“And why do you think I’m calling you?”
“Because you have no other options and need someone to rehabilitate your image. But I’m getting real fucking tired of playing twenty questions with you, Buck. You better start saying something that keeps me on the line or I’m gone.”
“I have nothing to lose, Barry. Nothing. My mother died last week. As you said, Sumwun has startup syphilis, and everyone I’ve ever known hates me. So that’s why I’m calling you. To ask you to take a small risk and buy a couple thousand licenses for your employees and those in your portfolio companies.”
I could hear him breathing on the other end. Everyone at Sumwun leaned in closer, wiping sweat off their brows, hyperventilating. The elevators rang open. Two police officers pushed through the doors.
“Him,” Clyde said, pointing at me.
“How’d your mother die?” Barry asked.
“Lung cancer. I didn’t even know she had it.”
“Fuck,” he said, exhaling. “My mom died a few years ago. Also cancer. I knew she had it, so we were able to make the most of her time, but it was still a bitch.”
Rhett went over to speak with the cops, giving me time.
“Does it get easier?”
He laughed. “Not really, kid. Sorry. But distracting yourself with work helps.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought. Anyway, man, I appreciate you taking the call. I figured it was worth a shot, but I also understand why you don’t want to be associated with us.”
The cops headed back to the elevators, and Rhett walked over, bringing a phone to his ear. Everyone looked deflated. Some, realizing defeat, stopped listening and walked off the floor.
“Wait,” Barry said. “What’ll five hundred K get me?”
Rhett dug his nails into my shoulder.
“Twenty-five hundred licenses,” I said, my heart beating faster than Uma Thurman’s after her adrenaline shot in Pulp Fiction.
“That’s not good enough,” he sang.
I looked at Rhett. He wrote something on a Post-it and shoved it in my face: ANYTHING.
“What else do you want?”
He laughed again. This time deeper, longer, and slower. “I want you, my man. I want you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that every second you’re not at Sumwun you work for me.”
My hands were shaking. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I was ready for him to yell, “PSYCH” before hanging up. But I had to keep going, just in case. “And what does working for you entail?”
“Oh, a lot of things. Helping me with investments. Running errands. Putting some of your raw potential to proper use. If you make me money, I’ll make you money, but it’ll come at a price. And I’m not talking a measly five hundred grand. Doing this deal, Buck, the deal I’m bringing to the table, means I own you.”
I didn’t know Barry aside from his reputation as an energetic, ruthless, and pompous businessman, which made the prospect of being “owned” by him as appealing as chewing nails. But when I looked at Rhett, I already knew what I’d have to do. He gave me the opportunity I’d always wanted but didn’t know I needed; despite managing hundreds of employees, he made me feel as if I were the only person in the world when he looked at me, and I couldn’t let that go, especially now, when I’d lost everyone who had ever meant anything to me.
“Okay, Barry,” I said. “We have a deal.”
“And what does having a deal mean, Buck? I want to hear you say it.”
I took a deep breath and looked around the room. Everyone stared at me, nodding. Back during Hell Week, they went to bat for me when I needed it most, and I needed to do the same for them. I truly believed in this company, so I had to give myself to it, to do whatever it took to save it.
Reader: In the same way there’s no such thing as a halfway crook, there’s no such thing as a halfway success. In sales and life, you’re either all in or you’re not. And if you’re not, then step the fuck aside before you get run over by someone who is.
I closed my eyes and gripped the receiver tighter. “It means you own me, Barry. I’m yours.”
IV.
Demonstration
For what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and suffer the loss of his soul?
—JESUS CHRIST
6 Months Later
20
“Rise and shine, America! This morning, our guest is someone you may recognize from six months ago. When he was last with us, Darren “Buck” Vender was defending his company, Sumwun, after an incident with a young girl and one of the service’s assistants. But today, Buck’s here to discuss how he went from a young no-name cold-caller to what every major news outlet, blog, and magazine is calling the best salesman in New York City. Buck, thanks for joining us.”
“My pleasure, Sandra. Thank you for inviting me back on, especially after the fun time we had last year,” I said, looking into her eyes, chuckling on cue.
“So,” she said, crossing her legs, leaning toward me. “How did you do it?”
“Do what?” I asked, grinning.
“Well”—she waved her hands in front of me—“this. The expensive suit. Slicked-back hair. Everyone in New York knows about how you single-handedly saved Sumwun from certain death. You’ve spoken to crowds of hundreds of people; written articles for the New York Times, Forbes, the Wall Street Journal, and countless others; and you’re basically the poster boy for New York City tech sales. Plus, everyone knows you’re Barry Dee’s protégé. Tell us about that.”
I laughed, self-consciously pulling my cuff over my Rolex. “I wouldn’t say I single-handedly saved Sumwun, Sandra. That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“That’s not what Wired magazine said a few months ago. They say you cold-called Barry Dee and closed him for half a million dollars.”
The audience of middle-aged white women were all on the edge of their seats, expecting a show.
“I can’t say they’re wrong, Sandra. But, candidly, I don’t read magazines, blogs, or the news. I don’t even watch Rise and Shine, America,” I said, playfully covering my face.
“How dare you!” she said, slapping my hands with index cards. “We’ll forget you said that. So, after you closed Barry Dee, it seemed like everyone from New York to San Francisco wanted to work with Sumwun, as if they’d forgotten about everything that had happened. How did that feel?”
“It felt great, what can I say? It’s hard to believe, but that’s what happened,” I said, pulling my cuff up. “Once we had Barry in our corner, especially after he joined our board, people realized that what happened was a one-time thing. We’ve since instituted rigorous vetting processes for all of our assistants, quarterly assessments, and more.”
“Yes, I read about that. It’s all impressive, but tell us about what’s going on in your life, Buck. You’ve accomplished so much in less than a year, and you’re only how old?”
“I just turned twenty-three,” I said, sitting up. “But, yeah, everything is still surreal. Working with Barry feels like I’m getting my MBA.”
“Which must feel like a lot since you never even went to college.”
“Exactly. It’s the best education I could receive. I’m helping him with the venture capital arm of the business, finding and funding the next startups that’ll have a large impact on the world. And everything at Sumwun is going really well.”
“Is it?” Sandra asked, narrowing her eyes. “Didn’t Rhett Daniels fire cofounder Chris Davids and a handful of other employees who supported the board wanting to fire him?”
“You’re right, he did. It’s incredibly difficult to work in an environment where you know people don’t have your back. So, as you said, Chris and a few others had to go, but everyone parted on good terms.”
“So what’s next?”
“I’m not sure, Sandra. I’m just enjoying the ride right now.”
“Well, we’ll all be watching, Buck. Thank you for your time.” She smiled into the
camera until the greasy operator cut to a commercial.
“Always a pleasure,” Sandra said, removing her mic and her heels.
“The pleasure was mine. Thanks for inviting me back.”
“As long as you keep on making headlines, we’ll keep bringing you onto the show.”
I pushed my way through the crowd outside, hopped into the back of a black Tesla Model S, and waved to a few cameras from the window. Since it was still winter in New York, it was cold as hell out, but I guess not cold enough to keep tourists away from Times Square.
“Where to, sir?” Chauncey asked, his African accent thick.
“DaynerMedia,” I said, rolling the window back up. I pulled a small vial from my suit pocket.
“You must be very busy today, sir,” Chauncey said, driving down West Forty-Third.
“I am.” I poured the vial’s contents onto my phone and rolled up a hundred-dollar bill.
“But please, Chauncey.” I inserted the bill into my nose; took a quick, violent snort; and jolted my head back. “Stop with the ‘sir’ shit. You’re old enough to be my father.”
He handed me a tissue, and I wiped my nose before leaning my head back onto the seat and watching the city pass by.
“In my country, it is the duty of a chauffeur to refer to his employer as ‘sir,’ sir, so I only do it out of respect.”
“Then call Barry ‘sir,’ Chauncey. He’s your employer, not me.”
His eyes met my mine in the rearview, and he scrunched his eyebrows together, moving his thick dark lips into a frown. “Even so, you are a Black man, like me, who has made it in America despite how they treat us. I have respect for you.”
Respect is for suckers, Chauncey. Power is the new black, baby.
I closed my eyes and sighed, felt my veins opening up wider, my heart pumping faster, and all of the confidence from the show returning. “As you wish. But let’s get to the office as quickly as possible, please. Barry’s waiting.”
“Yes, sir.” He honked the horn as if he were performing CPR.
* * *
Hudson Yards, I thought, craning my neck to see the top of the building DaynerMedia was in. Just when you think there’s no more space in NYC.
When I got up to the twenty-ninth floor, I bypassed the main receptionist and found myself face-to-face with Tracy, Barry’s executive assistant, sitting in her private area. She allowed only a few chosen ones unfettered access to the boss.
“The camera really caught your good side, Buck.” She looked up from her computer with a wink.
“Thanks, Trace. Has he been waiting long?”
“No, he was watching the interview too. I think he liked it, but I wish you would’ve mentioned how Barry’s radiant, intelligent, visionary EA was the one who let you through to him on that fateful September day. You know you wouldn’t be here without me,” she said, half smirking, half making puppy-dog eyes at me.
“When you’re right, you’re right, Tracy. And you? You’re always right,” I said, paraphrasing Spaceballs.
“Truest thing you’ve said all day.”
Barry’s office was twice the size of Rhett’s but had half the shit. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the Hudson River and a crystal-clear view of the Statue of Liberty, which Barry prayed and masturbated to every morning. There was a plain oval table surrounded by padded chairs; a wall adorned with six long shelves holding trophies, books, and sports jerseys, which served as the backdrop for the daily videos he recorded; and some other random crap he said added to the ironic, postmodern, prehistoric ambiance he was looking for.
“My man,” he said, rising up from the table, giving me a dap that reverberated off the windows. White guys always love to give overzealous daps.
“What’d you think?”
“I think Sandra Stork was legit creaming her underwear. Was it me, or did she keep crossing and uncrossing her legs to prevent her sweet juice from dripping onto the floor?”
I took a seat across from his shrine. An autographed football encased in glass from the last Giants’ Super Bowl win stared at me. Even though it’d be hard to tell from his typical outfit—a solid-colored T-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers—Barry Dee was filthy rich, but not rich enough to buy the Giants, which was his life’s aspiration.
“Yeah, I did see that. I also got her number afterward.”
He jumped across the table and punched me in the chest, lifting the front of my chair inches off the ground. “You fucking salty dog, Buck! But what happened to Katrina?”
“Who?” I asked, grating my knuckles across my forehead. “I don’t remember any Katrina.”
“That fucking smokeshow you brought to Beauty & Essex the other night.”
“Oh,” I said, shaking my head. “That was Natalia, the bottle girl from Avenue.”
He spread his palms across the table. “Okay, well, what happened with Natalia the bottle girl? Or Veronica the Brazilian model? Or Naomi the Japanese lawyer? Or—”
“Alright.” I put my hands up. “I get it. You know I can’t sleep alone.”
“It’s called Ambien, Xanax, and some cough syrup mixed with Sprite,” he said. “Shit will knock out an eight-hundred-pound gorilla. But, alright, enough of the bullshit. Did you look over those portfolios?”
My head was pounding, and my hands started to shake. I slid them below the table. “Yeah,” I said, flipping through the companies on my phone. “They were all dogshit, man. Straight dogshit.”
“You need to stop thinking every startup actually needs to make money in order to be valuable. That’s old-school, kid. Gotta think about the Instagrams of the world. The companies that are legit worth billions of dollars not because of any real value but because of the cool factor. Like that winner you picked when I first brought you on. You saw the cool factor in pork-free pork for Muslim millennials who want to eat BLTs without being, um, what’s the word?”
“Haram.”
“Yeah, without being haram. We made like five mil on that, and you took home a couple hundred thousand for yourself. So keep thinking outside the box and stay open-minded.”
“Alright. Anything else? I gotta head to Sumwun for a bit and I’m beat.”
“Yeah, one thing. This company we just acquired, something to do with funding hip-hop videos with a roster of tried-and-true sponsors—you know, like Hennessy, Beats, and whichever company makes those heavy-duty metal dog collars. They need an SDR. You know anyone?”
I went through my mental Rolodex. “No, not right now. But I’m sure I can find one.”
“Yeah, do that,” he said. He pulled down the blinds and sat down in a padded gray chair that faced the Statue of Liberty. “But think outside the box. This company is going to be the future of partnering with rappers, and we need someone strong in the position.”
“Sure,” I said, rising to my feet, steadying myself. “I’ll find someone.”
* * *
“Where to, sir?” Chauncey asked, jumping out and opening the back door.
“Chauncey,” I said, rubbing my forehead as I entered the car. “Please, man. Don’t get up and open the door for me like I’m one of these white tech millionaires. The only reason I agreed to you driving me around is because I like you.”
“Okay, sir,” he said, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “I like you too, sir.”
“Good.” I pulled out my little vial and went to town on a few lines of medicine. “Now, I just need to get you to call me Buck instead of sir.”
He laughed. “Baby steps, sir. So, where to?”
I leaned my head back and dripped Visine into my eyes. “Sumwun, please.”
We headed up Tenth Avenue and turned right onto Thirty-Fourth Street. The Sumwun I was headed to was different than the Sumwun of six months ago. Eddie was an AE, Charlie had become a sales manager, Marissa had replaced Charlie as SDR manager, the Duchess had quit to work for her pops, Frodo was still an SDR, and I, of course, had been promoted to AE. But since I closed such a huge deal, I skipped the normal
sales hierarchy and became an enterprise AE, which meant Clyde, now VP of sales, was my direct manager.
If you’re wondering, I made a hundred K off the deal with Barry. And even though we missed our number for September, having his endorsement brought other wary prospects back to our side. The damage was done, but we forgave them once the money poured back in. And with the money, we started to hit our monthly goals for real this time, which put Rhett back in good standing with Lucien, who not only conveniently forgot about ever having wanted to fire him but also used his connections to stop the FBI investigation. So between the salary bump from raising Sumwun from the dead, the hundred K from closing Barry, and the two hundred K I made from the pork-free pork startup that turned a quick profit for Barry’s firm, I became wealthy overnight. It was weird as hell, but you could say I got used to it.
When I stepped out the elevator, Porschia rushed through the doors and grabbed me. “They’ve been waiting for more than an hour,” she said, distressed.
“Who?”
“Those executives from London. The Tesco deal.”
“Oh,” I said, squeezing my eyes to stop them from throbbing like a subwoofer.
She pushed me through the doors toward Qur’an. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just a little tired. Can you bring me a coffee? Maybe something from Starbucks, like a Pike Place Roast.”
“Okay, I’ll be back in a few.”
Everyone in Qur’an stood to greet me. Three brown-haired white men in cheap suits were beaming, Rhett, wearing a white button-up and designers jeans, was sweating bullets, and Clyde, in his typical startup vest-khakis-and-plaid-shirt douchebag attire, mean-mugged the hell out of me.
“Hello,” I said, shaking hands with the men.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Buck,” one man, whose name I don’t remember, said with a posh English accent, holding my hand longer than necessary. “I’ve only seen you on TV, but has anyone ever told you that you look like Morgan Freeman? You must charm all the ladies, eh?”
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