“What’d you think of him?”
“First black person I ever met in my life,” Celeste said. “And I liked him.” She was thinking about what her dad, Bob Byrnes, would’ve said if he’d seen her. He’d have said something like, “Don’t tell me you were in a jig’s house, setting on a jig’s couch. That the way you was brought up?”
No. She’d been brought up to hate everyone who didn’t have a hundred percent pure Aryan blood, which, as Celeste discovered, was a whole lot of people. It didn’t make a lot of sense to her then and even less now.
She told Teddy her dad used to take the family to Haden Lake, Idaho, every summer to Richard Butler’s Aryan Compound. Her dad said it was the international headquarters of the white race, and we Aryans are the biblical “chosen people.”
Teddy said, “Chosen for what?”
“To lead the less fortunate.”
“Lead ’em where?”
“It’s a figure of speech,” Celeste said.
“Oh,” Teddy said.
Like he knew what a figure of speech was.
Teddy stopped for a red light at Nine Mile. She could hear the throaty rumble of the high-performance engine as he tweaked the accelerator with the toe of his boot.
“Me and my sister spent our time in the Aryan Youth Corps.”
“What’d you do?”
“Learned how to burn crosses and demand excellence and reject all forms of pettiness and decadence—things like rap music, effeminate hair styles, sloppy clothes and vulgar verbiage. You wouldn’t last too long with that mouth you got.”
Teddy said, “Think I’d join a stupid fucking organization like that?”
“If I had to guess,” Celeste said, “I’d say no.”
“That why you got all them weird tats on your body?”
She was going to tell him the tats were her idea of personal artistic expression, but would he get that?
The light changed and they took off. Teddy finished his beer and asked for another one. Shereached in the cooler at her feet and took a longneck Rolling Rock out of the ice, twisted off the cap and handed it to Teddy. He held the Z28 steady, passing through Ferndale.
He said, “Who’s this Richard Butler character?”
He was a character, too. Like a demented uncle who always had a smile on his face. Celeste said, “He was the founder of the Aryan Nations. People called him Pastor Butler ’cause he was also head of a church called the Church of Jesus Christ Christian. I remember one time he pinched my cheeks and said with my beautiful blue eyes and white skin, I was a quintessential example of Aryan womanhood.”
“Quina … what?”
Teddy’s face had a look of pure stupidity on it.
“Quintessential. Like, the best.”
“Oh.”
“In his sermons, he’d talk about how white people everywhere had to develop a sense of racial identity, racial worth. No one has more to be proud of than we do, he’d say. We’re the descendants of Magellan and Lindbergh, the kin of Plato, Napoleon and Sophocles, the folk of Dante, Wagner, Galileo and Newton.”
“Who’re you talking about?”
“Famous people,” Celeste said, “you know, likephilosophers and scientists and explorers from past history. Didn’t you go to school?”
“Yeah, I went to school.”
“Didn’t you learn nothing?”
“I guess I’ve heard of some of them.”
“My biggest problem with the Aryans,” Celeste said, “nobody had a sense of humor. They were all so serious and uptight. Although my dad used to say, ‘Know what the world’s shortest book is?’ And he’d go, ‘ Nigger Yachting Captains I Have Known ’ and start laughing. He thought that was pretty damn funny.”
Teddy looked confused.
“I wanted to tell him I had a book even shorter than that called A Hundred Years of Aryan Humor . It only had one page.”
“How could a book only have one page?” Teddy said.
Did he get anything?
She also told him Aryans believed in the existence of a supra-human being called the cosmic being. “I’d go to my dad, ‘What’s all this cosmic being
“First black person I ever met in my life,” Celeste said. “And I liked him.” She was thinking about what her dad, Bob Byrnes, would’ve said if he’d seen her. He’d have said something like, “Don’t tell me you were in a jig’s house, setting on a jig’s couch. That the way you was brought up?”
No. She’d been brought up to hate everyone who didn’t have a hundred percent pure Aryan blood, which, as Celeste discovered, was a whole lot of people. It didn’t make a lot of sense to her then and even less now.
She told Teddy her dad used to take the family to Haden Lake, Idaho, every summer to Richard Butler’s Aryan Compound. Her dad said it was the international headquarters of the white race, and we Aryans are the biblical “chosen people.”
Teddy said, “Chosen for what?”
“To lead the less fortunate.”
“Lead ’em where?”
“It’s a figure of speech,” Celeste said.
“Oh,” Teddy said.
Like he knew what a figure of speech was.
Teddy stopped for a red light at Nine Mile. She could hear the throaty rumble of the high-performance engine as he tweaked the accelerator with the toe of his boot.
“Me and my sister spent our time in the Aryan Youth Corps.”
“What’d you do?”
“Learned how to burn crosses and demand excellence and reject all forms of pettiness and decadence—things like rap music, effeminate hair styles, sloppy clothes and vulgar verbiage. You wouldn’t last too long with that mouth you got.”
Teddy said, “Think I’d join a stupid fucking organization like that?”
“If I had to guess,” Celeste said, “I’d say no.”
“That why you got all them weird tats on your body?”
She was going to tell him the tats were her idea of personal artistic expression, but would he get that?
The light changed and they took off. Teddy finished his beer and asked for another one. Shereached in the cooler at her feet and took a longneck Rolling Rock out of the ice, twisted off the cap and handed it to Teddy. He held the Z28 steady, passing through Ferndale.
He said, “Who’s this Richard Butler character?”
He was a character, too. Like a demented uncle who always had a smile on his face. Celeste said, “He was the founder of the Aryan Nations. People called him Pastor Butler ’cause he was also head of a church called the Church of Jesus Christ Christian. I remember one time he pinched my cheeks and said with my beautiful blue eyes and white skin, I was a quintessential example of Aryan womanhood.”
“Quina … what?”
Teddy’s face had a look of pure stupidity on it.
“Quintessential. Like, the best.”
“Oh.”
“In his sermons, he’d talk about how white people everywhere had to develop a sense of racial identity, racial worth. No one has more to be proud of than we do, he’d say. We’re the descendants of Magellan and Lindbergh, the kin of Plato, Napoleon and Sophocles, the folk of Dante, Wagner, Galileo and Newton.”
“Who’re you talking about?”
“Famous people,” Celeste said, “you know, likephilosophers and scientists and explorers from past history. Didn’t you go to school?”
“Yeah, I went to school.”
“Didn’t you learn nothing?”
“I guess I’ve heard of some of them.”
“My biggest problem with the Aryans,” Celeste said, “nobody had a sense of humor. They were all so serious and uptight. Although my dad used to say, ‘Know what the world’s shortest book is?’ And he’d go, ‘ Nigger Yachting Captains I Have Known ’ and start laughing. He thought that was pretty damn funny.”
Teddy looked confused.
“I wanted to tell him I had a book even shorter than that called A Hundred Years of Aryan Humor . It only had one page.”
“How could a book only have one page?” Teddy said.
Did he get anything?
She also told him Aryans believed in the existence of a supra-human being called the cosmic being. “I’d go to my dad, ‘What’s all this cosmic being
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