Black Buck Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  Prospecting

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Qualifying

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Discovery

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Demonstration

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Close

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH

  Copyright © 2021 by Mateo Askaripour

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Askaripour, Mateo, author.

  Title: Black buck / Mateo Askaripour.

  Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020016335 (print) | LCCN 2020016336 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358380887 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780358448976 | ISBN 9780358449331 | ISBN 9780358380641 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3601.S593 B57 2021 (print) | LCC PS3601.S593 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020016335

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020016336

  Cover Illustration © Rupert Meats / Rude

  Author Photograph © Andrew “Fifthgod” Askaripour

  v1.1220

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  To all of those who have ever been made to feel less than

  I see you

  The most unprofitable item

  ever manufactured is an excuse.

  —JOHN MASON

  Author’s Note

  There’s nothing like a Black man on a mission. No, let me revise that. There’s nothing like a Black salesman on a mission. He’s Superman, Spiderman, Batman, and any other supernatural, paranormal, or otherwise godlike combination of blood, flesh, and brains. He can’t die. Don’t believe me? MLK. Yes, Martin Luther King Jr. was a Black salesman. In the same way used-car salesmen hawk overpriced hunks of metal that break down once an unsuspecting customer drives off the lot, our man ML to the goddamn K was a salesman to the highest degree.

  Not only did he sell Black people on the vision of a unified America, but he also sold the United States Supreme Court, which at the time contained nine white men—the hardest decision makers for any Black man to convince.

  MLK, Malcolm X, James Baldwin, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Frederick Douglass were all salesmen. Hell, Nina Simone, Rosa Parks, Harriet Tubman, and every other Black woman who achieved any leap of success was a saleswoman. Oprah “hide a BMW under your seat” Winfrey is a saleswoman. You get the point. Each and every one of these people was selling something more precious than gold: a vision. A vision for what the world could look like if millions of people were to change their minds—the hardest thing to change.

  How do I fit into all of this? When will I shut up and get to the point? Don’t worry, I’m getting there. I am a Black man on a mission. No, I am a Black salesman on a mission. And the point of this book—which I’m writing from my penthouse overlooking Central Park—is to help other Black men and women on a mission to sell their visions all the way to the top. So high up that I’ll have to crane my neck, like one of those goofy white people in films deciding whether a superhero is a bird or a plane, just to catch a glimpse of them before they’re out of sight. Whoosh! Bang! Poof! The great disappearing act of success.

  My goal is to teach you how to sell. And if I’m half the salesman every newspaper, blog, and hustler in New York City says I am, then you are in luck. With my story, I will give you the tools to go out and create the life you want. To overcome every seemingly impossible obstacle. To fix the game. Which game, you ask? We’ll get there. But before we do, I’m going to ask you to do three things.

  Let down your guard and open your mind to what I’m going to tell you. I know we’re strangers right now. You’re likely asking yourself why you should trust me. The good thing is that you already bought this book, so you trusted me enough to part with $26. I won’t let you down.

  Understand that I want all people to be successful, but in the same way that Starbucks can’t just give out Mocha Frappuccinos to anyone who doesn’t have $14, I can’t help everyone. So, I am starting with Black people. If you’re not Black but have this book in your hands, I want you to think of yourself as an honorary Black person. Go on, do it. Don’t go don blackface and an afro, but picture yourself as Black. And if you want, you can even give yourself a fancy Black name, like Jamal, Imani, or Asia.

  Say, “Every day is deals day,” and clap your hands. I know it’s strange, but do it. And when you do, think of the number one thing you’re working toward. It may be a new car, a promotion, someone’s affection, or an expensive pair of shoes. Whatever it is, think of it and say, “Every day is deals day,” and clap your hands as loud as you can. As you’ll find out, every day is deals day. A day without deals is like a camel without humps; it doesn’t exist.

  At this point, your heart’s beating and there’s a twinkle in your eye. I know because I’ve given this speech before. I’ve given it to myself. I’ve given it to thousands of people wanting to change their lives. And I’ve given it to people who didn’t know they wanted a change but needed it. A long time ago I was one of these people. I was like you. Ambitious but afraid. Intelligent but impotent. Curious but cowardly. I was all of this and more.

  But freedom, true freedom, the kind where you do what you want without fear, comes at a cost. It’s like my urban-corner-philosopher-cum-fairy-god-uncle Wally Cat used to say, “You can change the hands of a clock, but you can’t change time.” I can give you the tools to change, but only you can change yourself.

  And if I am successful in teaching you how to sell and fix the game, I ask that you buy another copy of my book and give it to the friend who needs it most. Who is stuck like I was and in need of a way out. Who is blind to the game but has potential, just like you. Does that sound fair? If so, and if you can do the three things I outlined above, then we have a deal. And if we have a deal, it’s time for you to do one last thing.

  Turn the page.

  Happy selling,

  Buck

  I.

  Prospecting

  In the middle of every difficulty lies opportunity.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  1

  The day that changed my life was like every other day before it, except that it changed my life. I suppose that makes it as important as a birthday, wedding, or bankruptcy, which is why I celebrate the twentieth of May every year like it’s my birthday. Why the hell not?

  As with any other day, my alarm went off at 6:15 a.m. The buzzing interrupted an unremarkable dream that left me with morning wood. But instead of rubbing one out, I kissed my photo
of my girlfriend, Soraya; straightened my leaning tower of books; said good morning to my posters of Scarface, The Godfather, and Denzel as Malcolm X, and stood in front of my mirror, taking stock of the person staring back at me.

  I didn’t know it back then, but I was, and am, an attractive Black man. At six two, I’m taller than average, and my skin, comparable to the rich caramel of a Werther’s Original, thanks to my pops, is so smooth you wouldn’t believe it’s not butter. My teeth are status quo and powerful, also known as white and straight, and my hair is naturally wavy even though I usually keep it short with a tight fade. Goddamn! The kid looked good and he didn’t even know it. I took a deep breath, hopped in the shower, and began my morning routine.

  The house smelled as it always did at 7 a.m.—like coffee. It made me want to puke. After years of being surrounded by it, I could tell where a bean was sourced without even tasting it, which I would never do because I hate coffee. Yes. I. Hate. Coffee. It’s black crack. Nothing more. Anyone who drinks coffee craves it, needs it, and shakes, scratches, jerks, and twerks for it every minute it’s not coursing through their collapsed veins.

  A “café” is a euphemism for a crack den. But instead of lying on a moldy sofa cushion stained with blood, sweat, and semen, folks with names like Chad, Kitty, and Trip sit down on plush leather-backed chairs licking the sweet white foam off of a seven-dollar venti, caramel, mocha, choca, cock-a-doodle-do, double-espresso long macchiato. But I digress.

  This morning’s narcotic of choice was an Indonesian blend from Sumatra if my nose was right. When it comes to coffee from a far-flung location, your normal run-of-the-mill American addicts either fall in love with the high-body, caramel, and chocolaty explosion of flavor or hate it.

  “Coffee?” Ma asked, smirking as she filled her favorite “Coffee’s for Christians” mug.

  “Funny,” I said, planting a kiss on her cheek and grabbing a banana.

  “Darren,” she said, staring at the banana. “You’re forgettin’ somethin’.”

  I stared at the banana, then at her, then at the photo of her, Pa, and me on the living-room wall. “My bad, Ma.” I crossed the hardwood floor from the kitchen to the living room, leaned over, and kissed the glass protecting Pa’s smiling, tanned, and clean-shaven Spanish face. “Mornin’, Pa,” I said, before returning to the kitchen.

  Ma looked at her watch and sat next to me, staring. She was fifty but didn’t look a day over forty. Her hair was always shoulder-length and relaxed. And with makeup, which I almost never saw her wear, she could pull off thirty-five. Back in the day, she was prom queen and had plans of being Miss America until her parents dissuaded her. But Ma’s magic wasn’t in her appearance, which used to get me into fights on the regular. It was in her ability to make you think you were meant for more, and almost believe it, just with a stare.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What what?” Her eyes smiled at me, ready. I turned my body into rubber, bracing for impact.

  “When’re you goin’ to quit that job and go to college, Darren?”

  Knew it. She’d asked me the same question for the last four years, in different forms. Like the time she told me how useful LinkedIn was for finding internships. Or when I found a new white button-up, brown leather belt, shoes, and khakis neatly folded on my bed with a note that said, “For campus visits!” If she only knew why I stayed home, she wouldn’t ask that question and do these things, I thought. But I’ll die before I tell her.

  “I dunno. Jus’ waitin’ for the right opportunity, Ma. You know that. Plus, why you tryna get me up out the house, hmm? Gotta new man I dunno about?”

  She sucked her teeth. “Don’ be silly. You know I only have room for one man in my life. But I swear, if you jus’ keep waitin’ for the right opportunity, as you always say, and don’ put that big ole brain to good use, it’s gonna get you in trouble. Mark my words.” She bent over, coughing like something serious was stuck in her throat.

  I rubbed her back just like she did to me when I was a kid. She gripped my other hand and smiled.

  “I’m okay, Dar. Don’ worry ’bout me.”

  “But I do worry. You been coughin’ like this for a month, Ma. Mus’ be all those chemicals you messin’ with at the factory.”

  “Well, let’s make a deal,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I’ll stop messin’ with all those chemicals when you get rich enough to take care of me. How’s that sound?”

  She was always looking to make a deal. I should’ve seen it back then—that Ma was the best saleswoman I knew. She’d made deals with me ever since I was a kid. A deal for me to go to bed by a certain time. A deal for us to take a trip to some random island if we ever won the lottery. A deal. A deal. A deal. Every day in my house was deals day; everything was up for negotiation.

  “Deal,” I said, kissing her forehead before jetting out.

  * * *

  It’s important for you to know that we weren’t poor, that not everyone living in what some white folks think is the “hood” is poor. Thanks to Ma’s parents, who passed when she was twenty, we owned a three-story brownstone in the heart of Bed-Stuy. And even with the rising property taxes, we made enough between the two of us to avoid the Key Food on Myrtle. We weren’t middle class, but life isn’t that bad when you own your home and earn side income from tenants.

  Just as I did every day, I jumped down the stairs of 84 Vernon Avenue, jogged down the street, turned right on Marcy, and headed for the G train.

  “Morning, Darren!” Mr. Aziz, the Yemeni owner of the corner bodega, shouted as he beat the living hell out of a speckled floor mat like it was a badass kid.

  “Sabah al-kheir!” I shouted back, always trying my best to connect with local folks, both old and new.

  But inner-city diplomacy was hard. Factories, restaurants, and every other building with a few cracks in it were being torn down to make way for high-rises and the influx of Bed-Stuy’s newest, pigment-deficient residents, which is why I always found hitting the corners next to the G a fresh breath of air. No matter how early or late it was, the usuals were there, like gargoyles on a Gothic church.

  “What’s good, Superman?” Jason said, as our hands connected, palms popping and fingers snapping.

  “Not much, Batman. Jus’ headin’ to work, you?”

  He laughed, slapping his hands against his jacket. Even though it was May, it was already heating up, and I imagined him sweating like a suckling pig under there. With his baggy jeans, spotless Timberlands, and durag topped with a bucket hat, my man looked like an original member of the Wu-Tang Clan. We were both twenty-two, with the same athletic build, but somehow people always thought he was older. Must’ve been the manicured moustache and goatee.

  “Already workin’,” he said.

  Man, this guy was a trip, but he was my best friend. Had been for more than seventeen years, when some clown was trying to press me for my Ninja Turtles backpack and Jason knocked him upside his head. When I asked him why he defended me, he just shrugged, and said, “Jus’ ’cause someone wants somethin’ doesn’ mean they gotta take whatchu have.” From then on, we were Raphael and Donatello, Batman and Superman, Kenan and Kel. But if I had known that being boys with him was going to land me in the deepest of shits, I may have just laid him out then and there.

  “What?” he asked, noticing my stare. “You ain’ the only one tryna get up outta here.”

  “I’m not tryna get up outta here, man. I’m jus’ waitin’ for the right opportunity, tha’s all. And when I get it, I’m not gonna switch up and bounce. You’ll see me grabbin’ a slice from there,” I said, pointing at the Crown Fried Chicken next to Mr. Aziz’s bodega. “There,” I repeated, pointing at Kutz, the barbershop next to Crown Fried Chicken. “But you for sure won’ see me there or there,” I said, nodding at the new hipster bar and condo building that just went up.

  Jason laughed. “Yeah, tha’s what all them say until they leave yo’ ass for a white world.”

  “I’m good where I’m a
t, Batman, and with the company I keep. Like your wack ass. But I gotta bounce. Whatchu readin’ now, anyway?”

  “Williams.”

  “Tennessee?”

  “You buggin’, son. John A. You?”

  “Huxley.”

  “You need to stop readin’ them old white writers, nigga.”

  “Aight, bro. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Bet.”

  Wally Cat sat on an overturned plastic crate on the corner across the street reading the newspaper. I was rushing into the subway when I heard him say, “Aye, Darren!”

  Something told me to ignore him and descend into the damp, urine-smelling subway, but I didn’t listen.

  I crossed the street. “What up, Wally Cat?”

  “How’s yo’ momma?” He licked his lips like a sweaty pervert.

  If I’d had the balls back then, I would’ve told Wally Cat that if he didn’t stop asking about Ma I’d put him in a casket quicker than a steady diet of Double Big Macs with supersize fries could, but I didn’t. Partly because I was shook, but mostly because I liked him.

  You see, Wally Cat was the definition of an oldhead. But not the kind that just reminisced about all of the stuff they coulda, woulda, or shoulda done “back in my day.” No, at sixty with a Hawaiian shirt, low salt-and-pepper afro, immaculate fedora, and burgeoning paunch, Wally Cat was a millionaire a couple times over. As Ma tells it, this guy used to live on a farm and study horses—their weights, temperaments, the way they moved and ate—then just roll up to a racetrack and almost always pick a winner.

  One day he was scanning the upcoming races in the paper and noticed all these new companies popping up on the stock market. And that was that. He stopped betting on horses and started betting on companies. But the way he’d do it was by going to a company’s office and speaking with the janitors, who always had the scoop on the CEOs, VPs, whether a company was sloppy or clean, punctual or late, and more. He turned a couple thousand into a couple million in less than a decade. All on his own. And then he started buying up property. But the thing is, what Wally Cat loved most in the world was just sitting on the corner, reading the newspaper, and watching people go by. Plus, he still used coupons.