Black Buck Read online

  “Christ, you’ve been slinging coffee for four years? Couldn’t you have gotten another job?”

  “I guess, but it’s easy and leaves me time to do other things.”

  “You guess,” he said, slowly turning the words in his mouth as if they were hard candies. “You guess. You keep saying you guess. Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Um, I don’t know.”

  “And those ‘uhs’ and ‘ums.’” He swung his feet off the table and pointed at me. “And the way you’re sitting, slumped over, twisting your hands under the table. I can see your wrists moving. Are you nervous?”

  I hadn’t noticed I was twisting my hands, but when I looked down, I saw that I was. What the hell is going on?

  “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “There it is again!” he said, like he’d found a stain on his favorite pair of Dockers. “The ‘uhs’ and you not being sure about yourself. How can you not know if you’re nervous? It’s your body, isn’t it? At twenty-two, do you not know your own body?”

  “Well—”

  “Well what? You’re not making coffee anymore, brother. Tell me what we do here.”

  “You, uh—”

  “Cut out the ‘uhs’ and ‘ums,’ brother. They make you sound retarded. You’re not retarded, are you?”

  My knee was bouncing up and down so hard that I thought I was going to break through the floor. I curled my hand into a fist, ready to either knock this WASPy motherfucker out cold or just leave without looking back. But that’s what he wanted, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of getting it.

  “You sell a vision,” I spat.

  He rolled his eyes, waving his hand around. “Anyone can say that. You probably heard Rhett say that. But what is it, exactly, that we do here at Sumwun?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Then why the fuck are you sitting in front of me, taking up my precious time?”

  “Because Rhett brought me up here,” I said, running out of air. “I didn’t even know I was going to be interviewed for something today. I’m supposed to be at work.”

  “First off, this isn’t an interview, remember? Second, you’ll be back making me drinks in no time. Don’t worry about that, brother. I just have a few more questions, then we’re done. Tell me what you think Rhett sees in a kid from Bed-Stuy who sells coffee.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, wondering the same thing. I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t one of those people, and I damn sure didn’t want to sit in front of this future white-collar criminal anymore.

  “I’ll tell you what I do know, Darrone. Or rather, Buck. I’d call you Starbucks, but it’s too long, so Buck will have to do. You don’t mind, do you, Buck? No, I didn’t think so. So I’ll tell you what I do know. I know that Rhett likes to take a shot on people like him, hustlers, kids he thinks are doing nothing with their lives but just need a chance. Sometimes it works out; most of the time it doesn’t. You, Buck, would be one of the times it doesn’t. Trust me. So I’ll spare you the agony and walk you out.”

  He stood and opened the heavy door of the conference room, waiting for me to leave.

  But I didn’t get up. I stared down at the table, the knots of wood frozen in polyurethane coating like prehistoric bugs in amber. “You don’t fucking know me.” I was enraged.

  It would’ve been easier to forget everything and go back down to Starbucks, but I couldn’t. This motherfucker had no idea who I was, anything about my life, and what I was and wasn’t capable of. In that moment, it wasn’t about proving anything to him; it was about proving everything to myself. That I could do more. That I didn’t have to be held down by my fear of the unknown and what-ifs.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “I said”—I stared him in the face—“you don’t fucking know me. You have no idea who I am and what I can or can’t do. You sit up here on your precious thirty-sixth floor looking down on people like me, people who you think are hopeless and wasting the air you breathe. But you don’t know me. I can outwork you and anyone on this floor. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what the company does or even what I’d have to sell. I know that I can do what you do and do it better. Because, Clyde, you probably never had to work for anything in your entire fucking life.

  “You’re from Greenwich, one of the richest towns in America. I grew up in Bed-Stuy, brother, where most people fight, struggle, and claw to pay rent that’s rising because of trust-fund babies like you who want to buy bigger apartments at half the price. So don’t tell me you know me, because you don’t.”

  He closed the door and I felt trapped, ready to swing on him if he tried anything slick.

  “There it is,” he whispered, swinging around and grinning wider than when he first came in. “There it fucking is, Buck!”

  He gave me a round of applause, walked over to a phone, and pressed some buttons.

  “Yeah?” It was Rhett.

  “He’s ready,” Clyde replied, shoving an open hand toward me.

  I still didn’t know what the company did or what I would be doing for them, but I grabbed his hand and shook it. Deep down, I knew Clyde was right. Whatever happened next, I was ready.

  II.

  Qualifying

  Most people want to avoid pain, and discipline is usually painful.

  —JOHN C. MAXWELL

  5

  “And then what happened?” Ma asked, tearing a piece of flesh off her signature well-done-but-really-almost-burnt-to-a-crisp burger and cracking it in her mouth.

  Mr. Rawlings, Soraya, and Jason were over, likely wishing Ma had ordered out. As far as anyone was concerned, our home was their home, and in some ways, the family you choose can be stronger than the one you’re given or, in my case, missing.

  “Then the other guy, Rhett, walked in and slapped me on the back so hard he knocked the wind outta me. He sat down at the head of the table, and the white boy, Clyde, sat across from me. Rhett asked how much money I was makin’. I told him about $9 an hour. Around $19,000 a year. He looked at Clyde, then back at me, and asked how the hell I was survivin’ in New York City.

  “He ran his hand through his silky hair, like some movie star, you know, and said he wasn’ a stranger to the woes of minimum wage. Then he told me they’d pay me $40,000 a year with at least $25,000 on top of that if I hit my goals.”

  “What? $65,000 a year! You ’bout to be richer than that cracker kid in Home Alone, boy!” Mr. Rawlings shouted, banging his rosewood cane on the floor and spitting charred hamburger all over the table.

  “That’s more than I make, baby,” Ma said, grabbing my hand with tears in her eyes. “And I’ve been workin’ at the Clorox Company for over two decades.”

  I knew she was happy for me, but I can’t lie, something felt strange about making $65,000 a year for sitting in a room and talking on the phone while Ma, a chemical process operator, stood on her feet all day breathing in God knows what.

  “I’m proud of you, D,” Soraya said, rubbing my dick under the table. I spit bits of charred burger all over.

  Ma brought out a cheap bottle of champagne and poured everyone a glass. “You want one, Dar?”

  “No thanks, Ma.”

  “Ah, c’mon, boy,” Mr. Rawlings pressed. “Nothin’ wrong with a li’l bubbly every once in a while. It’s not like you ’bout to go lose your damn head and gamble your life savin’s away.”

  That’s oddly specific.

  Everyone raised their glasses. I toasted with a cup of Mountain Dew. “To my baby, Dar,” Ma said. “Thank the Lord for puttin’ his hands on him and settin’ him on the path of success, like we all knew he was destined for. Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” everyone echoed. Except Jason.

  “So what is it you gon’ be doin’ anyway?” Mr. Rawlings asked, topping his glass off.

  “Well, I don’ really know,” I said, realizing I still had no idea what Sumwun did.

  Mr. Rawlings hit me with the stank eye.
“You don’ know? How you gon’ be up in there making $65,000 a year without knowin’, boy? Is this one of those Wall Street scams where we gon’ find you on TV one day, reporters sayin’ you played old folks for their pensions?”

  The table shook with laughter. “Nah, I don’ think so, Mr. Rawlings. After I signed some papers, they said I was gonna get unlimited vacation, health benefits, one thousan’ stock options, and a 401(k), though. There’s also a gym, you can bring pets, and they play a lot of music. I’m sure I’ll find out more on Monday.”

  “Things have changed,” Ma said. “Back in my day, no one was gettin’ unlimited vacation or had gyms inside of offices. I’m sure it’s gonna be quite the place to work, Dar.”

  “Who the hell needs a gym in a damn office?” Mr. Rawlings asked, twisting his head around. “And animals runnin’ all up in there like it’s a damn farm? Sounds funny to me.” He stuffed his face with potato chips, washing them down with more champagne.

  “Aye,” I said, turning to Jason. “You sorta quiet, bro. You good?”

  He grabbed a second rock-hard patty and took a brave bite. “Yeah, bro. Jus’ don’ forget those people ain’ your people. It’s easy to get it twisted. Damn, Auntie, these burgers are type delicious.”

  “Eat as many as you like, baby,” Ma said, as she walked into the living room. “And since we’re all talkin’ news, I got somethin’ interesting in the mail today.” She returned with an envelope.

  NEXT CHANCE MANAGEMENT was typed on the front. “What’s this?” I asked, removing the letter.

  Ma smiled. “Read it.”

  Dear Mrs. Vender,

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  My name is Richard Lawson and I’m writing to you on behalf of Next Chance Management, a real estate firm specializing in high-value properties throughout New York City, including Bedford-Stuyvesant. We’ve worked with folks like yourself for years, helping them sell their properties in order to move somewhere more comfortable.

  If you should ever want to discuss selling your property, especially in today’s climate, where folks want to live in up-and-coming neighborhoods such as your own, please give me a call at 212.781.9258 or email me at r.lawson@​nextchancemanagement​.com.

  To be frank, the market won’t stay like this forever. As time goes on, your property taxes will rise, making remaining in the neighborhood more financially difficult than it has been to date. We’re currently in conversations with a few of your neighbors, Mr. Jones, Mrs. Williams, and others, and would be happy to run you through some numbers.

  Again, feel free to reach out at your earliest convenience, but we’ll also be in touch should we not hear from you.

  Sincerely,

  Richard Lawson

  Next Chance Management

  “Frederick and Maisal are sellin’ their houses?” Mr. Rawlings shouted. “Have they lost their goddamn minds?”

  “Ma, you’re not gonna reply to this, are you?”

  “Of course not, Dar. But it’s good to know we have options in case it ever comes to it.”

  My heart beat faster than when I was with Clyde. I couldn’t imagine Ma selling the house; the house I grew up in; the house Pa repaired from top to bottom with his two hands. “If it ever comes to what?”

  “I’m jus’ sayin’, if we ever needed the money, it’s good to know we’d be able to get it.”

  I grabbed her hand harder than I wanted to. “Ma, we will never need to sell the house. With my new job, I promise that. Promise me you won’ contact that man. Promise me.”

  She patted my hand. “I promise, Dar. There’s nothin’ to worry about. It was jus’ a letter.”

  * * *

  After dinner, Soraya and I made love, and I never felt like I needed it more. Her curly hair, the curves of her body, the way she touched me, all of it. The day was more eventful than any other I’d had in years, and she seemed to sense this, doing all she could to help me release my tension and stress through loving her.

  “I’m goin’ back to school,” she announced. She curled her fingers around mine like ivy.

  “School?” I sat up. “You already did four years at Hunter. What do you want more school for?”

  “To be a nurse, D. You know I’ve always wanted to be one.”

  “Then why’d you get a business degree? Sounds like a waste of money.”

  “Because I thought it’d be more practical, so I could help my dad with his shops. And now that that’s goin’ well, it’s time to follow my own dreams.”

  I raised her chin and looked into her eyes to see what was going on beneath the surface. “Have you thought about her lately?”

  She rested her head on my chest, hugging me tighter. “She would’ve been eighteen last week, D.”

  “You were nine, Soraya. You can’t keep beatin’ yourself up over that,” I said.

  When they were kids, Soraya’s younger sister died from a horrible disease that ate her organs from the inside out. I remember Soraya being out of school for long stretches at a time back then, and when she was in school, she’d randomly burst into loud sobs that seemed to never end. Her ESL teacher would send her to the nurse, then the nurse would send her home. It was a pattern that went on for what felt like forever. Her mom, unable to process, moved to Harlem and started a new life, leaving Soraya and Mr. Aziz to fend for themselves.

  Years later, Soraya told me that the only happy memories she had from that time were hanging out with Jason and me at the playground, playing pranks on Mr. Rawlings, or Ma giving her a hug and a snack.

  “I know,” she whispered. “I’m tryin’. But becomin’ a nurse will help, I know it.”

  “So what’s the plan? Am I gonna have to make you ramen, force you to take study breaks, and bring you jugs of black crack again for another four years? Because . . .” I paused and she looked up at me, upset. “Because you know I will,” I said, smiling at her.

  She laughed and ran her hand over my chest hair, which she claimed felt like grass. “Well, you’d only have to do it for eighteen months this time. I’d go to the accelerated program at NYU. Then I could get a job at Woodhull and still live at home with my dad, so he wouldn’ get lonely.”

  I kissed the back of her hand. “Whatever makes you happy makes me happy, habibti. Same team, same dream, you know that.”

  She grabbed my raw dick, slowly rubbing it up and down, making me hard again. “You know I can’t resist you when you speak your broken Arabic to me.”

  I winked. “Why you think I’m speakin’ it?”

  “Jus’ promise me one thing,” she said, flipping herself on top of me, inserting me inside her.

  “What?”

  I already knew my answer would be yes. It was hard to negotiate with a girl when you were inside her. I mean, Soraya was my one and only, but I imagined it was the same whenever anyone had sex.

  “Don’ change when you become a big shot, okay?”

  I laughed, scrunching my face up. What’s she talking about? Me? Big shot?

  She leaned in closer, no longer smiling, as if one of us were about to disappear.

  “Promise me.”

  I gripped her ass and filled my lungs with her sweet smell. “I’m not gonna become a big shot, Soraya. You have nothin’ to worry about.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You will. And if you don’ promise me, we might as well break up right now.”

  “Damn. Okay. I promise. Happy?”

  Reader: Believing that you can somehow prevent change is the surest way to fail. Whether in life or sales, nothing ever stays the same.

  “We’ll see,” she said, as she thrust her hips into mine. Soon, I no longer knew where her body began and mine ended.

  6

  My alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. I slapped my clock, hopped out of bed, and jumped into the shower. It was Monday, my first day of work. And I couldn’t be late.

  Before leaving the office on Friday, Clyde told me that I had to be in at 7 a.m. sharp. “Is it cool if I’m a minute or two lat
e?” I asked, hedging the fact that I couldn’t control subway delays or Greenpeace workers who just wanted “one minute” of my time.

  “Of course, no problem,” he’d replied. Given how intense the place was, I was relieved they weren’t too militant.

  I walked into the empty kitchen, grabbing a banana and a bowl of cereal. It was only 6 a.m., but I wanted to arrive early and make a good impression. So I scarfed down my Cap’n Crunch like a rabid beast and tossed the empty bowl into the sink.

  Ma walked in sporting her pink terry-cloth robe, tight multicolored head wrap, and white slippers, a finger scratching the top of her head.

  “You’re up early, Dar. Ready for your first day of work?”

  “You know it, Ma. Can’t be late.”

  She looked me up and down, and shook her head, laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She swept her hand in front of me. “You look like a Mormon, son.”

  I looked at my white short-sleeved button-up with two pens in the front pocket, black slacks with a black belt, and black leather shoes to match. Shit.

  “But it was you who bought me these clothes last year!” I said, panicking. I couldn’t go to that office looking like a Mormon. They’d laugh me out the moment I walked in, probably telling me that I showed up for the wrong sales job, that church would be in session at eleven.

  “Go get one of your plaid button-ups, denim jeans, and throw some clean runnin’ shoes on,” she ordered, as she turned the coffee maker on.

  “Ma, I don’ think that’d look right.”

  “Dar, from what I’ve read, it’s better to dress casually at these startups. If you come in lookin’ stiff, they’ll think you’re uptight. Trust me.”

  I thought back to my visit on Friday and remembered seeing people rocking everything from holey hoodies and sneakers to starched slacks and sweaters. She was right, so I changed as quickly as I could.