Read Online Angry Black White Boy by Adam Mansbach - Free Book Online Page B

flow, play deacon to his pastor.
    Nique took the cue. “Yes indeed. Causing the black man to fall deeper and deeper into financial bondage until he is forced, despite his fancy degree, to return to the ghetto from whence he came and sell poison to innocent black babies, just like whitey planned. Because the only B.A. worth a damn in this world, brothers and sisters, is your Black Ass.”
    “Amen,” said Andre dully. “Can I get another beer, Minister Farrakhan?”
    Nique opened the mini-fridge with his foot. “Help yourself.”
    “Much obliged.” Dre popped the cap with his lighter.
    “Don’t mention it. So listen. For real, though: You kids wanna make some cash?” Nique crossed his legs, downshifting into a Nino Brown impression that had, over time, grown almost indistinguishable from his actual personality. “Come work for me. I’m makin’ moves this year.”
    “That’s my middle name,” said Macon. An old joke. “Macon Moves.”
    The abrupt crackle of Nique’s laughter tickled him. “This motherfucker is all right, Dre,” Nique said, then turned appraisingly toward Macon. “Might be able to do business, Moves. Don’t worry. I’m an equal-opportunity employer. No Crow Jim laws here.”
    “What is it, exactly, that you do, Nique?”
    “Give you a hint, dude. I’m a young black entrepreneur from the ghetto who can’t rhyme or run ball. What does a lifetime of media saturation tell you I do?”
    “Sell drugs?”
    “Give the man a prize.”
    Andre crossed his arms and snorted. “Nique’s been talking this high-roller street pharmacist shit since he was selling fools oregano nick bags in high school. He ain’t got no game.”
    Nique splayed a hand in Andre’s grill. “Whatever. That was then, son. Your boy is on some shit now. Besides, I had clientele even when I was slinging oregano. Don’t hate. Congratulate. Anyway.”
    He lowered his voice. “Over the summer I landed this gig manning a tollbooth on the highway out in Queens. Now, you may ask yourself, ‘What does a big pimpin’ motherfucker like Dominique want working a tollbooth like an asshole?’ ” He paused rhetorically, winked garishly, resumed. “Unsupervised hand-to-hand transactions, baby. Feel me?”
    A molasses grin spread over Macon’s face. “You’re pumping from a tollbooth?”
    “Drive-through service, baby. You hit me on the cell and I tell you which terminal I’m at. No fuss, no muss. Gone in thirty seconds.”
    Andre shook his head. “I gotta give it to you this time,” he conceded. “That shit’s kinda brilliant.”
    Nique beamed. “I know.” He turned to Macon. “It’s getting so I need occasional assistance of a clerical slash product-managerial nature. If you’re interested, perhaps we can schedule an interview.”
    Macon couldn’t tell if Nique was serious or fucking with him. Not that it much mattered. “I don’t think I have the curriculum vitae you’re looking for,” he said.
    Yesterday the gig would have grouted a wide chink in Macon’s self-image, satisfied the slice of him that needed to be linked to illegality somehow. Outlaw was an occupation, not a mind state; you couldn’t claim it if you didn’t hustle, and you couldn’t be denied it if you did. Players might like you if you weren’t one of them, but they wouldn’t respect you unless you lived by wits and broke the law. In Boston, graffiti had been Macon’s entrée: an unprofitable crime, a gray area at best, but it still carried some cachet. He didn’t have the time, skills, or energy to paint in New York, though. World-class writers from organized crews dominated the few piecing spots, simple street bombing was thankless and dangerous, the community of writers was secretive, political, and caustic, and the vandal squad was no joke.
    Just who these hustlers were that Macon sought to impress was another story: a pantheon he’d downloaded from books and movies and his past who traveled with him still, whose approval kept him