Bright Shiny Morning

by James Frey

  Help you?

  I’m Dylan. Dan sent me over. He told me I was hired as a caddie.

  He did, did he?

  Yes.

  Shaka spins around on his chair.

  Step in here.

  Dylan steps into the office the walls are covered with calendars and pictures cut from golf magazines. Shaka looks him up and down, smiles.

  A motherfucking white boy.

  Dylan smiles. Doesn’t speak. Shaka laughs to himself, speaks again.

  A skinny-ass motherfucking white boy.

  Yes, sir.

  Don’t call me sir. You can call Asshole Dan sir if you want to call someone sir, but not me.

  Okay.

  You know how long he’s been wanting to get a white-boy caddie in here? No.

  A long fucking time, man, a long-ass fucking time.

  Dylan laughs.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with having a white boy working here, but before we get you started, I gotta know one thing from you, and you gotta know one thing from me.

  Okay.

  How much he paying you?

  I’m not sure I should tell you.

  Shaka laughs.

  You wanna fucking work here, you’re gonna tell me. He can send you over, but I can say no.

  What if you think it’s too much?

  He laughs again.

  Ain’t nobody at this course getting paid too much. I just want to see how much of a discriminating cracker Asshole Dan really is.

  He said ten bucks an hour plus tips.

  Shaka whistles.

  Goddamn, Asshole Dan is a supercracker.

  Dylan laughs.

  I’m gonna get him a motherfucking T-shirt with a big SC on it.

  Dylan laughs again.

  Now that I know that, you ready to know what you gotta know?

  Sure.

  You know what Shaka is?

  Your name?

  Yeah, but you know where it comes from?

  No.

  Shaka Zulu was a king in Africa in the 1800s. He was a great king who united the Zulu Nation and trained an army that was so fearsome that his enemies would desert their land rather than fight ’em. I was named after Shaka Zulu, the king. Now obviously I’m not the king of no great nation, and I ain’t got no army, but I am still Shaka, and this here, this Caddie HQ, this is my kingdom. Whatever I say goes. There ain’t no debating involved. If you got a problem with another caddie, you bring it to me and I make a decision. There ain’t no democracy, and there ain’t no revolution. The one time there tried to be a revolution, I took the revolutionator and picked him up by the back of his pants and literally tossed him in the street. That’s how it goes here. That’s the way it is. You understand me?

  Dylan nods, speaks.

  You are Shaka, you are king.

  Shaka smiles.

  Well said, white boy. I am Shaka. I am king.

  And I am Dylan. From Ohio.

  Shaka laughs.

  Welcome to my kingdom, Dylan.

  What time should I be here tomorrow?

  Tomorrow? You’re starting right now.

  Okay.

  You ever caddie before?

  Nope.

  Then come on in and have a seat. I’ll train your skinny ass right now. Dylan walks in sits down on a fold-up chair to the side of Shaka’s desk. Shaka reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pamphlet called the Caddie Manual.

  Being a caddie ain’t brain surgery. Read this if you want. Don’t really matter. But if Asshole Dan asks, tell him you read it.

  Dylan takes the pamphlet, puts it in his pocket.

  Okay.

  The job is simple. You carry the bag, you kiss the player’s ass. You hand ’em clubs, and if they ask, agree with whatever club they say, and you kiss their ass. You wipe off the club if it’s dirty, you kiss the player’s ass. If they ask how far they are from the pin, you take a guess, and you kiss their ass. You hold the pin while they’re putting, you kiss their ass, you replace the divots they make, you kiss their ass. Most of the players here aren’t very good, so you make them think they are by kissing their ass. The ones that are good, you make ’em feel like Jack fucking Nicklaus by kissing their ass. When they cheat, and all of ’em cheat, let ’em and agree with them, and kiss their ass, and when they’re pricks, and plenty of them are, and you wanna hit ’em in the head with a fucking club, you kiss their ass. Like I said, it isn’t brain surgery.

  That was an extraordinary explanation, Shaka.

  You kissing my ass?

  Yeah.

  Shaka laughs.

  You’re gonna be just fucking fine.

  Thanks.

  Go out there and introduce yourself to whoever’s around. They probably won’t like you, but if you don’t act like some white supremacist motherfucker, they’ll get over it. And don’t ever tell ’em how much you’re getting paid.

  Okay.

  I’ll see you tomorrow at 6:00 AM.

  Thanks.

  Shaka nods, Dylan stands and leaves. He walks out there are a few men, some his age and a couple in their thirties and early forties, lounging around. He introduces himself to each of them, some of them don’t acknowledge him at all, a couple say hello, a couple say what’s up. When he’s finished he sits down, leans against the wall of the shack. He watches the men, the Mexicans stay together, speak and argue in Spanish, the African Americans stay together, play cards, speak in low voices. No one speaks to him, pays any attention to him. After half an hour or so, he stands and leaves. It’s a twenty-minute walk down Pico Boulevard back to the apartment. In one direction, in the distance, he sees the walled, guarded, heavily fortified grounds of Fox Studios. In the other direction, the street is lined with mini-malls, fast-food restaurants and gas stations. Dreams one way, reality the other. He lives in reality.

  The walk is easy, simple, the sun is out the sky is blue it’s 75 degrees there is a slight breeze another day in Los Angeles. Dylan walks along the street enjoys the weather stops at a grocery store buys some chocolate cupcakes with vanilla ice Maddie likes cupcakes has since she was a little girl. When he reaches the complex there are people sitting by the pool takes the elevator to their floor it’s clean he walks down the hall he can’t believe how nice it is he opens the door to their apartment it smells like hamburger. Maddie is standing in the kitchen, she’s wearing an apron. There are pots, pans, boxes and utensils everywhere. She smiles, speaks.

  Hi.

  Hi.

  How’d it go?

  I got a job.

  Awesome. Doing what?

  I’m a caddie.

  Golf?

  Yeah.

  Do you know anything about golf?

  Nope.

  She laughs.

  How’d you get it?

  Because I’m a white boy.

  She laughs again.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  They hired me because I’m white.

  I thought that was illegal or something.

  I guess not.

  I made you a special dinner.

  What?

  Hamburger, macaroni, and Frosted Flakes casserole.

  Holy shit.

  Our first home-cooked meal since we’ve been here.

  Fucking A, let’s eat.

  Maddie pulls a casserole dish out of the oven it’s macaroni and cheese mixed with hamburger meat covered with grated cheese and cereal flakes. She scoops humongous spoonfuls of it onto plates the cheese comes off in long hot strings. They sit down at the table she has a bottle of regular cola for Dylan and a bottle of diet cola for herself. She turns out the lights (though it is still light outside) and lights two candles that sit in the middle of the table. She speaks.

  I love our place.

  Me too.

  And I love our new life here.

  Me too.

  And I love you.

  Me too.

  She raises her glass.

  We did it.

  He smiles, raises his
glass.

  We did it.

  They toast and kiss their kissing becomes more they don’t eat right away they don’t stay at the table. When they come back, they’re hungry Maddie has two helpings Dylan has four. When they finish Maddie clears the dishes away and puts the casserole in the fridge Dylan takes a shower she joins him they laugh about the four settings on the showerhead love the water that never runs out, never stops. They fall into bed into each other again stay up even though Dylan has work early. They don’t read. They don’t miss watching television.

  Dylan gets up the next morning walks to work the streets are empty, the sky is gray blue glowing. It’s quiet and still. Neon shop-window signs send glimmering shadows red, blue and yellow across the concrete. Cars line the curb silent and unmoving, stoplights blink they don’t matter now. There are no birds, bugs, no animals. Lonely palms set in squares of dirt surrounded by blocks of cement are the only living things in sight. There is a low, elusive, almost inaudible hum in the air, it’s coming off wires, the signs, lights that line the streets. In the distance Dylan sees the rings of mountains that surround the city, can see the lights of houses that dot the hills. Beyond them, more sky, the gray blue glowing. As he approaches the course he sees activity, the grounds crew is finishing up the caddies are getting ready. Asshole Dan is standing in the middle of the parking lot talking on a cell phone and smoking a cigarette, Shaka is in his office he’s sitting at his desk reading a newspaper. Dylan goes to Shaka’s office, knocks on the door. Shaka turns around, speaks.

  Good morning.

  You too.

  What do you need?

  I’m not sure what to do?

  You’re the new guy. You’re at the end of the line.

  How do I know what the line is?

  It goes by seniority. We don’t write it down or anything, everyone just knows. If there are any disputes, I come out and settle them.

  Cool. Thanks.

  Have a good day.

  Dylan turns away, walks to the back of the shack, sits down on a small patch of grass at the edge of the parking lot, where a number of the other caddies are sitting. He says hello to a couple, nods to a couple others, and though they are all looking at him, none of them acknowledge him. At 5:45 AM the first golfers arrive. The first tee time is at 6:00. Every eight minutes, at least according to the schedule, another group of four golfers tees off. Many of them don’t use caddies. They ride golf carts, use hand carts, or carry their own bags. Those that do use caddies often have caddies they have used before and specifically request them. Dylan sits and waits. Early morning becomes morning becomes late morning he sits and waits. Late morning becomes noon. Noon becomes early afternoon. The first few caddies to go out come back, and because of their seniority, he gets bumped back to the end of the line. He waits. He tries to talk to the other waiting caddies, but no one is interested. The day passes. The only times he gets off his ass are when he gets up for food or goes to the bathroom. The last tee time, which is only for nine holes of the eighteen-hole course, is at 6:00. At 6:10, he gets up and punches out and walks home. It’s rush hour the streets are packed (though the sidewalks are empty). Drivers blare their horns, yell at each other, give each other the finger, he sees one throw a cup of cola at another. When he gets back to the apartment, Maddie has tuna noodle casserole waiting for him. They eat and take a shower and get into bed. There is no reading, no TV. They go to sleep three hours later.

  When he shows up for work the next day, it’s the same routine. When he gets home Maddie has hamburgers and Tater Tots waiting for him they eat dinner get into bed same. The next day at work it’s the same dinner is fish sticks and a Jell-O dessert bed same. The next day the other caddies are openly hostile to Dylan they tell him to go home, get another job, that white boys aren’t welcome, that he shouldn’t come back. When he gets home Maddie has boiled hot dogs and frozen fries ready for dinner they eat get into bed same. The next day the Mexicans start calling him Guerro and the blacks start calling him Cracker, the Mexicans flick cigarette butts at him and two of the young black men sit on either side of him with golf clubs. When he goes home Maddie has corn dogs and onion rings and Fudgsicles for dessert when they get into bed Dylan goes straight to sleep. The next day, he gets pushed around and threatened the cigarette butts start hitting him and the clubs are swung near him he sits and waits and hopes that at some point he’ll get to carry a bag and walk the course, he still hasn’t done either, his turn never comes he gets hit by cigarette butts and he’s scared of the clubs. At the end of the day, Shaka calls him into his office. Dylan sits in the chair next to his desk, Shaka speaks.

  How’s it going?

  Fine.

  Including the day you were hired, you’ve been here a week.

  Best week of my life.

  Shaka laughs.

  You learn anything?

  That nobody likes a white boy.

  You never knew that before?

  I grew up in a town where it was all white boys.

  And did everybody like each other?

  No.

  See.

  See what?

  Nobody likes white boys, and white boys don’t even like each other. Dylan laughs.

  It’s true, man. All over the world, people hate American white boys. Probably the most hated species on the planet.

  I’m just trying to get by, trying to make my life a little better.

  Yeah, I know the feeling. What we’re all trying to do. And to be honest, you seem alright.

  Thanks.

  This past week has been a test. It’s something we do to every new caddie here. Do it to see if they really want the job, and if they’re willing to put up with some bullshit to get it.

  Seriously?

  Yeah. It’s a grind, man. Every day at 6:00 AM, sometimes twelve or fourteen hours a day. And the golfers can be assholes. You think the treatment you got waiting for a turn was bad, wait till you see how some of those motherfuckers behave.

  So what would have happened if I had tried to defend myself.

  Against what?

  People calling me names, flicking butts at me, following me around with clubs.

  I’d have told you not to come back.

  That’s fucked up.

  I can understand you thinking that way, but it’s what we do here. It weeds out unreliable, unstable potential employees. Big difference between you and the rest of the guys who’ve done it is you were getting paid ten an hour. Most of them sat here for a week getting shit and went home empty-handed. I also wanted to see if you could handle being around a bunch of men of color. Whether you know it or not, there are differences between all of us, and some of ’em have to do with the color of our skin. A troublesome white boy would cause a lot of problems for me.

  It’s still fucked up.

  Life is fucked up, deal with it.

  So what now?

  Now you get to carry bags and make tips and deal with assholes. Dylan laughs.

  You make it sound great.

  That’s what it is. And as far as jobs, I think it’s a pretty good one. You ain’t gonna get rich doing it, but you can make a living. It’s sunny every day, so every day there’s golfers, and every day they need someone to carry their bags. Be cool, just like you’ve been, and you’ll settle in just fine.

  Okay.

  No hard feelings?

  Nope.

  See you tomorrow.

  See you tomorrow.

  Dylan stands walks out of the office. There are two groups of caddies, one Mexican group and one black group, who are getting ready to leave for the day. The groups intermingle, but not much, members from both walk over, say hello, introduce themselves, shake his hand, offer him cigarettes, offer him beer. He smiles, says thanks, has a beer and though he doesn’t smoke, he takes a drag from a cigarette. He immediately starts hacking and the other caddies start laughing and whatever happened over the course of the previous seven days disappears with the laughs. He stays for another beer, anoth
er, he knows he’s going to be late for dinner he stays for another. White Boy has some new friends, the first nonwhite friends he’s ever had, he stays for another.

  The walk home takes twice as long it’s hotter the colors brighter sounds louder, he sits down and takes a rest in front of a mattress store, he takes a second rest in front of a tropical fish store. He opens the door, Maddie is sitting at the table there’s a bucket of fried chicken mashed potatoes and baked beans. There is an apple pie on the counter, ice cream in the freezer. She stands speaks.

  Are you okay?

  He smiles, speaks.

  Yeah.

  You’re drunk.

  Sorta.

  She laughs.

  Who’d you get drunk with?

  My coworkers.

  I thought they hated you.

  It was some kind of test kind of thing. They do it to everybody I guess they told me or something.

  She laughs again.

  I guess they told you or something?

  Yeah, like that.

  I got your favorite.

  I can smell it.

  He inhales, smiles.

  Fried chicken and taters and beans. It smells really good, super good. And pie.

  I love pie.

  I know.

  Can we eat it now if that’s okay with you?

  Congratulations on your first week.

  Thanks, sweetie.

  He smiles, it’s a half-drunk idiot smile. Maddie doesn’t mind, sort of thinks it’s funny. She takes him by the hand leads him to the table helps him sit down. She tucks a napkin into his shirt so it functions as a bib she makes him a big plate of chicken, taters and beans when she sets it in front of him he looks up at her and smiles and speaks.

  I love you so much.

  She smiles.

  I love you too.

  They kiss and he tries to make it more than a kiss she playfully pushes him away back into his chair tucks his bib back in he smiles again, speaks again.