Black Buck Page 8

  “It’s encourage, Buck. And why shouldn’t I call you Buck? Everyone else does. Plus, you call me Frodo, and my name is, uh—” For the record, Frodo, formerly known as Arnold Bagini, almost forgot his own name.

  “Arnold. My name is Arnold,” he said, sighing with relief.

  “The difference is you like being called Frodo; you even admitted that it’s your new name. I don’t like being called Buck; I just let everyone else call me it because it’d take more energy to fight it.”

  “So why are you fighting me?”

  He had a point.

  Frodo turned to the Duchess, who stood in the corner, staring out the window. “What about you, the Duchess, do you mind your new name?”

  She didn’t turn around.

  “Uh, the Duchess, I asked—”

  “I heard you,” she said in a tone as dry as the Gobi Desert. “I don’t care what someone calls me. All I care about is seeing whatever people call me at the top of the board, which, one way or another, will happen.”

  Damn, she’s cold as hell. The Duchess reeked of old money and blood-splattered gallows. I pictured her at an auction in the 1800s, pushing her cuckolded husband aside and prying open the mouths of the “beasts,” “savages,” and “barbarians” imported from Africa.

  “Well, I just wanna make my dad proud,” Frodo said, staring at her back. “When I was growing up, he was a used-car salesman. Before he lost his job and got to drinking, I always liked hanging out on the lot with him, watching him talk to people, make them smile, and shake their hands after handing them the key to a new car. I want to do that.”

  “Handing them keys to a used car, you moron,” the Duchess said, still staring out the window.

  “What?”

  “You said ‘handing them the key to a new car,’ but your father was a used-car salesman. So the keys he handed them were to used cars.”

  “But the cars were new for them . . . even if they were used.”

  “So”—she spun around, a small smile on her face—“if I wear a pair of sneakers for five years, sweat in them, get dirt on them, and tear them to shreds, will they be new or used when I hand them to you?”

  “Well, I guess that—”

  The door burst open and Clyde walked in with a group of salespeople. “Frodo, go,” he ordered, shutting the door.

  “There are seven billion people on earth, meaning there are seven billion people,” he started, missing a few words but not sounding too bad.

  “Seven billion people, who wake up, go to work . . .”

  He was getting closer now, and I really hoped he wouldn’t mess up.

  “Spend time with family, eat, love, and sleep awaiting a new day. But as the pope-ulation—”

  “Hold the fuck up,” Clyde said, looking at the crew he brought in. “What the hell is a pope-ulation?”

  “Uh,” Frodo said, redder than a Russian, “I meant population. I’m sorry. I’m, uh, I can go again.”

  “No,” Clyde said. “You can’t. If you do that on the phone, people will think we hire retards. In fact, they’ll think I hire retards. And then they’ll hang up and laugh—at me, Rhett, and what this entire company stands for. You want that, Frodo?”

  “Um.”

  “Don’t fucking ‘um’ me, you worthless sack of pigskin. I asked if you want that to happen. If you want people to laugh at me and Rhett.”

  “No,” he said, looking down at the table and picking healthy skin off his fingers, causing them to bleed.

  “That’s what I thought, now sit. The Duchess, go.”

  “There are more than seven billion people on earth, meaning that there are at least seven billion people . . .” She recited the whole thing and didn’t miss one word. Clyde’s gang looked at him expectantly.

  “Not bad. You need to sound a little more human, but good work.”

  She just nodded, took a seat, and folded her hands as if nothing had happened.

  “The best for last, right? Let’s get it, Buck,” he said, smiling.

  “There are more than seven—”

  “Christ!” Clyde shouted. “What the fuck is that?”

  “What’s what?” I asked, confused.

  “That,” he said, pointing a finger so close to my eye, I flinched. “That was worse than Frodo’s. You had no spirit, spoke with no conviction, and frankly sounded as flat as a deflated sex doll. Again.”

  I took a breath. There’s no way in hell mine was worse than Frodo’s.

  “There are more than seven billion people on earth, meaning that there are at least seven billion people with their own struggles, challenges, and ways of living,” I said, making sure I enunciated every word. “Seven billion people like you, who wake up, go to work, spend time with family, eat, love, and—”

  “ANG!” he yelled. His gang chuckled, shaking their heads.

  “You’re trash, brother,” he said, staring directly into my eyes. “You need to smile as you speak. When you’re on the phone with someone, they can’t see you and don’t know if you’re wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit or whatever Payless shit you have on now. So your voice is your appearance. A shitty voice, like the one you just spoke in, will make them think you buy your clothes from the clearance rack at Kmart. A strong, passionate voice will make them think you’re wearing Gucci, Versace, or whatever you and your dogs are into. Got it?”

  Reader: That second-to-last sentence was racist as hell, but the previous ones were good advice. Write that down.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. If Ma had been there, watching this mayonnaise-loving, Seinfeld-watching, Columbus Day–celebrating asshole speak to me like that, she would’ve held me by the wrist and told me to breathe. So I did.

  He walked behind me and brought his lips so close to my left ear, he was almost kissing it. “Again,” he whispered.

  “There are more than seven billion people on earth—”

  He thrust a hand into the air. “Wait! Something’s not quite right. Again.”

  As I started, he took his iPhone out and showed one of his lackeys something. She laughed. I paused.

  “Did I say to stop? Keep going.”

  I continued.

  “A little better,” he interrupted. “But still off. I’m going to level with you, Buck. I don’t think you believe the words you’re saying. Actually, I just don’t think you care. We’re going to stay here all day until you convince me that you do. Again.”

  When I tell you that this went on for eight more hours, I mean that this went on for eight more hours. The Duchess, Frodo, and I did not take turns; they, along with different groups of sales reps, listened to me recite the same 266 words over and over and over again until my voice was hoarse. Toward the end, Clyde had me write the script from beginning to end until it covered every inch of Bhagavad Gita’s dry-erase walls.

  A large part of me knew that none of this was right—that I was being targeted—but I wasn’t just doing this for myself, I was doing it for Ma, Mr. Rawlings, Soraya, and everyone else who believed in me. I just had to man up and take it.

  After the sun set and the sounds of the office quieted down, Clyde looked up from his laptop and nodded. “One last time.”

  I said the words. All of them. For what was likely the thousandth time that day. Frodo nodded off, and the Duchess, with arms folded across her chest, looked at me, infuriated.

  I finished, and Clyde clapped his hands. Frodo woke and the Duchess sat up. “You’re almost there, Buck. Not quite, but almost. Either way, I’ll give you a pass. Tomorrow the real fun begins. Role-plays. After stretch, just come straight here. You’re all dismissed.”

  As Frodo and the Duchess filed out, Clyde called out to me.

  “Hey,” he said, nodding at a chair.

  With everyone out of the room, Clyde—wearing what I would come to know as his signature outfit of a Brooks Brothers checkered button-down with a black or blue Patagonia vest, khaki Dockers, and penny loafers or boat shoes—looked up at me with guidance-counselor-like c
oncern.

  I opted to stand. “Yeah?”

  “You sure this is for you? I’m asking as a friend because I know it’s not for everyone. Some people just aren’t suited for it, you know?”

  I stared him dead in the eye. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, get some rest. Believe it or not, today was easy.”

  Once I stepped into the elevator, someone yelled, “Hold it!” I caught the door, and Rhett jumped in. Despite it being the first day of Deals Week, he somehow retained his otherworldly sheen, as if nothing could faze him.

  “Thanks, Buck.”

  All of the day’s stress rushed out of me and I smiled. “No problem.”

  He placed a hand on my shoulder, bringing us eye to eye. “Hey, Buck. Sorry about this morning. I just can’t go easy whenever anyone is late to a Monday meeting. Or not on their A game. It wasn’t personal.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think it was. I understand.”

  “Cool. How was your first day?”

  I widened my eyes and shook my head.

  He laughed. “That bad, huh? I know it’s tough, but I guarantee that this will be the best professional experience of your life, Buck. Seriously.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so. You’ll see.”

  We split in the lobby. I headed out the door and Rhett went into the Starbucks. It was the first time in twelve hours that I’d tasted the sweet fresh air of May and heard the sounds of the city up close again.

  I don’t remember much of the subway ride. But I do remember getting home, passing out, and hearing Ma crack the door open to ask if I was all right.

  “Yeah,” I said, half-asleep.

  “How was your first day?”

  I can’t recall what I said, but I do remember thinking, If that was only day one, what the hell will the others be like?

  8

  Except for Mondays, work started at 8 a.m. But I was traumatized, so on day two, I got up at 6:15 a.m., took a quick shower, and headed into the kitchen.

  Ma was in there sitting at the table reading a newspaper with a strong, frothy cup of coffee. The smell was sweet, like a tangerine, yet spicy with bright notes of acidity. Definitely a Salvadorian blend.

  “Mornin’, Ma.” I planted a wearied kiss on her cheek. Even though I’d slept for almost ten hours, I was still exhausted, which made me fear for the long day ahead.

  “Mornin’, Dar.” She folded her paper. “You were sleepin’ like a corpse when I got back from work. If I hadn’ gotten a response from you, I was gonna shake you to make sure you were alive.”

  I laughed, pouring myself a bowl of cereal. “Yeah, I felt like a corpse.”

  “So, how was it?”

  What I wanted to say was Help me, Ma! They forced me to rap, pulled some KKK tar-and-feather shit on me, and made me write on a board until my fingers bled. Please, please, please don’t make me go back! But I couldn’t. Jason was out on the corner trying to provide a better life for his mom. I had to swallow my feelings. Ma had played mom and pops for my entire life, and it was time for me to take care of her.

  “It was okay,” I said, taking a seat. “There’s three of us new hires. Well, there were four, but one kid left. And now we’re all workin’ hard to get some script down.”

  “What happened to the other kid?”

  I thought back to him, realizing I never knew his name. I saw sweat pouring from his red face, the desperation in his eyes as he looked around the room for help like a frightened animal.

  “Jus’ wasn’ right for him,” I said with a shrug, and inhaled my bowl of cereal.

  “Well, no matter how hard it gets, remember why you’re there, Dar. To become somethin’ and show the world what you’re made of. To let your light shine and be all I know you can be.”

  “I know, Ma. I’ll try.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.

  “Oh, and Dar?”

  “Yeah, Ma?”

  “I was thinkin’ we could have another dinner on Friday. Me, you, Soraya, Jason, and Mr. Rawlings. To celebrate the end of your first week. I’ll cook some extra spicy turkey chili for you.”

  “Sounds good, Ma. I love you,” I said, and rushed down the stairs so I wouldn’t be late no matter what.

  When I rounded the corner, Soraya was sitting on a bench outside of the shop and wearing a black hoodie with HUDA SHA’ARAWI: GOOGLE HER on it. She was reading from a small stack of papers.

  “Hey,” I said, surprised. “What’s up?”

  “Helpin’ my dad open up,” she replied, her eyes glued to the papers. “Gotta new shipment of African black soap.”

  “Oh really?”

  She laughed. “Don’ worry, one already has your name on it.”

  “Shukran, habibti. And what’re those?”

  “Application papers. To be accepted to NYU’s accelerated nursin’ program I have to take six prereqs. I already did three at Hunter, but I’m gonna take summer courses for the rest and hope they accept me.”

  “They will.” I lifted her chin toward me and our lips quickly connected. “When’s it due?”

  “If I wanna start in the fall, I need to apply by June fifteenth. So a coupla weeks.”

  “Okay,” I said, and kissed her once more. “Lemme know if you need any help.”

  “I will. And wait, you never texted me last night. How was your first day?”

  “I’ll tell you later!” I shouted, jogging toward the gargoyles.

  “Come here, boy!” Wally Cat called.

  I ignored him for the moment and gave Jason a quick dap. “You good?”

  “Yeah, bro. How I look?” he said, still bruised but smiling.

  “Like you got fucked up, but not bad.”

  “Good lookin’. Tryna play some chess?”

  “Nah, I gotta head to work.”

  “Aight. I wouldn’ wan’ it wit’ me again if I was you either. But don’ forget what I said.”

  “About what?”

  “ ’Bout those people in that fancy office not bein’ your people. Shit’ll get you got.”

  “Whatever, man. Peace.”

  I jogged over to Wally Cat and sat on a crate, checking the time. 6:58 a.m. I’ll be fine.

  “What’s good, Wally Cat?” I noticed he was wearing a particularly bright Hawaiian shirt.

  “How was your firs’ day?”

  “Hard. They got us workin’ on some script, and today we’ll be role-playin’.”

  “What those white people even have you sellin’ over there? Whenever I read up on these new tech companies and all that Mark Zuckerwho shit, even my head spins. I know they gotchu on some crazy shit.”

  “To be honest, I’m still not sure. It’s like a platform where people can talk to other people around the world to get help with their problems. You know, therapy without all the bullshit.”

  He threw his hands up and sucked his teeth. “Without all the bullshit? That shit ain’ made for no Black people, Darren. Tha’s some rich white women shit, nigga. Ain’ no Black people need no therapists, ’cause we don’ be havin’ those mental issues. OCD, ADD, PTSD, and all those other acronyms they be comin’ up with every day. I’m tellin’ you, the only acronyms Black folk need help with is the NYPD, FBI, CIA, KKK, and KFC, ’cause I know they be puttin’ shit in those twelve-piece bucket meals to make us addicted to them. All that saturated fat, sodium. That shit crack, but—”

  “Aight, man. I gotta go, Wally Cat. Can’t be late. But thanks for the talk.”

  “Aye, I gotta piece of advice ’fore you go. I been on this corner long enough to see tens of thousands of transactions go down. And what I learned is that either you sellin’ somebody on yes or they sellin’ you on no. No matter what happens, some nigga gon’ be walkin’ away worse off than the other nigga, so you gotta figure out how tha’s never you, you feel me?”

  Reader: Pay attention to what Wally Cat just said, minus all the acronym BS. Whether you sell someone on yes or they sell you on no, a sale is always made.

 
“Word, good looks,” I said, dapping him up and heading into the subway. I checked my phone: 7:05 a.m. I’d make it.

  It was 7:40 a.m. when I got to 3 Park Avenue, so I figured I had enough time to say hi to my old soldiers.

  Carlos mopped the floor as Nicole made drinks. “What’s up, guys?”

  Carlos looked up and threw his hands in the air, the broom slapping the wet floor. “Ayo, Darren! What’s good, hermano? Thought we’d never see you back here now that you’re all fancy up in the penthouse, bro.”

  “Never that.” I dapped him up and surveyed the area. Everything looked as I had left it except for the cardboard cutouts on the counter advertising a new heart-stopping concoction.

  “Darren!” Nicole shouted behind the register. “I’d come and hug you, but I gotta get these drinks out,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow. Part of me missed her—all of them. I missed the familiarity, I missed being the real HNIC with no one else to tell me what to do or hurl insults at me like I was a stray dog.

  “All good, Nicole!” I shouted back over the coffee machine’s whir.

  But when I was about to head upstairs, I realized something was off.

  “Hey, Carlos. Where’s Brian?”

  He nodded at the back room. I approached and heard shouting behind the door. I opened it and found Brian sitting in a chair, his face soaked in tears, as Jared loomed over him like an overseer ready to bust his ass.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” I asked, looking from Jared to Brian.

  “What’re you doing here?” Jared asked, surprised. “You don’t work here anymore.”

  “Why is he crying?”

  “It’s none of your business, guy,” Jared said, pushing me out of the door.

  “Touch me again and I’ll break your hand.”

  “Well, maybe you should’ve taught this kid how to make coffee. He keeps burning all of the beans and spilling shit. I don’t know what’s up with him.”

  I grabbed Brian’s arm, helped him up, and walked him out, leaving Jared standing in the room.

  “What’s going on, Brian?” I patted his face with a napkin.