Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  Rhett, looking ill again, closed his eyes and took a breath. “He passes.”

  “But he’s not one of us!” Clyde shouted. “He doesn’t belong here.”

  “I think he does,” Rhett said, winking at me. “But let’s let the team decide. Does he pass or not?”

  Everyone stood still, two hundred eyes darting around to see if anyone would make a move, Clyde’s wrath filling the air. But then Frodo, of all people, stepped forward. “If I passed, Buck passes. He’s better than me.”

  “No,” Clyde said. “You’re an idiot, but you’re more of a fit than he is.”

  “Pass him,” Eddie said, stepping into the circle.

  “Pass him,” Marissa repeated, also stepping into the circle. Clifford, her piglet, followed.

  “Pass him,” others, whose names I didn’t know, said as they stepped into the circle. They chanted, “Pass him, pass him, pass him,” until it became deafening.

  “Alright,” Clyde said, waving them off. “You’re all fucking wrong, but it won’t be my fault when I fire him. You want me to pass him? Fine. He passed.”

  Before I knew what happened, Frodo threw me onto his shoulders and everyone was clapping, whistling, and chucking shit at me like I just got married. I didn’t know why they went to bat for me, but I was grateful.

  As Frodo spun me round and round, with dozens of hands slapping my back, I caught a glimpse of Clyde standing with his arms crossed away from the crowd. When our eyes met, he mouthed two words that were as loud and clear as if he had shouted them: Fuck. You.

  * * *

  “You’re one of us now,” Charlie, our manager with the mountain-man aesthetic, said as he handed us brand-new MacBook Airs, hoodies, iPhone cases, pens, sunglasses, socks, slippers, hats, tote bags, mugs, water bottles, notebooks, stickers, T-shirts, and backpacks, all purple, all with SUMWUN printed on them in white cursive.

  “No way!” Frodo shouted, putting on every piece of gear in seconds. “I’ve been waiting for this my whole life!” He looked like a walking billboard.

  “You’ve been waiting your whole life to be handed a ton of branded startup gear?” the Duchess asked, pushing all of her swag into a wastebasket.

  “Uh, no, but I mean, this is all, it’s just really cool to be a part of this and walk around with our logo and stuff. It’s like our uniform,” Frodo said, deflated by the Duchess’s lack of enthusiasm.

  Charlie said a lot of things, including that marketing was going to set us each up with a list of leads to call on Monday. But the most important thing he said was about a “sort of tradition.” He leaned back in his chair before resting his tall leather moccasins on his desk. No lie, I was waiting for him to pull out a beaver pelt and tell us how he snared it.

  “I want you to come up with a wish list of three people you don’t know or have any connection to. And who are well-known, even celebrities.”

  “For what?” the Duchess asked.

  “One second, I’m getting there. If you successfully qualify and hand off any of the people on your list, you’ll automatically be promoted to AE.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. “Just like that?”

  He snapped his fingers twice. “Just like that.”

  “Even if we do it on our first day?” Frodo asked, looking like a fool. The guy was even wearing Sumwun socks and slippers.

  Charlie nodded. “Yeah, but no SDR has ever done it. And I have to approve your list. So take a few minutes and let me know.”

  Frodo picked the head of the NFL, the president of Ford Motors and, after Charlie told him he couldn’t put down a no-name Southern girl band, the head of HR at Wendy’s. The Duchess picked the heads of Yves Saint Laurent, Chanel, and Hermès.

  “What about you, Buck?” Charlie asked. “Who do you got?”

  I blanked and said the first three people who came to mind: “Bernie Aiven, head of Hinterscope Records; Stefan Rusk, head of SpaceXXX; and Barry Dee, that guy all over YouTube who owns that big media company, DaynerMedia.”

  “Okay, it’s settled. You all have your wish lists, you’ll get your leads on Monday, you got your gear, you passed your role-plays, and best of all, you got me. So we’re set.”

  “Do we have a team name?” Frodo asked, struggling to pull a sticker off his sunglasses.

  Charlie slapped his forehead. “Oh, yeah! How could I forget? All of you are now proud members of NWA.”

  My hand instinctively curled into a lead fist, and I had to consciously uncurl it before I popped Charlie, who, up until that point, I thought was an all right guy. All I managed to say was “What?”

  “Oh, right,” he said, covering his mouth. “No, it’s not what you think, Buck, I swear. It stands for Negotiators with Attitude. Each team adapted names from different hip-hop groups to be salesy, you know, like a fun way of switching things up. C’mon, the last thing anyone here is is racist.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, awaiting absolution.

  I just stared at him. He went on to explain what the other SDR teams were named.

  Prospect-tang Clan

  Tupac ShaCall

  A Tribe Called Qualify

  De La Sales

  LauRing Hill

  Christ. This is what happens when you have a company with zero Black people in it.

  “Okay. Now what?” the Duchess asked.

  “Now,” Charlie said, running a hand through his hair, avoiding the Duchess’s eyes lest she turn him to stone, “you can review our systems, shadow some calls, and pray we hit our number.”

  * * *

  Five o’clock arrived, and we still had forty-eight thousand left to go.

  The sales floor, which was usually louder than Times Square on New Year’s, quieted down, and a dense fog of anxiety descended.

  Rhett would come out of his office, stare at the whiteboard, bite his fingernails, then walk back in with a different closer, no doubt doing everything in his power to hit the number.

  “It’s never taken this long,” Marissa said, walking past our row of desks with a baby bottle in Clifford’s snout. “Three, maybe four-thirty the latest, but never five on a Friday. What if—”

  “Don’t say it,” Eddie said.

  “I’m nervous, Buck,” Frodo said across from me. “Real nervous.” I’m sure he was, but it was hard for me to take him seriously in his Sumwun sunglasses, hat, hoodie, slippers, socks, and backpack. Yes, he was sitting down but he still wore his backpack.

  I turned to Charlie, who was next to me. “Hey, Charlie,” I whispered, tapping his shoulder. “Are we going to hit?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, typing away. “It’s never gone this late, and the fact that Rhett or Clyde hasn’t said anything makes me worried.”

  Around six, Clyde came out of Rhett’s office, shaking his head. He walked to his desk, which was, by the grace of God, rows away from mine. When he picked his head up, the entire floor looked away.

  “Listen,” he said, standing. “We knew it was a long shot and that we were trying to do something most startups frankly never even get close to doing. So I’m just going to say it right now. We didn’t hit.”

  The entire floor moaned. Tears welled up in their eyes. Even Frodo, who had taken his sunglasses off, was sobbing.

  “This isn’t happening,” someone said.

  “Yeah,” Charlie muttered. “This can’t be real. If it is, we’re all in trouble.”

  Trouble? I knew hitting twelve months in a row was an important milestone, but damn.

  “I’m sorry to say that it is happening,” Clyde said, walking around, grabbing shoulders, consoling his constituency like a benevolent priest. “We’ll still have a small celebration, though. For effort, because we all worked hard this month. I know we did.”

  “Fuck that!” Rhett shouted, yanking his door open with an arm around Chris. “Month twelve, baby! We hit it!”

  Instead of throwing papers in the air, jumping around, and clapping until their wrists snapped off, the entire floor looked at Rhett in disbelief. He
walked over to the board, erased the $48,000 under the LEFT TO GO box in the center, and put a big fat $0!!! in its place. Everyone audibly exhaled.

  When he capped his marker, the floor exploded. The Black Eyed Peas’ “Let’s Get It Started” bumped from the ceiling speakers. Porschia and her team walked out with carts bearing bottles of champagne and branded glasses.

  Rhett gripped a microphone. “Woooooo!” he shouted. “We almost didn’t make it, team. We seriously almost didn’t make it this month.”

  “But we did!” someone shouted, violently chucking a purple stress ball directly into his face. He remained unfazed, like he enjoyed it.

  “That’s right!” he said. “That is fucking right. And we did it because people believe in us. Because of each and every one of you beautiful, brave, and ballsy people,” he said, aggressively grabbing a fistful of his testicles.

  “You. All of you are the definition of Sumwunners. I know that we cut it close and you were nervous but that,” he said, beating his chest, “in your soul you believed. That you KNEW! Someone, hit me with a ball!” Dozens of people obliged him. A shower of balls hit his body at warp speed.

  “Now I want you all to forget the month. Forget how hard we worked. Forget the tears, sweat, and, in some cases, blood. I want you to head to the event space, grab a drink, food, and get ready for the night of a lifetime. Lucien from Poplar Capital called, and he gave us the green light to go insane. So put on your fucking dancing shoes and finest threads, because we’re hitting the club! ‘Clap your hands, all peoples! Shout to God with loud songs of joy!’ Psalms 47:1, motherfuckers!”

  Everyone rushed into the event space. I sat glued to my chair, trying to fathom what the hell just happened. The insanity of the week had paralyzed me.

  Rhett stood next to the whiteboard removing Silly String from his hair, and Clyde walked over to him. They embraced for minutes, Rhett whispering into Clyde’s ear, Clyde silently nodding and, I shit you not, sobbing. Rhett held Clyde’s head and kissed the top before they walked off the floor.

  The event space was full of people downing shots, doing keg stands, and swaying off rhythm to music with bass heavy enough to make your heart shake.

  “Buck,” Rhett said, opening his arms with a smile that automatically made me smile. “Come here.”

  He wrapped his arms around me more affectionately than any man ever had. He was warm and held me until his head fell on my shoulder. “We did it, Buck.”

  “Yeah,” I said, unsure of what to say. “I mean you did, Rhett. You did it.”

  He shot up and held me in front of him. “No, Buck. We. You are as much a part of this as anyone here. And you’re going to be better than all of them, I know it. So stop acting like this isn’t you,” he said, jabbing a hard finger into my chest. “And that you’re not one of us, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. Tears began forming in my eyes. I don’t know why I was so emotional. I looked around the event space, saw all of the people laughing, dancing, and hugging, all of the real, tangible love, and I started to believe. To believe in the Gospel of Rhett. In the Church of Sumwun.

  Clyde waved me over from across the room. Fuck. Everything’s going so well, what could he want?

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “Listen, Buck. I know I was hard on you this week, but it’s my job.”

  I stared at him, thinking about the torture he put me through. The embarrassment and humiliation. All of it.

  “Rhett likes you. And if Rhett likes you, I like you. So what do you say?” He extended a porcelain, blond-knuckled, manicured hand. “Truce?”

  Didn’t this guy mouth Fuck you to me hours ago? I had no plans of becoming “best bros” with Clyde, but I figured it was better to let bygones be bygones than be the “angry Black man” at Sumwun. And as crazy as it sounds, seeing how he was with Rhett and watching him console everyone earlier made me believe that he wasn’t a complete asshole; he was just someone who wanted to make his mentor proud.

  “Yeah,” I said, shaking his hand. “Alright, man. Truce.”

  “Good,” he said. “Now chug this.”

  This was a red Solo cup filled to the brim with beer.

  “No, thanks,” I said, pushing the cup toward him.

  “C’mon, Buck,” he said, staring at me with a childlike smile. “We’re friends now. So let’s make it official with a drink. Is it against your religion or something?”

  “No, I just don’t drink. It’s not for me, you know. Makes people lose their minds.”

  “One drink won’t hurt,” he insisted, pushing the cup toward me. “I promise.”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  He thrust the cup into the air. “HEY, WHO WANTS TO SEE BUCK CHUG THIS?”

  Everyone looked up, already possessed by liquor, greasy food, and God knows what else, and screamed, “CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!”

  I started to shake. The week, the screaming, the pressure, all of it became too much and I wanted to shut it out. I grabbed the cup and drained it in one gulp. The coppery liquid gushed down my throat and pounded into my stomach, and I bent over in pain.

  “YESSSSSSS!” they all shouted.

  “Now you’re one of us,” Clyde said, patting my back. “Welcome to Sumwun.”

  One beer led to two, and two led to beer pong, and beer pong led to shots of tequila with salt on my hands and lime wedges in my mouth, which led to me stumbling out of 3 Park Avenue and Rhett pulling me into a black Escalade, and saying, “Buck rides with us.” Chris, Clyde, Porschia, and two women I’d never met were already inside.

  The Escalade took us to the Meatpacking District, right near the Hudson. We hopped out, plumes of smoke slowly rolling around us like magicians appearing out of thin air—except these magicians were high out of their minds and trashed. Including me.

  Before we entered the club, I took my phone out to check the time, but Rhett grabbed and pocketed it. “No you don’t. No phones, ever. We’re celebrating, Buck, and we don’t want to worry about anything going up on social media. You get it, right?”

  I nodded, drunk. The line in front of us stretched around the block: guys dressed in crisp white shirts and slim-fitting blazers; women wearing dresses and heels, exposing a healthy amount of ass cheek.

  Rhett walked to the head of the line and spoke with the bouncer, who then let us in along with the other Sumwunners piling out of taxis, Ubers, and Lyfts behind us. I felt like I was floating on a cloud. Like we were celebrities or some shit.

  A hostess showed us to a section in the back, and people—bottle girls, random guys, some of the models from the line—swarmed us. Someone handed me a screwdriver that burned going down my throat. The music, the people, all of it was making my head spin. Rhett pulled me onto a leather couch.

  “What do you see, Buck?” he asked. Blue and indigo lights flashed around us. It felt like an underwater dream.

  I saw Porschia grinding on Clyde, Frodo and Marissa locking lips, Eddie and some guy holding hands. “I don’t even know, man,” I said, my eyes feeling heavier. “This is all some wild shit.”

  “This is the life you were made for, Buck. People who are smart,” he said, touching my temple, “and work hard don’t deserve to grind day in and day out at a place like Starbucks. They, you, deserve to have it all. And I promise that this is only the beginning. Do you believe now?” he asked, staring at me with half-closed eyes. “Do you believe that you’re one of us?”

  “I am”—the was room spinning now—“a believer, Rhett. I am.”

  “Good.”

  I got up and pushed my way through the crowd. “Where’s the bathroom?” I asked a bouncer brandishing a metallic flashlight as if it were a baton. He nodded down a hallway, and I stumbled into the room.

  My knees dropped, and I hurled all of the beer, tequila, orange juice, greasy food, and everything else into the toilet. It kept coming till I was heaving just air into the bowl. The last thing I remembered was washing my mouth out and grabbing a tow
el, then, I don’t know how much later, there was banging on the door.

  “Open up!” someone screamed. It sounded like the bouncer.

  Damn, this guy bangs harder than Ma. Wait. Ma. Soraya. Panic wrapped its arms around me and squeezed.

  Ripping the door open, I sidestepped the bouncer and pushed my way through the crowd. “Hey, watch it, motherfucker!” someone shouted.

  When I got to our table, I saw Rhett speaking with Clyde and Porschia. “Buck, my man!” he said, reaching out. “Where have you been? We were just talking about you. Sit, sit. You okay?”

  “My phone,” I said, sobering up.

  “What?”

  “Give me my phone! Please!”

  He fumbled around in his pocket and handed it over. “Fine, but no photos. Remember.”

  The seconds it took to turn on felt like eons. The time. It was no longer six or seven like it was back in the office. Time, with a mind of its own, had crept all the way to one in the morning. I looked around the club, trying to figure out where the hours, minutes, and seconds had gone.

  Then a hard shiver in my hand turned into a full-blown seizure. Three missed calls from Ma, eight from Soraya. Two voice mails from Ma. Five from Soraya. Ten texts total.

  From Ma:

  Hey Dar, puttin the finishin touches on your celebration meal!

  Dar, youre probably still busy at work. Its 8:30 now so text or call to let us know how late youll be.

  Baby you okay? We havent heard from you in a while and its 9:30 now. Everyones hungry. Mr. Rawlings and Soraya have been waiting for you.

  PLEASE CALL ME BACK ONCE YOU SEE THIS. It’s midnight and Soraya and Mr. Rawlings are gone. Everyone left already, but Im worried. This isn’t like you.

  From Soraya:

  I hope your day went well, D! Can’t wait to see you later.

  It’s 8:15 and you’re late, MISTER! You better be on the train. Mr. Rawlings is about to do some voodoo on you if he doesn’t get his hands on some of this chili soon.