand dollars a year,” Ms. Nomura said.

He stamped his feet and pumped his fist in the air. “Oh, that’s crazy money. After I win I’ll be making more than all y’all combined.”

“You won’t be making more than me, believe that shit, motherfucker.”

“But you can’t win. Winston, listen to me for one second.” Clifford stood up and pointed a finger in his son’s face. “Be practical. I know I’ve always told you pursue your dreams, but you got to understand the difference between fantasy and reality.”

Winston slapped away his father’s hand. The loud, stinging crack caused those at ringside to cringe. “Man, I’m tired of you getting up in my face.” Clifford backed off but continued preaching about the costs of running a campaign and the number of votes needed to win. Winston ignored him and stared at the poster of Debs. He tried to imagine what the old Socialist was saying. Used the buildings in the background to figure out where in New York City he was speaking. Lower East Side? He counted the number of blacks in the crowd. Two. I bet those niggers had it hard. Calling everybody “boss.” “Daddy, how many times have we met face-to-face?”

“I don’t know—”

“I’m going to tell you: thirty-three times in twenty-two years. Eight in the last eleven. That’s counting today, and the last time I seen you, you was sleeping on the A train at four in the morning, snoring your ass off, your head banging against the window, an empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose rolling between your feet.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I bet you in at least thirty-two out of those thirty-three times we’ve had the same conversation: ‘Why you fucking up in school? Why don’t you stay out of trouble?’ And I always said, ‘Because I can’t do the work,’ or ‘I can’t stop hanging out with my friends.’ You would tell me I can do anything I set out to do. And what I’m setting out to do is run for City Council. Why can’t you just say, ‘Son, I’m proud of you, I know you can do it.’ ”

“Because you can’t.”

“Ms. Nomura, how many votes it take to win?”

“Four thousand votes in the primary, you’d win for sure.”

“That’s it?”

“I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but the primary is in September, that’s right around the corner — and besides, not many people in this neighborhood vote.”

“That’s because I never ran. Look, I know more than four thousand people in this place. I know at least half of every project. Woodrow Wilson Houses, first floor: Gilbert Osorio raising six cousins by his dammy — Monica, Dolores, Pepón, Jessie, Suzette, and Pharaoh, jam-packed in a one-bedroom crib. Next to them, Cynda Alfaro and her moms, who works at the hospital — she’s real cool, always puts my triage form on top. Two doors from the Alfaros on the right, them crackhead brothers Erwin, Erving, and Ernest. Plus, those fucking dykes Jocelyn and Lourdes on the left-hand side, with, for some unknown fucking reason, a rainbow flag on their door and in every damn window. Down from the lesbos, Genise Norris and her twin sons, Unique and Unique. Don’t let me have to tell you who’s on the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth floors because we’ll be here all day. Shit, much drug running, breaking and entering, hiding out as I’ve done? I been on every block, in every apartment, Wilson Houses, Taft Projects, Jefferson Houses, George Washington. Wilson, Taft, Jefferson, Washington — ain’t that a bitch? I never realized all the projects were named after presidents — what kind of twisted message is that? Anyway, I see these little flyers various candidates got up now. Wilfredo Cienfuegos, that motherfucker be selling illegal cellular phones in the back of Estrella’s Restaurant. Any of y’all know that fool?”

“Naw.”

“Course not. I know him because I know everybody.”

Jordy opened Winston’s thighs and clawed his way through the mass of flesh and muscle to his father’s crotch. He lifted Tuffy’s sagging stomach and was about to land a punch to the bulge before him when Winston punched him in the chest, knocking him to the seat of his diapers. Jordy just giggled and charged in again.

“Who else running?” Fariq asked, his interest piqued.

“Margo Tellos. She live over on one-eighteen. Got a big, fat, juicy ass and a little boy who goes to private school on the West Side.” Winston held up Collette Cox’s campaign flyer. “I know Ms. Nomura knows her. This one used to teach here at the school. I remember one day she was subbing for Ms. Dunleavy, we fucking around not doing the assignment, throwing shit out the windows, woman could’ve died and no one would’ve noticed or cared. Out of nowhere she starts crying, mascara all down by her chin, talking about, ‘When I look at you people, I see failures. Wasted talent. The ghosts of students who could’ve become lawyers, doctors. It’s like you people are zombies.’ ”

Winston looked cockeyed at Yolanda and Fariq to see if they’d shared his umbrage. Smush asked Inez for another cigarette and Yolanda just sat there, studying Tuffy for signs of bipolar disorder. “You two might not give a fuck, but I ain’t no zombie. Damn if you see me walking in a straight line, arms stretched all out in front of me, hands choking the shit out of the air, going ‘uuurrggghhhh, uuurraaaagggghh,’ waiting for some teen hero to bash my head in and put me out of my misery. Fuck that. I’m sick of being …”

“Disenfranchised,” volunteered Spencer.

“I was going to say ‘left out.’ But your word sound better.”

“You flipping,” said Smush.

“You’re still my campaign manager.”

“And Landa, you don’t got no choice, because our thing is till death do us part.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Ms. Nomura, Daddy, I know you with me, since you two are so supportive of everything I do.”

“I raised a fool.”

“Nigger, you didn’t raise nobody.” Angrily Winston pushed the tin of food scraps away from him. His chin dipped into his chest. His eyes closed. He squeezed them tighter, then covered his face with his hands.

“You all right, son?” Fariq asked.

Winston didn’t move. Yolanda couldn’t tell if he was about to cry or snap the neck of the person closest to him, which unfortunately was her.

Just contemplating the absurdity of a nigger like him running for political office was making Winston’s head hurt. He knew there was no point in talking about his future. He shut his eyes and patted the gun in his pocket. Fuck am I doing? he thought. If it’d been winter and the flyer said, “Macy’s — Extra Christmas Help Needed,” I’d have said, “That’s it — I want to be a department-store Santa!” He slowly ripped Collette Cox’s campaign flyer into four squares. Almost instinctively he whispered a verse from an old rap song: