Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  “No.” She grabbed a glass of water from her table. “I went to the bathroom, got some water, and walked around. I tried to wash what was in the sink but couldn’t.”

  “Don’ worry ’bout that, Ma.” I placed my hand on her forehead. “Is it a cold or somethin’? Doesn’ feel like a fever.”

  She grabbed my hand, brought it to her cheek, and smiled. “Salesman. Doctor. What else are you gonna become, a politician?”

  “Nah, probably not, Ma,” I said, laughing. “I’m not much of a leader. Except for at Starbucks.”

  “Mm-hmm. That’s what you say. But I know what you are. I’ve always known.”

  “Oh yeah? And what’s that, Miss Cleo? All you’re missin’ is the Jafaican accent.”

  She sucked her teeth and pushed my hand away. “Don’ play with me. I may be weak, but I’ll still show you who’s boss.”

  “So what am I?” I asked. “What have you always known?”

  “That’s for you to find out, Dar. Not for me or anyone to tell you. When you get to wherever you’re goin’, you’ll know. And I’ll be there, watchin’ from afar, proud as a peacock.”

  I felt her forehead again to see if she was feverish. She wasn’t, but something didn’t feel right. My gut told me to stay with her and walk her to the doctor’s, but the thought of Clyde thinking I quit overpowered my gut. Let’s make a deal.

  “Ma.” I grabbed her hand. “I won’ lie; I don’ wanna go to work today with you feelin’ like this.”

  “Darren Vender, if you don’ get up and get to work, I’m gonna be sicker. Trust me.”

  “Okay, but only on one condition.”

  She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “What is it?”

  “You ask Mr. Rawlings to bring you to the doctor today jus’ to make sure this isn’ anything serious. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she said, smiling. “Now go on and don’ be late. I’ll be alright. May even get my stuff together and go to work. I’m already feelin’ a bit better.”

  I took a long look at her and got up. “Aight, Ma. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Dar,” she said. “I’ll grab Percy in a minute and go. I promise.”

  * * *

  Down the stairs. Turn the corner. Wave to Mr. Aziz. Dap up Jason. Say what up to Wally Cat. That’s the way it went on most days, but on day four of Hell Week, Jason, wearing military fatigues from head to toe, acted like he didn’t see me when I held my hand out.

  “What’s good, Batman?” I asked, waiting for him to look at me. “You good?”

  He pulled out his phone and plugged in earbuds, nodding to whatever he was playing.

  “Yo,” I said, ripping one out.

  He punched me in the chest, knocking me onto the ground. “What the fuck, man?” I asked, looking up at him, his hand still in a fist.

  “Don’ fuckin’ touch me,” he said. “I don’ let no stranger touch me.”

  I got up and dusted the sidewalk off my ass. “You’re buggin’, J. What’s goin’ on?”

  “What’s goin’ on is that you out here runnin’ past me every day like you don’ even see me. Like I’m not the nigga who watched out for you when older niggas tried runnin’ your backpack, sneakers, or clean clothes your momma bought with money from her good job. But I’m buggin’, right?”

  I moved to grab his shoulder until he backed away. “I already told you ’bout strange niggas touchin’ me. Next time it won’ be a fist.”

  “Are you jealous or somethin’?” I asked, seeing real hate in his eyes. “That I’m movin’ up and you’re stuck on this corner? Is that it? I could try and get you a job, bro. Jus’ say the word.”

  The hate in his eyes melted, and he laughed. “A job? You so lost you can’t see that you doin’ exactly what I am. Because no matter how you package it up and sell it, weight is weight. Except you pushin’ weight for the white man and your corner is an office. But you ain’ one of them. And when they find out you a nigga, jus’ like me, they gonna kick you to the curb. Watch.”

  “Aight, man,” I said, tired of his shit. “Only difference is my weight won’ land me in jail. I’d say maybe I’ll catch you tomorrow, but I know I will, right here on this fuckin’ corner.”

  I crossed the street to Wally Cat, who sat shaking his head. “You li’l niggas shouldn’ have no beef,” he said, patting the crate next to him. “All this Black-on-Black shit. Nigga, we gotta come together, like a community, ’specially when all these white folks comin’ in. Shit, you probably know some of ’em now, don’ you?”

  “Whatever, man,” I said, rising from the crate.

  “Sitchyo ass back down,” he ordered, and he pulled me down so hard I almost tripped. “Have some respect for an OG like Wally Cat. How’s yo’ girl?”

  I shot a rope of spit into the street just like I used to see Wally Cat do when I was younger. “She’s straight.”

  “And yo’ momma?”

  “A li’l tired, man. But she’ll be aight.”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking up at the sun, shielding his eyes. “She strong. Always has been. What about yo’ new sales hustle? You makin’ millions yet? You know when you do, you owe me. Nothin’ large, jus’ a couple thousand, somethin’ small for all the knowledge I been droppin’ on you over the years.”

  I stared at him, wondering if he was kidding, but I couldn’t tell. “I’m not makin’ shit, man,” I said, spitting again. “Got all these white people, ’specially this one white guy, tellin’ me I can’t do it, that I’m not good enough.”

  “Fuck ’em,” Wally Cat said, fanning himself with his fedora. “Everybody doin’ somethin’ got people tellin’ ’em they can’t do it. If you doin’ somethin’ and people ain’ tellin’ you that you can’t do it, truth is, you ain’ doin’ shit!” he said, doubling over the crate, laughter rocking his whole big-boned body.

  “Tha’s the truth, nigga! And also”—he grabbed my shoulder—“in any game, you gotta have a short-term memory. Someone tell you some shit you don’ like? Forget it the minute they mouth close. Someone tell you some shit you do like? Man,” he said, sucking his teeth so hard that I swore he was about to swallow them, “you betta forget that shit even quicker.”

  Reader: Highlight that whole paragraph, it’ll save you years of pain.

  “Only thing that matters is this,” he continued, extending a thick, level hand in front of my eyes.

  “What, your hand?” I asked, remembering I had to hit the train.

  “Nah, nigga. A balanced mind, jus’ like this here balanced hand. I knew they ain’ teach you shit at your fancy-ass school.”

  I dapped him up. “Good looks for the lesson, Wally Cat. I gotta jet,” I said, heading for the subway.

  “Oh, and Darren!” he shouted from across the street. “Never, under any circumstances, fuck a snow bunny. Never! You’ll have bad luck for seven years! Why you think I’m out here on this crate?”

  I didn’t pay those words any mind, but maybe I should have. A great fall would come, and I still wonder if it’s because I didn’t listen to Wally Cat.

  * * *

  “No deals,” Clyde said. “It’s Thursday, and we haven’t had a deal since Virgin.”

  The circle was as frozen as an Inuit’s titty.

  “That means we have two hundred and fifty thousand to go find in”—he looked down at his bare wrist—“less than two days. And normally, you all know, I’m as cool as a cucumber. But every single one of you”—he swung his finger around the circle as if it were a Death Eater’s wand—“better haul ass today. If I don’t see money on the board, heads will roll. Understand?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Good. Because, while I can’t guarantee that we’re going to hit our number even though we’ve hit every fucking number for the last year, I can guarantee that if we don’t hit I’m firing someone. No,” he said, his eyes ablaze with visions of fire and blood. “I’m firing a group of you. The fat. And after you’re gone, there will only be meat. Sweet, delicious, savory, and
delectable meat. Now go,” he commanded. The circle scattered like roaches when the lights are turned on.

  “Frodo, Buck, the Duchess,” he shouted. “Book of Shadows. Now.”

  Book of Shadows? I imagined dark screeching spirits flying out of an oversize leather-bound book, forcing their way down our throats, overtaking our souls.

  This can’t end well.

  * * *

  We shuffled in one by one, and once the door closed, we were bathed in ultraviolet light. It made Clyde and the Duchess, with their glowing white manes, brightly colored skin, and piercing eyes, look like alien nobility. Intricate illustrations of pentagrams, moons, horned man-beasts, and candles glowed on the carpet, and we all sat in a circle cross-legged, kumbaya style. Clyde explained that the designers had come up with the room to scare people.

  Skipping Frodo and the Duchess, Clyde role-played with only me. He was Marshall, CEO of Marshall Bakeries, and even though he made it nearly impossible by saying he wasn’t interested, repeatedly telling me he had to go, and even calling me “boy,” I ended up fully qualifying him. But after we hung up, there was silence. It floated throughout the room like smoke, stopping to caress my face before growing deadly.

  “It astounds me,” Clyde said, pausing, “how much you fucking missed.”

  “Missed? I qualified you!” My voice was rising.

  “The guy was obviously yessing you to death to avoid being impolite. Dude wouldn’t have showed up to the next meeting if you offered him a million bucks.”

  My whole body shook, but I wasn’t going to give in. Not when I was almost on the other side.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Clyde said, dragging himself across the circle. “What did you do the first time you tried to fuck your girlfriend? When you put your hand down her tight little jeans. You didn’t flinch, did you?”

  I dug my fingers into the carpet.

  “Because if you flinched,” he continued, his teeth shining like turquoise Tic Tacs, “she would’ve slapped your hand away. And you would’ve never fucked, right?”

  Do not give in. Do not give in. Do not give in. I repeated it like a prayer, like it was the only thing that would prevent me from finally hitting him or running out the door.

  “Yes or no?” he pressed.

  Think about the future, when you’re on an island with Ma, Soraya, and maybe even Jason and Mr. Rawlings. None of this will matter.

  “Yes,” I whispered through gritted teeth.

  “What?” he said. “I couldn’t hear you, brother. Speak up. It’s dark in here, but you don’t have to be so quiet. C’mon.”

  Be the man Pa would’ve wanted you to be.

  “Yes,” I repeated, louder.

  “If you can’t speak up for yourself, those leads will swallow your ass alive. Speak the fuck up!”

  Man up, man up, man up.

  “Yes!” I repeated, even louder. I felt like I was about to throw up.

  “Just pack your shit up and leave. You won’t last an hour out on that floor. I said SPEAK THE FUCK UP!”

  “YES!” I shouted, heavy tears staining my cheeks. “YES! YES! YES!” I stopped caring. I no longer gave a fuck. About Clyde. About proving that I could do it or anything else. I was done. They had won. I bent over and the tears continued to fall; my body shook as I struggled to breathe.

  “Shh. There you go,” he whispered, gently rubbing my back. “Finally, a broken Buck.”

  * * *

  “Hey, you coming back?” Frodo asked, as I waited for the elevator.

  “Don’t know.”

  “This is all just, uh, part of it, you know, Buck? It was like this when I started playing for Notre Dame. You gotta go through the pain to get to the pleasure. Can’t let ’em get to you or else—”

  “Word,” I said, entering the elevator.

  I crossed the lobby, pushed my way out into the sunlight of a hot May day, and texted Soraya, asking where she was. She replied in seconds: At the shop, where else?

  I knew she’d be there. She was always there during the week. But I couldn’t think straight. The only thing I knew was that I needed her. Can you meet me in Washington Square Park?

  On the way, she replied.

  The entire twenty-eight-block walk to Washington Square Park was a blur. I can’t tell you what the city buses advertised on their sides. I don’t remember the tunnel of smells I encountered as I navigated through Murray Hill, Gramercy, and Union Square, down to the Village. The panhandlers with outstretched cups, the businessmen and women, and the dog walkers were all as faceless as storefront mannequins. But what I do remember, finally, is the park.

  A shaggy pianist busting out old-time rhythms; nations of Black, Hispanic, and Asian nannies pushing blonde-haired and blue-eyed surrogates in $1,500 strollers; skateboarders abusing Garibaldi when they should’ve been in school; the fountain, like a humpback, spouting water into the sky, catching the light’s reflection. Washington’s words forever inscribed in the arch, built over the bones of the natives buried beneath: LET US RAISE A STANDARD TO WHICH THE WISE AND HONEST CAN REPAIR.

  Sounds like a confession, I thought, sitting inside the fountain, out of the water’s reach.

  A shadow appeared, blocking the sun’s heat. “Come here often?”

  I looked up and saw her sweet, smiling face. Beneath her acid-washed jean jacket, I could make out a white T-shirt with one of Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits on it. For the briefest moment, I forgot why we were there. “Occasionally,” I said, reaching my hand out to help her climb in next to me.

  “So.” She grabbed my face with her smooth hands and planted a kiss on my forehead. “What’s up?”

  “Nothin’.” I watched little white kids running through the fountain. To be that free, man. That’s the dream.

  “Nothin’, huh? Okay,” she said, getting up. “Guess I’ll go back to Brooklyn then. Bye.”

  “Wait!” I grabbed her hand. “Aight, aight, aight. It’s work, what else?”

  She sat back down. “What about it?”

  “I can’t do it, Soraya. This shit’s jus’ not for me. These people, almost all of them, I feel like they’re targetin’ me.”

  “Targetin’ you how, D?”

  “This guy Clyde. The one I told you about. He goes in on me durin’ role-plays and gives everyone else a pass. He tells me all day about how I’m not good enough and how I’m gonna fail. And then this girl I’m trainin’ with, the Duchess, is OD pretentious. And the other kid, Frodo, he’s mad dumb but not too bad. And Rhett, he’s the only reason I’m there, but even he can’t save me. It’s all jus’ messed up. I’m done. They won.”

  “Whoa.” She pulled my head onto her shoulder, the smell of cinnamon and cocoa butter almost calming me down. “Slow down, slow down. All these names. All these people. Isn’ this the whole point of Hell Week, D? For them to make your life, I dunno, hell? In order to see if you can take it?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t. This is why you don’ see minorities in these places. We’re not built for this shit. Forreal.”

  “So what?” she said, lifting my chin. “You’re jus’ gonna give up, huh? You’re seriously gonna, what, go back to bein’ a shift supervisor at Starbucks? C’mon, D, you’re smarter than that.”

  I pulled away from her, my pulse rising. “What the fuck was wrong with bein’ a shift supervisor at Starbucks? You were my girl when I was there, and I never heard any complaints.”

  She pulled my hand to her chest and I could feel her heart beating. “Chill out, D. It’s me. Same team, same dream, remember? Always have been and always will be, you know that, but let’s jus’ slow down.”

  I closed my eyes, took a big breath, and let it out. The sounds of the city surrounded us: taxis honking; kids laughing; heels clacking on the concrete; the piano mixed in with stray guitars, saxophones, and trumpets.

  “I know, my bad. It’s jus’ that I’m tired of all these mind games. Every day is a test, and it all jus’ seems mad unfair, you know? Like why do I gotta b
e twice as good?”

  “You gotta play their game to be able to win it, D. And it doesn’ matter if you gotta be twice or three times as good. What matters is that you don’ let them beat you once, and say, ‘Game over.’ ’Cause if you quit now, it’s gonna be much harder to get back up.”

  What she said was true, but I didn’t care. I was tired. Tired as hell. Frodo and the Duchess weren’t going through half of what I was, and it all felt so unfair. Like my skin came with a bull’s-eye.

  Reader: Contrary to popular belief, “fairness” has no place is sales. It is not a meritocracy. Every salesperson comes into the game with a different set of advantages and disadvantages, but it’s knowing how to double down on what makes you special that will help you get ahead.

  She rubbed my cheek. “You remember when my parents split, and I planned to run away?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Right after your moms moved to Harlem, you came to my house, at like midnight, with a packed bag, all ready to go.”

  “And then what?”

  “I wen’ inside, grabbed my backpack, and we headed to Penn. We were some stupid-ass twelve-year-olds, though.” I laughed. “Thinkin’ we could grab the Amtrak to Hersheypark at one in the mornin’ with no money.”

  “And what did you say to me, D? When I was cryin’ on your shoulder back to BK?”

  “I said that everything happens for a reason. And that sometimes, when you run away from somethin’, you miss an opportunity to grow.”

  “And what else?”

  “And that no matter what happened, I’d always be there for you.”

  “Sounded like pretty good advice to me back then,” she said, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me closer. “Sounds like pretty good advice now.”

  I kissed the top of her head and held her, the two of us clutching each other while the city’s lifeblood rushed all around us.

  “Habibi,” she said, looking up at me. “Habiiiiiiibiiiiii,” she repeated, stretching it out. I couldn’t prevent myself from smiling. “Habiiiiibiiiiiii,” she said again, intoning the words like the morning calls to prayer from Mr. Aziz’s collection of religious CDs we listened to when we were kids. She rocked me back and forth, repeating “Habibi, habibi, habibi” until I busted out laughing.