“Fuck I look like? I walked in the booth, looked at the bullshit candidates, and said to the lady at the desk, ‘What if I don’t like none of these motherfuckers runnin’?’ She gave me a big ol’ ballot and said I could write in whoever I wanted.”
“And?”
“Nigger.”
“What?”
“I wrote your crippled ass in. ‘I, Winston Foshay, vote for my man, Fariq Cole, for president. If you don’t know, you better ask somebody. And in case you still don’t know, he lives at 154 East 109th Street, first floor. When he walks his knees bend backwards like a flamingo’s.’ ”
“Damn, yo — you voted for me for president?”
“Yeah, bro. Swear on my mother.”
Flattered, Fariq looked away, blinking his eyes. “Damn, yo. That’s lovely, kid.” Winston, already assuming victory at the polls, began doling out political patronage. “Don’t sweat that, dude. When I win, you going to be chief of the fire department, Armello going to be chief of police, Whitey chief of white people. Ms. Nomura, you my chief of education. No, scratch that — chief of fair play. Somebody should be in charge of fair play, don’t you think?”
Swinging a leg over Winston’s shoulder, Jordy used his father’s arm like a fireman’s pole and slid down to the floor, where he untied Winston’s shoelaces.
“You showing your ass, son.”
“That’s all right, I got a lot of ass to show.”
“Get real and get this thought of running for City Council out of your head, because you’re unqualified, boy.”
Yolanda bunny-hopped her chair closer to her man. “Now, Clifford, I’m not saying Winston should run, but think about it — who’s qualified? That black man they always talking running for president in the next election? Because he gives a good press conference he’s qualified? If he ever does decide to run, you know what the first thing he’s going to be—unqualified.”
Although he didn’t know what black man Yolanda was talking about, Winston nodded his head. Ms. Nomura, her hands clasped together like a nun administering to a bedridden child, said, “Winston, maybe you should get involved in politics at a more basic level.” Tuffy shook his head. “I already tried that. Every time you ask me to go to one of your demonstrations I go. I picket the army recruiting station when you tell me the U.S. fixing to bomb some defenseless country for no reason. What happens? The fuckers get bombed anyway. Remember, I went hunger-striking with you for them goddamn refugees?”
“What refugees?”
“Some dirty jungle motherfuckers in some country I never heard of was getting mistreated. We were in front of the UN Building.”
“I don’t remember.”
“The time I was the only one who got arrested, because that man was heckling me. ‘That’s not fair, hunger-striking with the fat kid. It’ll take him a whole year to die.’ I had to beat that man’s ass.”
Spencer, who’d been quiet since Winston had announced his candidacy, finally spoke. “I feel that we must admit to ourselves that we’ve laid out some stipulations and guidelines for Winston to follow: his vocation should pay a decent living wage, contribute to the social good, be an exemplar to his son, and be racially, I don’t know — righteous. I think Winston has chosen to pursue a course of action that while on the surface is infeasible and bullheaded does meet the agreed-upon exigencies. I have only one question. Winston, are you certain this is what you really want to do?”
“No, but it’s what I’m going to do. The only people who want to become politicians are the third-grade snitch-ass hall-monitor types. Why can’t I do it? You just put up some posters in the neighborhood and people vote for you. All I need to know is how much does the job pay.”
“I’d say about seventy-five thousand dollars a year,” Ms. Nomura said.
He stamped his feet and pumped his fist in the air. “Oh, that’s crazy money. After I win I’ll be making more than all y’all combined.”
“You won’t be making more than me, believe that shit, motherfucker.”
“But you can’t win. Winston, listen to me for one second.” Clifford stood up and pointed a finger in his son’s face. “Be practical. I know I’ve always told you pursue your dreams, but you got to understand the difference between fantasy and reality.”
Winston slapped away his father’s hand. The loud, stinging crack caused those at ringside to cringe. “Man, I’m tired of you getting up in my face.” Clifford backed off but continued preaching about the costs of running a campaign and the number of votes needed to win. Winston ignored him and stared at the poster of Debs. He tried to imagine what the old Socialist was saying. Used the buildings in the background to figure out where in New York City he was speaking. Lower East Side? He counted the number of blacks in the crowd. Two. I bet those niggers had it hard. Calling everybody “boss.” “Daddy, how many times have we met face-to-face?”
“I don’t know—”
“I’m going to tell you: thirty-three times in twenty-two years. Eight in the last eleven. That’s counting today, and the last time I seen you, you was sleeping on the A train at four in the morning, snoring your ass off, your head banging against the window, an empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose rolling between your feet.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I bet you in at least thirty-two out of those thirty-three times we’ve had the same conversation: ‘Why you fucking up in school? Why don’t you stay out of trouble?’ And I always said, ‘Because I can’t do the work,’ or ‘I can’t stop hanging out with my friends.’ You would tell me I can do anything I set out to do. And what I’m setting out to do is run for City Council. Why can’t you just say, ‘Son, I’m proud of you, I know you can do it.’ ”
“Because you can’t.”
“Ms. Nomura, how many votes it take to win?”
“Four thousand votes in the primary, you’d win for sure.”
“That’s it?”
“I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but the primary is in September, that’s right around the corner — and besides, not many people in this neighborhood vote.”
“That’s because I never ran. Look, I know more than four thousand people in this place. I know at least half of every project. Woodrow Wilson Houses, first floor: Gilbert Osorio raising six cousins by his dammy — Monica, Dolores, Pepón, Jessie, Suzette, and Pharaoh, jam-packed in a one-bedroom crib. Next to them, Cynda Alfaro and her moms, who works at the hospital — she’s real cool, always puts my triage form on top. Two doors from the Alfaros on the right, them crackhead brothers Erwin, Erving, and Ernest. Plus, those fucking dykes Jocelyn and Lourdes on the left-hand side, with, for some unknown fucking reason, a rainbow flag on their door and in every damn window. Down from the lesbos, Genise Norris and her twin sons, Unique and Unique. Don’t let me have to tell you who’s on the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth floors because we’ll be here all day. Shit, much drug running, breaking and entering, hiding out as I’ve done? I been on every block, in every apartment, Wilson Houses, Taft Projects, Jefferson Houses, George Washington. Wilson, Taft, Jefferson, Washington — ain’t that a bitch? I never realized all the projects were named after presidents — what kind of twisted message is that? Anyway, I see these little flyers various candidates got up now. Wilfredo Cienfuegos, that motherfucker be selling illegal cellular phones in the back of Estrella’s Restaurant. Any of y’all know that fool?”
“Naw.”
“Course not. I know him because I know everybody.”
Jordy opened Winston’s thighs and clawed his way through the mass of flesh and muscle to his father’s crotch. He lifted Tuffy’s sagging stomach and was about to land a punch to the bulge before him when Winston punched him in the chest, knocking him to the seat of his diapers. Jordy just giggled and charged in again.