by Paul Beatty
“Where you headed, Pook?”
“I just got a page from Psycho Loco. He needs some help.”
I hadn’t forgotten about Psycho Loco’s planned big score, but the greedy look in his eyes whenever he talked about “the heist” told me that I didn’t want to be involved.
“Drop me and Scoby off at my house.”
“No time, G.”
“Well, where we going?”
“Montgomery Ward’s.”
When we pulled into the Montgomery Ward parking lot, there were Psycho Loco, No M.O. Clark, and Joe Shenanigans standing behind Psycho Loco’s van next to a huge iron safe. Grimy, covered with sweat, the boys were overjoyed to see us. So this was “the heist.”
“What the fuck? Are you motherfuckers crazy?”
“Chill, homes. We just want help lifting this thing into the van.”
“How did you get it out?”
“Look,” Scoby said, pointing to a set of rubber wheels attached to the bottom of the strongbox. Only Montgomery Ward would build a mobile safe. I had two thoughts. Why are all safes painted beige, and would my mother come visit me in prison?
“Dude, I can’t be wearing no stone-washed prison outfit for the rest of my life. That shit makes me itch.”
Scoby tried to comfort me. “You can wear any kind of shirt you want, just no rhinestones or metal buttons. Besides, I haven’t seen one police car the whole day.”
He was right. I hadn’t even noticed. The entire day had been an undeclared national holiday. Los Angeles was a theme park and we were spending the day in Anarchyland. All stores and banks remain open, but unstaffed. From this point, waiting time for this attraction is zero minutes. I calmed down.
The safe was unbelievably heavy, which everyone but me took as a positive sign. I thought the thing could just as easily be empty or filled with employee timecards as stuffed with valuables.
On our third try we almost had the safe inside the back of the van when we all heard an extremely disheartening sound. “What’s that?” everyone asked.
“Uh, the Doppler effect,” I said.
“Shit, it’s the cops.”
With a final strain we edged the safe onto the bumper of the van, but our knees buckled under the weight and the safe dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. The sirens were getting closer. No one had the energy for another lift, but we couldn’t leave the safe in the middle of the parking lot, not with visions of Spanish gold doubloons dancing in our heads. I looked in the van and saw a length of rope. How stupid we’d been. All we needed to do was tie one end to the safe’s handle and the other end to the van’s bumper and we could drive away, pulling the safe along behind us.
I heard the cop car pull into the parking lot. My back tightened in anticipation of hearing a gunshot or a threatening “Get your hands up and step away from the vehicle.” What I did hear was something I hadn’t heard in years: my father’s voice. I told the boys to keep going and I’d distract him. I turned around to see my father step out of the car, gripping a shotgun in one hand.
“Dad. Long time no see. Things must really be hectic if you’re out on the streets.”
I heard the van slowly pull off, and I looked back to see the safe trailing behind it like a tin can tied to the car of newlyweds headed for their honeymoon. When I turned to face my father, the hard rubber butt of the shotgun crashed into my jaw. I saw a flash of white and dropped to the pavement. My father’s partner stepped on my ear, muffling his words.
“You are not a Kaufman. I refuse to let you embarrass me. You can’t embarrass me with poetry and your niggerish ways. And where did you get all these damn air fresheners?”
Something hard smacked the side of my neck, sending my tongue rolling out of my mouth like a party favor. I could taste the salty ash on the pavement. Ash that had drifted from fires set in anger around the city. I remembered learning in third grade that snakes “see” and “hear” with their sensitive tongues. I imagined my tongue almost bitten through, hearing the polyrhythms of my father’s nightstick on my body. Through my tongue I saw my father transform into a master Senegalese drummer beating a surrender code on a hollow log on the banks of the muddy Gambia River. A flash of white—the night of my conception, my father twisting Mama’s arm behind her back and ordering her to “assume the position.” A flash of white—my father potty-training me by slapping me across the face and sticking my hand in my mushy excrement. Soon my body stopped bucking with every blow. There was only white—no memories, no visions, only the sound of voices.
“Gunnar, my young revolutionary, while you were in a coma, you got a letter from the Nike Basketball Camp. You’ve been chosen as one of the hundred best ballplayers in the nation. Actually, you’re number one hundred.”—Coach Shimimoto
“Son, your father and I both think it’s best for you to transfer to another school. We’re sending you to El Campesino Real in the Valley.”—Mom
“Dude, you got fucked up.”—Nicholas Scoby
“You gots to get better, cuz. We can’t figure out how to open the safe.”—Psycho Loco
*
The safe sat in the middle of Psycho Loco’s den, a three-dimensional puzzle daring to be solved. Old Abuela Gloria, reportedly an expert safecracker in Havana during Batista’s glory days, was wearing a stethoscope and listening to the tumblers click as she spun the combination dial back and forth.
“Isn’t Abuela Gloria deaf?” I asked Ms. Sanchez.
“Yeah, but she insisted on trying.”
Abuela Gloria removed the stethoscope from her ears and pulled on the latch. Nothing happened. “Fucking goddamn box.”
Scoby was calculating possible permutations of a combination lock numbered from zero to one hundred. He’d already tried thirty-two-thousand different combinations while I was in the hospital. Psycho Loco came in from the kitchen and tossed me a cold Carta Blanca. The beer sailed over my head and I had to stretch my aching arms to catch the tumbling bottle.
“Damn, you did that on purpose. That shit hurt.”
“Just a little physical therapy to speed up your convalescence.”
“Thanks.”
“When you flying to Portland to the basketball camp?”
“August sixth, end of the summer. I should be healed by then.”
Scoby knelt beside the safe, flipping the dial from number to number and shaking his cramping hands in frustration as his magic failed him.
“Gunnar, look at the safe. Maybe you can figure out a way to open it.”
“What I know about opening a safe? That thing almost got me killed. I don’t give a fuck if you never get it open.”
I was lying and Psycho Loco knew it. I hadn’t taken my eyes off the box since I’d been there. I couldn’t shake the word “treasure” from my head: rubies, gold lanterns, and ancient scrolls. I wanted to free the genie and fuck up my three wishes.
I wish I knew how a bill changer can tell the difference between a one, a five, and a ten-dollar bill.
I wish I could dance like Bert Williams.
I wish I had a lifetime supply of superballs, so I could bounce them as high and as hard as I pleased without worrying about losing them.
I ran my hands over the safe’s tapered edges, then stood back, waved my fingers, and said in a slow, spooky voice, “Open sesame.”
“We did that shit already. Ala-kazam, hocus-pocus—we even paid that voodoo lady on Normandie fifty dollars to open it with some of that ol’-time Yoruba religion.”
“What happened?”
“She got chicken blood and pixie dust all over the fucking place. Damn near burned the house down with all the candles.”
I turned the safe so the door faced me. The wheels creaked under its weight. “I wish we could open this thing right now. I can’t take the suspense. Psycho Loco, how did you know where to find the safe?”
Psycho Loco laughed. His mother groaned. “I feel like Ma Barker,” she said, and left the room.
“Gunnar, you got to have patienc
e. 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.
Zane is from New York City, Manhattan. Or as he says, “Maa-hat-ehn.” It’s hard to talk to Zane because his speech consists entirely of rhetorical filler. He responds to everything with “Word up, know what I’m sayin’, on the strength,” like he’s having the deepest conversations in the history of speech.
Don’t worry about me, Ma, I’m fine. I’ve been deloused and the condescending white people are feeding me. Word up, on
the strength.
Love, your son,
Gunnar
*
Dear Christina and Nicole,
I’m sorry to hear you all and Ma aren’t getting along because of the pregnancy thing, but I can’t believe you’d rather live with Dad than stay at the hippo house. You know my motto: fuck that nigger. If you have boys, make sure you don’t leave them alone with him. The photos of your bloated bellies are hilarious. When I told you to talk to Coach Shimimoto if you needed anything, I didn’t know he’d use your stomachs for artistic canvases. The tattoos make you look like African yakuza, and the swelling gives them a kind of 3-D effect. Christina, View #36 of the Hollywood Sign from Pete’s Bar at Sunset is cool. I like how Coach used your bellybutton as the focal point, turning it into an ashtray and going from there. Nicole, Beer Bottle and Butterfly is absolutely amazing. Its bold yet welcoming color scheme captures the transformation of inorganic societal byproduct into a state of synthetic beatitude barely distinguishable from the natural order. Did that make sense? No? Good, I’ll be an art critic when I grow up. I told you Shimimoto was a good guy. Did he give you the bullshit rap that his style is derivative of the ancient ukiyo-e school as practiced by Hokusai and Ando Hiroshige? Don’t believe it—same madness he said in art class. His stuff is a straight rip-off of the Aztec/Diego Riyera/lowrider murals on the freeway underpasses. Shimimoto been in the ’hood too long and don’t want to admit it. Wouldn’t it be funny if the ink seeped through your pores and the babies came out green and peach? Anyway, judging from his letter, it sounds like he’s enjoying the Lamaze classes. See you when I get back.
Take care and
puuussshhhh!
Gunnar
*
Scobe,
What’s happenin’, nukka? Coolin’? Niggers out here have heard of you. You’re an underground legend. They be asking me is it true you never miss and why don’t you shoot more. The coaches are asking about you too. How tall are you? What’s your quickness-to-speed ratio? Shit like that. As you can see, they really want to get to know you as a person. Anyway, expect to get much attention next year. I may not be around to watch, though; tomorrow I go into battle. I have to play camper number one, Leon “Housequake” Tremundo. The boy is fucking gigantic. He’s 6′ 6″ and about 245 lbs. from Washington DC. We play dominoes at night and this fool can hold nine bones in one hand so you know, cuz, is like big as fuck. He can dunk from anywhere on the court. He got names for every one, too: the Girls at St. Ignatius Swoon Boom, the Buff Rough Motherfucker Stuff, the Anti-Gravity Levitation Mid-Air Hesitation Crazy Elevation Stupid Escalation Geronimo Look Out Below Cold Crush Two-Hand Flush. I heard during practice the kids on his team have to wear padded helmets ’cause Leon Tremundo killed one of his teammates who was stupid enough to take a charging foul against him. The guy doesn’t move that fast, just keeps moving. It’s like he plays in slow motion, just flows up and down the court like lava. You can’t stop him he kind of just overwhelms you and you get swamped trying to guard him. If I survive I’ll let you know. His girlfriend is Missy Gibson the actress from that sitcom Talented Tenth. You know the show where a bunch of seddity motherfuckers be saving the community by rewarding exemplary African-American citizenship with a piece of fried chicken “By deciding to wait until marriage to have sex Leroy and Martha are celebrating traditional African values. Here go a thigh, a wing, and a biscuit” Notice they don’t never say nothing like “Lucinda decided to have a clitoridectomy. Wow, that’s African, have some chicken gizzards, mmmmm.” Anyway, back to this behemoth Leon Tremundo. Every time he dunks on a nigger he runs into the stands to kiss Missy Gibson. Then she looks at whoever it was he served and blows that nigger a kiss. Sounds like true love.