Devonte Best had not worn shorts since tenth grade PE class. His ninth grade PE teacher had allowed sweatpants even into hot and humid late May, but Coach Vestibule (“My double-great-granddaddy didn’t want no slave name like Hall, which was his master's name, when he ran North to join the First Arkansas, and he once heard the master’s wife call the hall the vestibule, so he mustered in to the Union Army as Private Zachary Taylor Vestibule, that’s why my name is Vestibule. One mile for an impertinent question like that, and don’t ask again.”) had different ideas. One of these was that shorts should be worn, even for running outdoors in the suburban Chicago winters. The sign in the office that he pointed angry parents to originally said “We value your comments and respect your concerns” but Mr. Vestibule had placed “don’t” on a post-it in front of “value” and “respect.” Outraged parents rarely noticed that he had placed a picture of his own face over that of the horse on the poster for the movie Young Black Stallion right next to the other sign.
For exercise these days, Devonte did bicycle tricks. He wore skinny jeans and a bicycle hat, and hoped that would endear him to bike girls. It had not failed yet.
Devonte realized, at about eight in the morning, that he had no shorts. The only shorts that Jim Brightest had that would fit Devonte were a pair of turquoise marathon shorts he had purchased for a halloween costume. They were almost impossibly short, having been chosen for their comedic value more than their comfort or practicality.
Nonetheless, Devonte Best stood in front of the physical fitness test in a bright orange t-shirt (the only one he owned without a design that might offend a police officer, he reasoned) and half of Jim Brightest’s halloween costume from their first year of college.
“Are you mocking this test, Mr. … um” the officer scanned the list of candidates, there were five left out of seven, but he looked it up and down as if it was a telephone directory before settling on “Mr. Best? You take this lightly?”
“No sir. Not sure what you mean.”
“That outfit. It’s p-p-p-per-p-p-p-posterous!”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s a complicated story. Can I just take the test?”
Jim Brightest looked on, amused. He had breezed through the timed portion, had had no problem with the handcuff simulator, had even been complemented by an observing officer on the high quality of his fence climbing. Jim assumed the best fence climbers all had a history of petty crime, and he hoped he hadn’t accidentally given himself away.
“Line up at the gorram cones, son. And don’t so much as breathe a mistake. On your mark, set, GO”
Devonte was off. Through the cone maze, though he tripped and had to put a cone back. Up the cyclone fence, and back down the other side, ripping the shirt on the barbed top. Over the ditch jump on the second attempt, up the stairs, through the window easily (He flew through like a fish, he was so thin. The previous candidate had almost gotten his bulging triceps wedged completely in the frame.) and down the other side. He grabbed the fat CPR dummy at the black line, pulled it up around the cone, and dropped it, panting like a Labrador.
“Two Minutes, Thirty-Three seconds. Passed by the margin of error.”
He picked up the handcuff bar, and bent it easily now, the hard part of the test over. It was only when he finished that he contemplated the fact that he was halfway to being a police officer. And when had he ever done poorly on a standardized test?
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