Angry Black White Boy Read Online Free PDF

times before.
    “Shut up, dude, get a hold of yourself.” Punctuality thrashed, pushed off of Scott’s thigh with his hand, and sat straight, dripping tears and snot. He tried to look at Macon, but Scott yoked him again, and this time Punctuality went limp. The sobs mounted and he mumbled words between them: “What”—
sob
—“do”—
sob
— “you”—
sob choke snot sob
—“want-from-me?”
Sob sob gulp-swallowrecap.
“Why me-he-hee?”
    Macon considered the question for a moment, then turned to answer, his voice slicing through the slot in the partition. “Because you’re an ignorant white devil asshole, and you and everybody like you deserves to be robbed every day of your life,” he said. “Now get the fuck out of here. If I see you even halfway looking at my plates, I’ll back up and run your stupid asses over. Move.”
    He hit the unlock button and they scrambled out onto the shoulder of the highway, Scott pulling Punctuality onto his feet. Macon peeled off, merged into the middle lane, and swerved so the door swung shut. He slumped low, steering with his right fist, gun wedged underneath his thigh. Shock, horror, and an absurd, spastic euphoria tussled for control of him, each one pushing the next off the podium.
    By Fifty-ninth Street, euphoria had Macon’s ear.
The perfect
crime,
it hissed.
No photo up yet, no way those jokers saw your
plates or memorized the cab ID.
He started laughing when he thought of what he’d told them. This had been the first time, Macon was certain, that those guys ever regretted the color of their skin.

Chapter Two
    The elevator doors began to open and Macon broke out like a racehorse before they’d finished their slow slide; he had a hunch his roommate had arrived today. Even without a reason, though, Macon tended to walk as fast as possible. He kept pace with the sounds spinning through him, and often arrived too early for dentist appointments, lunch dates, graffiti death missions. He wound up killing time, pacing meeting places in swift, sharklike sweeps as if stillness would suffocate and sink him.
    The only thing Macon was ever late for was every English class of his high-school career, and those on principle, like,
What the
fuck you timid ofays gon’ teach
me
about language? Who you got
in your great Western Literary Canon who twiznist the King’s
English until it lies twitching broken-backed and screaming “I give
up”? Corny greyboy Jack Kerouac and his one-sided love affair
with jazz? Please. You ever heard a jazz cat holler back at him,
“You got it, Jack, you understand?” James Joyce? All right, okay,
J-Dub a bad mufucker, no doubt no question, but the British made
the Irish niggas at home and abroad so the White Man can’t have
him, he’s pitching for the oppressed team in today’s ballgame. The
real Bards of nineteen-ninety-now, the dudes slapping new words
and phrases onto the language on course to surpass Willie Shak’s
lifetime record of 3,400 innovations, all them cats are microphone
fiends and that’s who the fuck I’m rollin’ with, and if I pimpstrut
down the hall too slow and make it late to class, so be it. I’ma still
rock your dumbass midterm on freestyle chops alone and both of
us know it. And when I pull the milli-mac on Willie Shak, I’ll lay
you three-to-five uncompromising slave odds that he’ll roll over
like Chuck Berry’s Beethoven and scream loud enough to wake
Finnegan. Let Shak battle Rakim at the Parthenon and see who
moves the crowd.
    Macon’s strides brushed up friction from the hallway rug; static metaphysical and otherwise followed everywhere he went like a storybook puppy, nipping at Macon’s heels.
    This dorm looks like my junior high, he thought, kneeling to tie his shoelace and spotting dull, earth-toned linoleum squinting through the carpet fibers. For this kind of tuition it should be all chestnut paneling and Persian rugs up in this motherfucker. Yeah, right: long forty-watt fluorescent hallways,