Paul Beatty

A biting satire by the author of The White Boy Shuffle traces a young man's isolated upbringing and a racially charged trial that sends him to the Supreme Court.

A Novel

The Sellout

I don't know what I expected from trying to restore Dickens to a glory that never existed. Even if Dickens were to one day be officially recognized, there'd be no fanfare or fireworks. No one would ever bother to erect a statue of me in the park or name an elementary school after me. There'd be none of the head rush Jean Baptiste Point du Sable and William Overton must've felt when they planted their flags in Chicago and Portland. After all, it wouldn't be like I founded or discovered anything. I was just brushing the dirt off an artifact that had never really been buried, so when I arrived home to Hominy, he excitedly unsaddled my horse. Eager to show me some newly disambiguated entry in an online encyclopedia written by some anonymous scholar:

Dickens is an unincorporated city in southwest Los Angeles County. Used to be all black, now there's hella Mexicans. Once known as the murder capital of the world, shit ain't so bad as it used to be, but don't trip. 

Yes, if Dickens ever became a real place again, in all likelihood Hominy's wide smile would be all the reward I'd ever receive. 

Keep this under your hat, but over the next few months the resegregation of Dickens was kind of fun. Unlike Hominy, I've never had a real job, and even though it didn't pay, driving around town with Hominy as the African-American Igor to my evil social scientist was sort of empowering, even though we were mocking the notion of being powerless. Monday through Friday at exactly one o'clock he'd be out front standing next to the truck.

Sometimes in homage to my father, if Hominy was on his lunch break or asleep in the truck, I'd enter wearing Dad's white lab coat and carrying a clipboard. I'd hand the owner my card and explain that I was with the Federal Department of Racial Injustice, and was conducting a monthlong study on the effects of "racial segregation on the normative behaviors of the racially segregated." Id offer them a flat fifty-dollar fee and three signs to choose from: BLACK, ASIAN, AND LATINO ONLY; LATINO, ASIAN, AND BLACK ONLY; and NO WHITES ALLOWED. I was surprised how many small-business people offered to pay me to display the NO WHITES ALLOWED sign. And like most social experiments, I never did the promised follow-up, but after the month was up, it wasn't unusual to get calls from the proprietors asking Dr. Bonbon if they could keep the signs in the windows because they made their clientele feel special. "The customers love it. It's like they belong to a private club that's public!" 

Not Responsible for Scratches, Dents, and Items Left in the Subconscious

But since the advent of the variable-rate home loan, most of the VSBs have been priced out of their turf by wine bars, holistic medicine shops, and edgy movie stars who've erected fifteen-foot-high cherrywood walls around quarter-acre bungalows turned into $2 million compounds. Now, whenever the vast majority of the Venice Seaside Boys want to "put in work" and defend their turf, they have to commute from faraway places like Palmdale and Moreno Valley. And it's no fun anymore when your enemy refuses to fight back. Not for lack of bravery or ammunition, but from fatigue. Too tired from fighting three hours of freeway traffic and road closures to pull the trigger.

Normally each gang, each hood, uses the park on the day designated to rep their "hood." For instance, the Six-Trey Street Sniper City Killers reserve the park for June 3, because June is the sixth month of the year, and trey means three. 

Charisma had summoned me to read the business letter that accompanied the mailed edition of Foy Cheshire's latest reimagined multicultural Of Rice and Yen, an all-Chinese adaptation of Steinbeck's classic set in the days of the railroad coolie. The book was a carbon copy of the original text sans articles and with all the Is and rs transposed. Maybe evelybody in whore damn wolrd scaled, aflaid each other. I'll never understand why after over a half century of Charlie Chan's Number One Son, the dude in Smashing Pumpkins, text, dope-ass music producers, skateboarders, and docile Asian wives married to white guys in hardware store commercials, people like Foy Cheshire still think the yen is Chinese currency and that Asian-Americans can't pronounce their fucking ls.

In the middle of my first Little League game at bat, Mark Torres, a lanky fireballer whose stuff was hard as a teenage erection and, like that first sexual encounter, preternaturally fast, threw me an 0-2 fastball that neither I nor the umpire saw and only presumed to be high and inside because of the windburn across my forehead. My father came storming out of the dugout. Not to impart any batting advice, but to hand me the famous photo of the Americann and Russian soldiers meeting at the Elbe River, shaking hands and celebrating the de facto end of World War II in the European theater. So what happened next? 

"America and the Soviet Union would go on to fight a Cold War lasting nearly fifty years and forcing each country to spend trillions of dollars on self-defense in a pyramid scheme Dwight D. Eisenhower would term the Military Industrial Complex."

He showed up late to the grand jury indictment, but Hampton's services were worth every dime. I told him I couldn't afford to do jail time. I had crops coming in and one of the mares was scheduled to foal in about two days. With this knowledge in tow, he strolled into the hearing, brushing leaves off his suit jacket and flicking twigs from his perm, carrying a bowl of fruit and talking about "As a farmer, my client is an indispensable member of a minority community well documented for being malnourished and underfed. He's never left the state of California, owns a twenty-year-old pickup truck that runs on fucking ethanol, which is next to impossible to find in this city, and thus he's not a flight risk..."

The Sellout quotes

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