Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  We stayed like that for an hour, with her updating me on her nursing application and the goings-on at the bodegas.

  “I gotta head back,” she said eventually.

  “So what now?” I climbed out of the fountain.

  She squeezed her eyes and cheesed like a kid making a funny face in a school photo. “First. A kiss.”

  I leaned down and brought my lips to hers. “Now what?”

  “Now go back to work and kick some ass.”

  11

  Finally, the big day was here. I stood in front of my mirror, figuring out what to wear. I needed something to give me an extra boost of confidence. So I put on my boxers, placed my head through the ring of my black Starbucks apron, tied its strings in the back, and threw on a T-shirt and jeans, concealing the apron like Clark Kent’s Superman outfit. Hell yeah, I thought, admiring myself. Let’s get it.

  The smell hit me before I entered the kitchen, and with it came an ocean of relief. It was clean, with a hint of blueberries and oranges, freshly roasted, and a bright, almost winelike acidity. Kenyan. There’s no coffee around the world as beloved as Kenyan coffee. I also smelled maple syrup, buttermilk, cinnamon, and vanilla.

  “Mornin’, Dar,” Ma said. There was a steaming pile of pancakes on the table, fresh maple syrup, and, best of all, Ma sitting with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Mornin’, Ma. What’s all this for?”

  “For you, baby, who else? It’s your big day, so I figured you’d get up early and wanna get somethin’ in you.”

  My intestines were doing all kinds of acrobatics, and I kept on feeling like I had to take a crap. But given how tired she’d been for the last few days, I couldn’t leave Ma hanging.

  “Thanks, Ma. They smell delicious. You mus’ be feelin’ better, huh?”

  She smiled. I reached over and grabbed the pot of coffee.

  “What are you doin’?” she asked, her eyes growing wider.

  “Pourin’ myself some coffee, what’s it look like?”

  She leaned forward, squinting. “You drink coffee? Since when?”

  “Since now,” I said, and took a sip.

  “Well, look at you, becoming a grown man right before my own eyes.”

  I pinched her cheek. “So funny, Ma. You’d give Richard Pryor a run for his money. I gotta go, though.”

  “Okay, Mr. Grown Man, but don’ forget about tonight,” she said, as I headed for the door. “Soraya and Mr. Rawlings will be here ’round eight, so you’ll have time to relax a bit before we eat. It’s too bad Jason can’t make it, said he was busy.”

  Busy? He’s really taking this shit far.

  “Sounds good, I’ll be there.” I held the door open. “Aye, Ma?”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “I’m happy you’re feelin’ better. I, um, was worried for a second.”

  She held her arms out, as if she had just completed a magic trick. “You know you don’ need to worry about me, Dar. God’s got my back, as always. Yours too.”

  I’m gonna need it today, that’s for sure.

  Down the stairs. “Come ’ere, boy!” Mr. Rawlings shouted from the backyard. “I know tha’s you, always stompin’ down the stairs like a damn elephant. You’re lucky I get up early. Door’s open.”

  I entered his apartment and encountered a strong smell of sour fruit, incense, and eggs. A trumpet blared from an old record player, and no lie, there were insects flying around. One landed on me—a ladybug. Another one led me to a picture frame bearing the photo of a beautiful dark-skinned woman cradling a baby. She had a smile that’d make even the devil cry.

  “Hey, who’s this?” I asked, bringing the photo with me through the back door. Mr. Rawlings kneeled in front of a mess of green hairy vines, his rosewood cane within arm’s reach. The cuffs of his light blue cardigan were rolled back, and I imagined the knees of his brown slacks to be covered with black dirt.

  When he looked up, his face went from confusion to anger. “No one. Put that away. Now. This is why I don’ be invitin’ you to my place. You’re too nosy. Kids have no sense of privacy nowadays.”

  “Sorry.” I put it away. “What’s up?”

  “Your momma tells me you have a big test today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that them white boys been beatin’ you down.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, come ’ere.”

  I walked over to the tangle of vines and kneeled beside him.

  “Go on, put your hands in the ground.”

  I placed my hands on the soft black earth, but he put his hands over them and pushed them deeper than I knew the old man still had strength for.

  “What do you feel?”

  “Dirt?”

  “Of course dirt, boy. Stop bein’ so simple. What do you feel?”

  I closed my eyes and moved my hands through the soft dirt, grabbing roots, running into what I guessed were worms. “Roots, worms, and other stuff I can’t see,” I replied.

  “Life, boy. You’re feelin’ life. And can’ nothin’ grow without fertile soil or the right hands for it. This right here,” he said, touching a dusty finger to my temple, “is soil. Jus’ like this garden. And only you can decide what grows and who you allow to get their hands in it. Understand?”

  “I do. Thanks, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “You’re welcome. Now go on and get outta here and don’ touch none of my stuff on the way out.”

  Turn the corner. Wave to Mr. Aziz.

  “Bit tawfiq, Darren!” he shouted.

  “Sabah al-kheir, Mr. Aziz. But what’s that mean?”

  “Means ‘good luck,’ he said, holding a broom. “Soraya tells me you have an important exam today.”

  “Shukran jazeelan, Mr. Aziz.”

  It was early, but the gargoyles were there. Jason didn’t look at me. Wally Cat waved me over, but I tapped my invisible wristwatch before diving into the subway.

  With Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happiness” bumping in my ears, I closed my eyes, allowing the lyrics—about never letting up, doing what you want, and only focusing on the future even if it includes failure—consume me.

  Easier said than done, Cudder. Easier said than done.

  * * *

  The circle assembled and silently followed Clyde’s movements. I looked around, wanting to see what Frodo’s and the Duchess’s game faces looked like; Frodo, wearing a red T-shirt with some football team’s logo on it, was covered in sweat, and the Duchess, in a beige kaftan, looked as bored as ever.

  “Seventy-five left to go,” Clyde said, barely louder than a whisper. “Losers lose; winners win. It’s as simple as that. And we don’t hire losers.”

  He uttered the famous Maoist/musketeer maxim, “All for one, and one for all,” and said that we were going to hit our number “because we’re scrappy, resourceful, and more tenacious than fucking HIV in Africa.” I was the only one who cringed.

  Rhett appeared outside the circle wearing the same look from a few days ago: pale, with dark rings under his eyes, and hair like a bird’s nest. He was biting his fingernails and tried to go unnoticed, but Clyde looked in his direction, and asked, “Any words, Rhett?”

  He coughed and entered the circle slowly. “No, not really. But as we all know, we’ve had three new hires start this week—the Duchess, Frodo, and Buck—and in true Sumwun fashion, today is day five of Hell Week. So you know what that means.”

  Smiles, smirks, and other forms of fervor appeared on every face like stars becoming visible in the night sky. The air in the event space, building off Clyde’s energy, surged, sparked, and snapped. It was some real Dr. Frankenstein shit.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Clyde said, tapping his forehead. He entered the circle with outstretched hands. “Who should go first?”

  Go first? Are we doing this in public?

  The circle shouted our names until the chaotic screams settled on “Frodo!”

  “Frodo, enter the circle,” Clyde commanded. “And Tiffany.”

  T
iffany rubbed her hands together, smiling diabolically, as Frodo, visibly shaking, wiped his sweaty red neck with a paper towel and entered the circle.

  “Wear this,” Clyde said, shoving a small football helmet into Frodo’s chest.

  “Uh, why?” Frodo asked, struggling to get the helmet over his wide head.

  Clyde laughed, pounding the helmet in place. “To get you focused, why else?”

  Tiffany circled him like a snake ready to strike.

  She had her fun with him, but Frodo, despite his stuttering, asked the questions he needed to, and it ended without too much bloodshed.

  Clyde entered the circle, stretching out his thumb sideways, like Commodus in Gladiator, and held it there. It wiggled toward the floor, then toward the ceiling, like a bipolar magnet, then back down, then finally, up. Frodo sighed with relief, and the circle chanted, “Frodo! Frodo! Frodo!” Everyone clapped and laughed, clearly more at him than with him, but tomayto, tomahto.

  “The Duchess and Eddie. Go,” Clyde ordered. “But first,” he said, procuring a bedazzled plastic crown, “wear this.”

  The Duchess stared at the crown in Clyde’s hand as if he’d gotten it out of the garbage. I thought she was going to refuse, but she rolled her eyes and placed it on her head to everyone’s delight.

  Their role-play was short and efficient. Eddie wasn’t an asshole; the Duchess put on a fake smile and went down her checklist of questions. Clyde entered the circle and swiftly flipped his thumb up as if it were a mailbox flag. The circle didn’t chant her name or erupt in applause. She just quietly removed the crown, swiftly broke it in half, and tossed it into the garbage.

  “Okay, the best for last,” Clyde said. Everyone in the circle focused their eyes on me. My heart felt like it was going to explode. At least if you die, you won’t have to go. I prayed to God that Clyde wouldn’t pair me with Tiffany or one of the other sadistic AEs. Eddie would be perfect. Even Marissa would do. But no, I got . . .

  “Me,” he said. “You and me in the circle, Buck. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  My mouth went dry. I tried to think about Soraya telling me to fight, about Mr. Rawlings’s dirt, about Ma and her prophecies of greatness. But none of it helped. The only thing that relaxed me was remembering that I was wearing my black Starbucks apron and that I was once the best Starbucks shift supervisor in the city, maybe even the world.

  “Before we begin,” Clyde said, smiling like a hyena on heroin, “put this on.”

  I froze when I saw what it was: a black cap with STARBUCKS embroidered in white lettering with that almost invisible ® at the end of it. But it wasn’t just the hat that made my heart stop; it was also the squarish green pin with the Starbucks mermaid and the words CERTIFIED BARISTA next to it, which could have meant only one thing.

  “I got it off one of the people who works downstairs,” he said, tickled. “Black kid with the gross pimples? Paid him twenty bucks and he was incredibly grateful. Told me to tell you hi.”

  He wants to throw me off and make me fail. Fuck him. I grabbed the hat, placed it on my head, and said, “Who am I calling?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. You’re calling Deborah Jackson, VP of HR at Starbucks.”

  What a maniac. Instead of making someone up, he was using a real person, someone I actually knew. But Starbucks was my domain, so there was no way he’d trip me up. I smiled and said, “Ring ring.”

  “Hello, this is Debbie!”

  “Hi, Debbie, this is Darren calling from Sumwun, how are you?”

  “Oh, hi, Darren! I’m swell, thanks for asking. Just another day over here in paradise. Grabbed my morning cup of joe, so I’m ready to go! How’re you?”

  “I’m great, thanks for asking. What are you drinking?”

  “One of our new blonde roasts—can’t get enough of it! How can I help you today?”

  “That’s a delicious one. I’ve heard that folks love the hint of lemon. Anyway, I’m calling because we’ve been working with other VPs of HR like you to drive employee productivity through increasing happiness and—”

  “Wait, sorry to interrupt. You said your name is Darren, yes?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “This may be random, but you’re not Darren Vender, are you?”

  “Um, yes, that’s me,” I replied, suspicious. “Maybe you’ve seen one of my emails? We tend to send a lot,” I said, laughing.

  “No, no. Darren, it’s me! Deborah Jackson, remember? Gosh, we haven’t spoken in about, what, a year? You were such a hard worker, stacking boxes and serving coffee the last time we spoke. How are you?”

  Where was this going? What the fuck was he doing?

  “I’m fine, Debbie. Didn’t notice it was you, actually. So, like I was saying—”

  “Gee, Darren. I didn’t even know you left Starbucks. Four years was quite a while, though. Which location were you at again? The one at 3 Park Avenue over in Manhattan?”

  I looked around the circle. People stood with confused faces, whispering to one another, finally realizing I wasn’t just a faceless Black guy but that I was that faceless Black guy from the Starbucks downstairs.

  “Yes,” I said, taking a deep breath. “That’s the one.”

  “And now,” Debbie said, “you’re at this company called, um, Sumwun? It’s so good to see you’re doing well. For someone who didn’t even go to college, no less! Are you still living with your mom in, where was it, Bed-Stuy?”

  I was sweating, sinking, and shrinking into a dark hole like a circumcised dick. Clyde dramatically extended his arms and looked around the circle, pretending to be confused.

  “Helloooooo? Darren, you there? I asked if you were still living with your mom.”

  I’m done. This is too much. But then I heard a voice. One of those voices people hear in movies that all of a sudden give them strength to fight on. It’s cliché as shit but true. And it wasn’t the voice of God. It was none other than Wally Cat’s rich baritone: “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.”

  I forced myself to forget all of Clyde’s bullshit and smiled. “I am, Debbie. It’s nice to still be able to see her even with my busy new job. But let me give you the quick, thirty-second pitch on Sumwun, and if it’s a fit, I’ll set up some time for you to speak with my colleague and very best friend Clyde.”

  The circle laughed. I loosened up and told “Debbie” about how Sumwun would be an incredible way to invest in her employees’ happiness and mental health.

  “Sure, Darren. That all sounds good, but you still haven’t told me what Sumwun is. I’m sorry, but I also can’t get over how cute it is that you’re calling me up and giving me your little pitch!”

  “I guess it is, Debbie. Everything has come full circle. Anyway, through our platform, Starbucks employees can speak with what we call assistants, who are folks around the world who specialize in different ways of life. They’re like therapists without all the stuffiness. People can speak with them by phone, computer, or even text. How’s this all sound?”

  According to “Debbie,” it was hard for her to trust a company she’d never heard of, especially one that allowed people who didn’t complete college to work there. It was “too much of a liability.”

  “That’s what people said when they first heard of Starbucks, Debbie. That buying coffee from a no-name brand was a liability. But in the same way people took a chance on Starbucks, someone here took a chance on me even though I don’t have a college degree. You obviously have the budget, there’s a real need, and you’re the one who calls the shots. So I’ll introduce you to my colleague, you check out what we have to offer, and if it’s not a fit, we can just stay friends. Sound fair?”

  Reader: I know; I killed that shit. This —the perfect close—is what we salespeople live for. Give me five on the black-hand side!

  Silence. Clyde’s eyes locked onto mine, and the circle became still, no more whispering, jitt
ery legs, or coughing. I couldn’t feel my heart beat and wondered if I was dead and didn’t know it.

  “Alright, Darren,” she said. “Let’s set it up. But only because I know you.”

  The circle applauded even louder than they had for Frodo, and I smiled because I had won; I had beaten Clyde at his own game. I had gone through hell and come out the other end—bloody, bruised, and beaten, sure, but still breathing. That was for you, Ma.

  “Yeah, Buck!” Rhett shouted from outside the circle, clapping like I’d won the Super Bowl.

  Clyde, staring at Rhett, looked as if he smelled a fart. He turned back to me, straight-faced, and stretched out his thumb. But instead of flipping it up, he twisted it down, shaking his head. “Not good enough, Buck. Not good enough at all. Go again.”

  This can’t be happening. “Again?” I said, looking around the circle. “But you, I mean Debbie, agreed to the meeting? Didn’t I pass?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” He shrugged. “You set up a dud. A lemon. There was no shot that Debbie was going to show up to the next meeting. You were serving up dogshit hoping it would stick.”

  “I think he was fine,” Eddie said from outside the circle.

  “Good thing it doesn’t matter what you think,” Clyde snapped. “Tiffany, in the circle with Buck.”

  I was shaking. I’d thought it was over, that I had passed.

  “Okay,” she said, out for blood. “I’m Nora—”

  “No,” Rhett said. “Let him go; it was fine.”

  “He needs to go again,” Clyde said, without looking at Rhett.

  “C’mon, Clyde. If he has any issues, he can just work them out on the phones.”

  “There’s no way we can let dogshit on the phones, Rhett. He’s going to make us look bad. Plus, it’s my decision who passes, right?”