Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  “Don’t you fucking say it,” I said, pointing a finger at him. “I don’t want to hear you ever say you’re sorry again. It’s a waste of your time and mine.”

  I plopped down next to him, taking a deep breath. It was night one, and this shit wasn’t working. Fear wouldn’t work with Brian; it would cause him to be like that guy who ran out of Qur’an on day one never to be seen again, so I’d have to find another way.

  “I’ll leave.” He uncrossed his legs and got up from the couch.

  “Sit,” I ordered, eyes closed, running through a list of possibilities.

  What did I know about Brian? He was a few years older than I was. He was from Connecticut. He had a hard-on for D&D and comic books. He’d never had a girlfriend but wanted one. He worked at Starbucks and was pretty good with people face-to-face, especially when doing something he loved.

  “Got it,” I said. I jumped up, grabbed his coat, and threw it at him.

  The solution I found was so good, I couldn’t contain my smile. “Put it on.”

  “Okay. Thanks for trying anyway, Darren. I appreciate it. I’ll see you around.” He slipped his coat on and grabbed his bag.

  “What? No. I have an idea, a way for this all to get through your thick skull. But it’s going to be uncomfortable. You down?”

  “Anything.”

  “Good. So I want you to go to every deli from here to First Street. And you’re going to try to sell them a magazine subscription.”

  “You own a magazine? I didn’t know.”

  “No, you moron. That’s the point. You’re going to sell them a subscription to a magazine that doesn’t exist. The goal is to get as many of them as possible to give you money for a year’s worth of magazines.”

  His crooked smile quickly disappeared. “I don’t know about that, Darren. It seems illegal. And, like, fraud.”

  “Let me worry about that,” I said, pushing him toward the elevator. “We can return the money tomorrow if you want. The point is for you to get comfortable selling something, and there’s no better way to do that than trying to convince a stranger to buy something they’ve never heard of, especially face-to-face late on a cold night.”

  “What do I even say the name of the magazine is?”

  “Hmm, good question. Let’s call it”—I paused—“let’s call it Blackface.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Oh, you know,” I said, massaging his shoulders. “Same as most magazines. White cooks appropriating Black dishes, white musicians appropriating Black music, white designers appropriating Black fashion, et cetera, et cetera. Use your imagination. And don’t take no for an answer. That’s an order from Sensei Buck.”

  “Sensei Buck, I don’t know if—”

  “GO!” I shouted, pressing the elevator button and smiling as he descended into the frigid depths of New York City.

  An hour went by, and I figured he must’ve been doing pretty well, probably chopping it up with deli owners and taking their money, playing them for the chumps they were. Then another hour passed, and I shot him a text. All G?

  No response. I started to worry, which reminded me of all the times Ma would text me after my phone would die, and I’d find her in the kitchen, up late, waiting to make sure I made it home okay. “Darren Vender,” she’d say. “Haven’ you ever heard of a charger?” I swallowed hard and pushed the memory out of my mind.

  Another thirty minutes passed until I heard the buzzer. “Who is it?”

  “Me.” He sounded exhausted.

  When the elevator opened, Brian stumbled out with a bloody lip and a pair of eyelids that looked like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” I asked, helping him to the living room. “You better not get any blood on my couch.”

  He took his shoes off and leaned his head far back on a pillow. “Got a steak?”

  “A steak? What do I look like?” I walked over to the fridge only to find a freezer full of pork-free pork.

  “Thanks,” he said, resting a piece on his swollen eye.

  “Now tell me what happened.”

  “Well, I did what you said. I started off at one deli, on Fourteenth, and the owner didn’t speak too much English. He kept thinking I was asking for a black iPhone case, so I left. Then, at the next one, this Hispanic guy seemed curious, but a fight broke out with two customers and he took a knife out, so I ran. I thought about going back, but he seemed on edge. At the third, there was an Indian woman who kept saying, ‘Blackface? What is this blackface? I have brown face! When you have magazine called Brownface, I buy. Get out.’

  “I kept on walking, grabbed a slice of pizza because I got hungry, then stopped at a deli on Fifth. There was a Black guy behind the register, so I figured this was the one. When I told him about the magazine, and what was inside, he looked at me like I was crazy and told me to leave. But, like you told me, I wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I kept telling him I wasn’t leaving until he bought a year’s subscription. After that, he leaned over the counter and punched me in the eye. Then, when I was down on the ground, he punched me again in the lip and said if I don’t get my Uncle Tom ass up out of his deli, he’d lynch me.”

  The frozen fake pork thawed in his hand, dripping water.

  “So,” I said slowly, covering my face. “You’re telling me you didn’t sell one fucking subscription all night? And all you have to show for it is a black eye? Jesus, Brian. Did you learn anything tonight? Fucking anything at all?”

  He sat up, smiling, dried blood turning a crusty maroon around his bulging mouth like a lip injection gone wrong. “I think . . . I think I learned that no one will be able to punch me through a phone, so selling that way will be a lot easier than this.”

  I picked my head up and stared at him. He was right, and he had managed to learn a sales lesson after all. I put my feet up on the white oak coffee table and nodded. “Exactly, Grasshopper. I wasn’t sure if you’d get it, but you did. Now get the fuck out and be here tomorrow at 6:30 p.m. sharp.”

  22

  When we pulled up to my apartment on night two, I saw Brian sitting on the steps, shivering and looking over his shoulder like he was going to get in trouble just for being there. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of my neighbors had called the cops on a “suspicious individual.”

  “Yerrr!” I shouted from the Tesla. The bass from Kendrick Lamar’s “Swimming Pools” shook the car. Brian squinted, confused. I let the chorus play on, deciding if my plan for the night was a good one.

  “Turn it down, Chauncey!” I screamed over the song. “Yo, Brian. Get the fuck in, man. Can’t you tell it’s me?”

  He looked up and walked down the steps toward the car. “No, yeah, I knew it was you. It just looked like you were having fun, that’s all.”

  “I was, and we’re about to have even more. Get in before Chauncey hops out and tries to open the door for you. You must be colder than Jeffrey Dahmer’s freezer.”

  Reluctantly, he got in and sat next to me.

  “Hello,” Chauncey said, greeting Brian with his big ivory smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too. I gotta say”—he laughed—“this is the nicest Uber I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s because it’s not an Uber,” I said, patting Chauncey’s shoulder. We started toward Third Avenue.

  “So,” Chauncey said, looking in the rearview. “Where to, sir?”

  “The Belfry, please. It’s on Fourteenth between Second and Third.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I grabbed Brian’s thigh and he flinched. “Relax, man. How was your day? Any crazy shenanigans at Starbucks?”

  “The usual,” he said. His black eye somehow had gotten blacker and shined like a recently polished bowling ball. “What’s the Belfry? I thought we were going to continue with the sales training.”

  “We are. But not at my place. The whole ‘Good Will Hunting dry-erase board’ routine wasn’t worki
ng, and even though you got a nice shiner last night,” I said, poking the lumpy bag under his eye, “the hands-on experience was effective.”

  He looked forward, gripping his knees, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

  When we arrived, I hopped out and held the door open for Brian, who was still glued to his seat. “After you.”

  “This looks like a bar,” he said.

  “An astute observation, Brian. If you keep this up, you’ll be a master salesman in no time.”

  “Why—why are we at a bar, Darren?”

  “Come and you’ll find out. And stop calling me Darren, man. It’s Buck now.”

  He stared at me like a trapped animal, wide eyes laced with fear. Like any good villain in one of those PETA propaganda videos, I reached in and violently dragged him out, causing him to trip and fall on the sidewalk.

  As Chauncey drove away, Brian’s eyes followed the Tesla with obvious sadness. “Get up,” I said, and offered my hand.

  The bar had an old-time saloon feel to it. It was dimly lit, with low circular wooden tables, flickering candles, exposed brick, and lanterns that stretched across the ceiling all the way to the back, where neo-yuppies gorged themselves on pickles, craft beer, and the possibility of getting laid.

  “Why are we here?” Brian looked around as if he’d never been in a bar before.

  “Relax, man. We’re just going to get a drink and kick it. The stiffer you are, the worse this will all be. Two Delirium Tremens,” I said to the thick Asian woman behind the bar.

  She glanced at Brian, who looked like he was about to throw up, then at me, and asked, “You sure?”

  “Sure as steel.”

  “Darren, I mean Buck, please tell me why we’re here. It feels like I’m gonna get punched in the face again.”

  “First,” I said, smiling at him and raising my beer. “Cheers.”

  We clinked glasses and I drained half of mine in one gulp. Brian took a tiny sip and set it back down on the cork coaster, his hand shaking like he needed a fix.

  “We are here,” I said, scanning the room with my finger, “forrrrrrrrr . . . her.” I settled on a racially ambiguous girl with high cheekbones, a nice smile, frizzy hair, and olive skin that glowed in the candlelight. She was, without a doubt, a solid ten. And she was sitting alone.

  Brian turned to me and took a heavy gulp of his beer. “Uh, is that a friend of yours?”

  I laughed and shook my head.

  “Someone you’re looking to do business with?”

  I shook my head again.

  “This isn’t what I think it is, is it, Buck?”

  I took my eyes off her and turned to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It is, Brian. You’re going to pick her up.”

  The guy just stared at me like I had said something in a foreign language and he didn’t know if I was complimenting him on his looks or cursing out his mother. After a second, he decided it was the latter. “No. No way. I’m not going to embarrass myself, Buck.”

  “You’re right, you won’t. As long as you follow the plan.”

  He threw his arms out to the side. “Plan? Look at me. Take a good look at me. I’m wearing an old hoodie, faded jeans, a ripped T-shirt, and dirty Converses.”

  “Then you’re right at home, man. Look around. Everyone here is dressed just like you.”

  He surveyed the room, grabbed a napkin, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “It doesn’t matter. This is too much. What’s the point? I thought you were going to teach me about sales.”

  Reader: Watch closely and take notes. Sales isn’t about talent, it’s about overcoming obstacles, beginning with yourself.

  “This is sales, Brian. You think you’re just going to call up random strangers and they’re going to give you the time of day out of nowhere? You need to learn how to build rapport, open people up, and keep them interested.”

  “And how do I do that?” He drained his glass and waved it toward the bartender.

  “By disarming them and establishing common ground as quickly as possible. The surest way to do that is to get them talking by asking open-ended questions. Like ‘What brings you here?’ ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Oh, nice tattoo. What’s it mean?’ Anything, man. Get creative. Just don’t be boring.”

  He grabbed his second pint and gulped half of it down, visibly shaking like he was experiencing an earthquake no one else felt. “Look at me,” he said, finding my eyes with his own.

  “We already went over this, man. Your clothes are fine.”

  “No, Buck. I mean how I look. My face. It’s disgusting.”

  I took a breath. “Don’t ever say that, Brian. Don’t you ever fucking say you’re disgusting. Do you understand?”

  He raised his glass to his lips, and I grabbed his wrist before he could knock it back.

  “You know how many people around the world, or even in this very fucking country, would kill to have your life? To be healthy and free? How many people, Black people, from only fifty years ago, wouldn’t believe that we’d be in this bar, drinking at a counter while white people sat around us?”

  I thought of Mr. Rawlings. It was something he would say.

  “I know, but—”

  “But fucking nothing, Brian. Nothing you can ever say will justify you thinking that you’re less than. That because you have some acne you’re not worthy of a happy life. That you should be afraid of talking with a girl like that. So don’t ever give me that again. Because if you do, I won’t just stop investing my time in you, but I swear to God I’ll also give you another black eye. Now go over there and get that girl’s fucking number.”

  Without a word, his hands still shaking, he got up and slowly walked toward her.

  “Damn,” the bartender said behind me. “You’re like the Black Tony Robbins or something. Do you think he’ll get it?”

  “A shot says he will,” I said.

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then I’ll take you to dinner.”

  “Deal.”

  Brian tapped the girl on her shoulder. And when she turned around and smiled up at him, his shoulders relaxed a bit, and he cautiously took a seat. His face began to lose the cryogenically frozen look, thawing into a smile, then laughter, followed by raised eyebrows, smirks, and, I shit you not, a solid wink.

  “It looks like your brother is killing it,” the bartender said. “I may end up owing you that shot.”

  “He’s not my brother,” I replied. But I can’t lie; I did feel like a proud teacher.

  The girl traced a polished nail across his wrist, then I saw it: the close. He took out his phone, handed it to her, and her face glittered in the candlelight as she punched in her name and number. A second later he leaned over, and they exchanged a kiss on each cheek. Then he got up and floated back toward the bar, a goofy-ass smile stuck to his face that made him look like a drugged-up tiger in a Thai zoo.

  “So?”

  “Yooooo,” he whispered, his eyes bulging out of their sockets like wet cotton balls.

  “Act cool, man, act cool. What happened?”

  Laughing, he scratched the back of his head. “I don’t really know, Buck. Honestly. I went over there, then she said I could sit because her friends had ditched her. I noticed a French accent, and I studied a little French in school, so we got to talking. She’s an au pair. Then she said I looked like a baby seal, which was weird, but I let it go, and we just kept talking until”—he took a gulp of water the bartender handed him—“until I took out my phone and we exchanged numbers!”

  “Fuck yes. See? I told you that you could do it.” We bumped fists under the bar. “But listen, I don’t think she was calling you a baby seal. I think she was saying you look like a younger version of Seal.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A singer.”

  “Well, is he good looking?”

  “He’s married to Heidi Klum. But remember, sales isn’t about how you look, man. It’s about the confidence you hold.”

&nb
sp; He leaned back, sighing with relief. “Okay, but it’s still cool. So she’s into me. This is crazy. Can we do this every night?”

  I laughed and slapped him on the back. “It gets old after a while, man. But sure, we can do this again. After your training is done.”

  He left to go to the bathroom, and the bartender handed me my well-deserved shot. “It’s a shame you won’t be taking me out,” she said, pouting.

  I raised my shot glass to hers. “I think I can work something out.”

  “To your brother picking up his first girl,” she said, tapping my glass with her own.

  “Listen, he’s not my—” I turned toward the far end of the bar and watched him rub his wet hands on his jeans and walk toward us like a new man—like he had just realized that he was someone who deserved to be happy.

  “Fuck it,” I said, downing the shot. “Cheers to my brother.”

  23

  The buzzing woke me up. Without opening my eyes, I grabbed my phone and swiped it open. “Hello?”

  It was Rhett. At six in the morning. He told me to meet him at Cafeteria on Seventeenth and Seventh in an hour. Nothing else and no explanation.

  After I kicked the bartender from the Belfry out and chugged half a liter of bubble gum Pedialyte, Chauncey drove me across town.

  When I opened the door to Cafeteria’s brown vestibule, there was a line of glittery drag queens in heels, fur coats, and wigs. One turned around and slowly eyed me up and down. “Well, don’t you look delicious.”

  “I’m not in the mood.” I pushed past them and the porcelain-skinned host toward the back, where I spotted a seated Rhett wearing a beige turtleneck sweater and scrolling on his phone.

  “What’s up with this place?”

  He put his phone down and looked up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Look around. It looks like everyone just left the club.”

  “That’s because they did,” he said, straight-faced. “This place is open twenty-four hours and attracts a certain type of crowd. Swanky, beautiful, fabulous. You know.”