Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  “Brian’s in jail somewhere in Manhattan,” I said. “They think he killed someone, but he’ll be okay. If he’s not out tomorrow, I’ll get him a lawyer. They can’t keep him; he’s innocent.”

  Rose shook her head. “What, you think we live in a world where innocent Black men don’t spend five, twenty, or thirty years in jail only to be let out with an apology? Get real, Buckaroo.”

  “Alright, alright, alright,” I muttered, pacing around the apartment, running through every possible scenario. Brian being let out. Brian being falsely imprisoned. Brian committing suicide because he couldn’t take prison life. Brian being shanked for a piece of meatloaf.

  “What now?” Rose asked. “You’re the man with the plans, right?”

  My phone buzzed. Barry. 9am tomorrow my man. He better be a star. I’m talkin out of this world superstar. Not one of those dwarf stars. He better bring the heat! The fire!

  I could think about Brian later. He wasn’t going anywhere. This, Barry, was the priority. “The plan is you have an interview,” I said to Rose. “Tomorrow. 9 a.m. And you better not fuck it up.”

  She popped open a soda, chugged half, let out a belch, and smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  26

  We spent all of Sunday reviewing messaging and interview questions, role-playing, and strategizing about how to make sure she got an offer and secured a fair salary that any man, no, any white man, would receive.

  Come Monday, she was ready, except she didn’t have any clothes to wear other than dirty boots, ripped jeans, holey hoodies, and T-shirts emblazoned with names of heavy metal bands. No clothing stores would be open before I had to be at Sumwun for the 7 a.m. meeting, so I called the only person I could think of who was about Rose’s size and wouldn’t ask too many questions: Marissa.

  “Any last words of advice?” Rose asked, leaning into the Tesla’s window moments after Chauncey had let her out in front of the Flatiron Building. She looked more like a deer in headlights than I expected. Good thing she had more than two hours of waiting time to sort it out.

  “Never look a baboon in the eye,” Marissa said from the far end of the back seat. “They take it as a challenge and will attack.”

  Rose and I exchanged confused looks. “Anything else?” she asked me.

  I grabbed her hand. “Always be better.”

  “Better than who?”

  “You know.”

  We held each other’s eyes for a moment, then she pulled away, straightened up, and walked into the building.

  At twelve, I got a call. It was Rose. “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “The VP of sales, some chick from California, asked a ton of questions. The CEO popped in and was ultra-aggressive, but I just stared him in the eye and didn’t back down. I met a few of their AEs, two twins who looked like extras from Entourage.”

  “But did they give you an offer?” I asked, about to faint. “Did they discuss salary?”

  “No,” she said. “Does that mean I didn’t get it?”

  FUCK! Barry was going to destroy me. Everything I had, the cushy lifestyle, the power, the freedom, it was all gone. If she didn’t get an offer on the spot, she didn’t crush it, meaning she failed.

  “I don’t know,” I said, coughing, trying to perk up. “It could mean anything. But, uh, as long as you did your best, that’s all I can ask for.”

  “You sound like the Black Mister Rogers,” she said. “Have you heard from Brian?”

  “No, not yet.” I was going to throw up. Between her bombing the interview and Brian still being locked up, I couldn’t take it. “I gotta go, Rose. I’ll see you at home.”

  A few hours and a toilet bowl full of vomit later, Barry called.

  “Hey, Barry,” I whispered, afraid.

  “Buck, my man. What’s shakin’?”

  “Nothing, at Sumwun. You know.”

  “Fuck yeah, that’s why I love you. Always working. Listen—”

  “Listen, Barry,” I said, interrupting. “Before you lay in on me. There was a mix-up. I was supposed to send someone else, but he got arrested, and I know she wasn’t ready, but she was the only other one I could send. I thought she would be good, but—”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t know you were sending a girl, but she blew them away!”

  “What?” I asked, gripping my phone tighter with my sweaty hand. “Are you serious?”

  “Serious as cholera, homie. The CEO was so happy he said he had to call the board before giving the offer to make sure they could afford her. Said something about them both being metalheads and legit being afraid to look her in the eye. Like a baboon. You’re never supposed to look a baboon in the eye, my man, did you know that? They think it’s a challenge and will attack.”

  “Yeah,” I said, relieved. “I heard that before. So you’re saying she’s hired?”

  “As hired as one of those expensive escorts politicians need to pay off with hush money. As hired as a Mexican on the side of the road who’s looking—”

  “I get it, Barry. That’s amazing to hear, man. I’m gonna call and give her the good news. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “No,” he said, the sound of metal clinking against metal, like a belt unbuckling. “Thank you, Buck. The CEO already made an intro to his dad for me, so I’m one step closer to buying the Giants. Do you have any more SDRs? I know he’ll need more. Hell, we can staff all of our portfolios with them if they’re as good as this girl.”

  I laughed. “I think I can do that. Let me get back to you.”

  When I got home, Rose and I cracked open a bottle of wine and celebrated with some feature on the History Channel about all of the US presidents who fathered mulatto babies with their “Black wenches.” In the middle of it, I got a collect call. Brian.

  “Yo,” I said, drunk and weary.

  “Buck, thank God,” he said, speaking quickly. “I’m getting out tomorrow. They called a lineup for someone who supposedly witnessed the murder, and it was just me and five other guys who looked nothing alike except that we were Black and had bad acne. They say I’ll get out tomorrow once they complete the paperwork.”

  I bolted off the couch, spilling an entire bag of nacho cheese Doritos all over the floor. “YES!” I shouted, pumping a Black Power fist in the air.

  “What is it?” Rose asked, her face covered in orange cheese, eyes as red as Lucifer’s balls. “Is he free?”

  I nodded, and she started doing some weird dance that looked like she was in a mosh pit at a country hoedown.

  “I’ll have Chauncey get you tomorrow and bring you straight to my place. He has an extra key,” I said, smiling so hard, my face hurt.

  “Thanks, Buck. For everything,” he said. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, big bro.”

  “Of course, Brian. See you soon.”

  * * *

  After work on Tuesday, I got home and found Brian on the couch, rocking back and forth in the fetal position like he was in a trance.

  “Yo,” I said, grabbing his shoulder.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, staring at me with a face full of fear as if he had just realized I was there.

  I knelt beside him. “Brian, you good? It’s all over, man. You didn’t get turned into a punk in a few days, did you?”

  He turned away from me, hugging a cushion tighter. “No, but I’ve never been—SHIT!—sorry. I’ve never been that scared in my entire life, Buck. People were screaming all night, the food was just stale PB and J sandwiches, and it felt like, I don’t know—COCK!—like the people in charge didn’t care what happened.”

  “That’s the American judicial system for you, Brian. But you’re good, man. I’m sorry that happened.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, sniffling into the pillow. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  I scratched the back of my head and looked around the room. “I mean, it sort of was, but I won’t let anything like that happen to you ever again. I promise.” />
  “I know, Buck. I know.”

  It was a little corny, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I just sat on the couch and held him for a while, realizing that the consequences of my actions were real and that I had to be more careful.

  Reader: The things we do and say on this earth, whether as salespeople or just people, matter. As do the things we don’t do or say. To be a salesperson is to believe that you are the master of your own destiny, something never to be taken lightly.

  Rose was supposed to get back after I did since she had to sign her formal offer letter. We invited Ellen and Jake over to celebrate the first of the bunch getting a job and Brian getting out of jail, and to talk about who would get the next interview and other logistical questions.

  The buzzer went off.

  “Hello?”

  “Buckaroo, it’s Rose. The papers are officially signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  “Rose? Why are you buzzing?”

  “Just come downstairs,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Brian and I grabbed our coats, and hopped into the elevator. When we stepped outside, no one was there.

  “Over here!” someone shouted from Stuyvesant Square Park. I looked over and saw a group of about fifteen people huddled around the flower garden in the park’s center.

  I turned to Brian. “You know anything about this?”

  “No, how could I?”

  We crossed the street and entered the chilly, dimly lit park. As we neared the group, I made out the shapes of Rose, Ellen, and Jake standing near other people wearing puffy jackets, beanies, and scarves.

  “Okay,” I said, shivering. “What’s going on?”

  The three of them smiled at one another.

  I nodded at the small crowd behind them. “Are you with them?” I took a closer look and realized that the people wearing the beanies and scarves all shared something in common: black and brown skin.

  “Yeah,” Rose said, stepping forward. “And so are you.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? It’s freezing. Cut the shit and let’s go up. It’s time to celebrate.”

  “Each one teach one, bruh,” Jake said, lining up next to Rose.

  “Why do I feel like I’m being ambushed?”

  “What you did,” Rose said, tears pooling in her eyes under the orange glow of the park’s lights. “You’ve changed my life.”

  “You’ve given us a gift,” Ellen said, joining Jake and Rose.

  “None of you except Rose even has a job.” I turned around and walked back toward the apartment. “So quit whatever this is and let’s go.”

  “These people,” Rose said, nodding to the group behind them, who were staring at us. “They want to learn from you, just like we have. They want to learn how to sell.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t invite anyone else.”

  “I didn’t. Well, not really. After I signed my offer letter, I posted on Facebook, saying, ‘I got a job! This girl is one happy camper.’ After that, friends, mostly people like me, who are smart but need help, started to ask questions about what the job was and how I got it. I didn’t think it’d do any harm, so I told them about my ‘sensei,’ and I may have accidentally said a few of us were meeting tonight.”

  I looked at the group of people, who were still staring at us, then at the four of them. “You four. My apartment. Now.”

  Once we were all in the living room, I rained fury on them. “You’re taking advantage of me!” I shouted. “Each and every one of you. I’m not some sort of charity. This isn’t Buck’s Sales Bootcamp for the Downtrodden. Who do you think I am? Tell them, Brian; tell them how wrong this all is.”

  “I mean”—he shrugged—“why not, right?”

  “Why not?” I stormed toward him and shook the shit out of him. “Why not? Because I have other responsibilities. I have Sumwun, everything with Barry, my social life, my—”

  “What?” Rose asked. “The women, the drugs, and the fame? C’mon, Buckaroo, we all know that shit leaves you empty inside. Last week was the most fun you’ve had in a long time, and you can’t even admit it.”

  “We all here with you for a reason, Mr. Buck,” Jake said. “This, us, you, it’s no coincidence.”

  “I agree,” Ellen added. “You have the opportunity to change lives.”

  “To make your mom proud,” Rose said, standing up. My heart tightened at her words.

  “Come here,” she said, staring out the window.

  I slowly made my way over. “What do you see?” she asked.

  I looked out and saw more than a dozen people still huddled outside, looking up at the window toward us, toward me. “I see people.”

  “Your people. And you have a responsibility, Buckaroo. Whether you realize it or not.”

  In that moment, I thought of something I’d been trying to block out for months: Ma’s letter.

  I looked out the window, closed my eyes, and heard Ma’s voice. It’s the duty of every man and woman who has achieved some success in life to pass it on, because when we’re gone, what matters most isn’t what we were able to attain but who we were able to help.

  She was right. And I guessed Rose, Ellen, Brian, and Jake were too.

  “We need rules,” I said, facing them. “No one can know I’m involved.”

  “Done,” Jake said. The others nodded.

  “What will we call it?” Brian asked.

  “How ’bout the African Society of Salespeople?” Jake said, scanning the room for agreement.

  Rose palmed her face and shook her head. “That spells A-S-S, you ass.”

  “Okay, what about the Salespeople of Color,” Ellen said. “S-O-C doesn’t mean anything.”

  “That’s wack,” I said.

  Brian clapped his hands. We all looked at him. “Rose, what was it you wrote on your Facebook status? You were one what?”

  “One happy camper.”

  “Yeah, that,” he said, looking around the room. “Why don’t we call ourselves the Happy Campers? It’s fun, and if anyone accidentally lets the name slip, no one will have a clue who we are.”

  “Fine,” I said. “We can change it if we need to.”

  “ ’N’ it’s only for Black folk, right?” Jake asked.

  “People of color,” I said. I thought back to Sumwun and every other tech startup sales team out there. They weren’t missing just Black people, but all people of color.

  “Perfect,” Rose said. “Now that that’s settled, I think it’s time to invite all of these freezing Happy Campers inside.”

  When we got back to the park, the group stared at me like starving refugees. “Rule number one,” I shouted, making them all straighten up. “Only friends are allowed in, and they must be people of color. We’re not against white people, but we are simply ignoring them. They’ve had a mile head start and we’re only a few feet off the starting line.

  “Rule number two: you may know me from the news or some other way, but no one else can know I am involved in this. Letting outsiders know I’m leading the charge will only attract unwanted attention.

  “Rule number three: you will use what I teach you for good and to get ahead. Not for manipulation nor the mental, emotional, financial, or social harm of others.

  “And rule number three-point-five, because, as Jeffrey Gitomer says, you always have to give a little extra: if this is your first night with the Happy Campers, you have to role-play, which is our version of bare-knuckle fighting. The main difference is that the wounds you receive won’t heal as easily.

  “If you break any of these rules, any at all, not only will you cease to be a Happy Camper, but the entire group will be dissolved,” I said, wiping my hands. “Understand?”

  They all nodded.

  “I need to hear you say it, that you understand.”

  “Yes,” a few of them said, others eventually echoing.

  “Any questions?”

  “No,” they replied, shaking harder than before, the
hunger in their eyes and bones obvious.

  “Good,” I said, stretching out my hands. “Who’s ready to learn how to sell?”

  27

  On Saturday, twenty Happy Campers descended on Bed-Stuy to set up our headquarters, which was none other than 84 Vernon Avenue, the brownstone I grew up in. I hadn’t been there since the day I closed Barry Dee, having immediately moved in with Rhett before finding the spot on Seventeenth Street.

  “Dang, what in the world happened here?” Jake asked. There was broken glass all over the kitchen and living-room floors, yellowed pieces of paper lying on the overturned table, smashed chairs, fist-size holes in the walls, and a thick sheet of dust covering every surface.

  “Let’s open these windows,” Rose said. The new recruits jumped into action.

  I walked over to the kitchen and picked up the two letters I had tossed there six months ago—the one from Ma to me and the unsigned contract to sell. Since Ma had never signed it, and I sure as hell hadn’t, the place was still ours; all I had to do was pay the rising property taxes that seemed to be whitening up the neighborhood day by day. Till taxes do us part.

  “Dry-erase boards over there,” Rose ordered, pointing to the wall across from the old couch. “Someone sweep up that glass and toss out anything else that’s broken—mugs, plates, these tables and chairs.”

  I folded the letters and placed them into their envelopes. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Huh?” I asked, seeing Rose looking up at me, confusion on her face.

  “I asked if it’s cool for us to throw out a bunch of stuff. We’re going to start unpacking the U-Haul. You okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s just that I haven’t been back here since my mom died, so . . .”

  “Can’t be easy. But let me take care of all of this. Go do what you have to do. We got it under control.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I remembered that I had exactly two things I needed to do.

  Down the stairs. Turn the corner. I stared at Mr. Aziz’s bodega and saw a steady stream of Saturday-morning traffic entering empty-handed and exiting with egg sandwiches, Arizona iced teas, and cigarettes.