He cared more about Sumwun than anything or anyone else. He chose to see me as a man or a Black man when it was convenient to him. He likely picked me over Clyde because it was a better business decision. Still, I loved him with all that I had. He gave me the greatest gift in the world, one I can now give to others: an opportunity. And nothing, including what was about to happen, could ever take that away.
He dropped his head. “We have to distance ourselves from you, Buck. You’re poisoned.”
“What do you mean?” I pressed, grabbing his shoulders.
“It’s the only way.”
A thin man wearing a headset walked in. “Ready? Follow me please.”
As I exited the green room, I looked back, finally finding Rhett’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Buck. But you did this to yourself.”
“Up there,” the man said, gesturing to a small set of stairs leading to the stage.
I made my way up the stairs before two things stopped me in my tracks. One was the sight of a packed theater. There were easily five thousand people sitting there, laptops on their knees, phones in their hands, and complete silence as they focused their eyes on the stage, which held surprise number two: Bonnie Sauren.
She was sitting in one of two blue chairs, sipping bottled water, and smiling when she saw the shock on my face. On the oversize screen behind her was the title of our session: DIVERSITY GONE WRONG: BUCK VENDER IN CONVERSATION WITH BONNIE SAUREN.
“Look who showed up,” Bonnie said, flashing her white teeth toward the crowd like blood diamonds. “It’s the man of the hour, Buck Vender. Let’s all please give Buck the welcome he deserves.”
It started in the nosebleeds—a faint buzzing. But as it made its way toward me, like a towering tsunami complete with deadly white froth at the top, the wave of boos crashed into me with merciless ferocity.
Fuck me. This is an ambush.
* * *
The booing intensified as I made my way over to Bonnie, the sheer hatred it was laced with was a living, breathing, dangerous organism. I felt it in my bones, like the way you can feel the bass in your heart at a concert. I closed my eyes, waiting. But when the booing settled down, five thousand people began chanting, “RACIST! RACIST! RACIST! TERRORIST! TERRORIST! TERRORIST!” Bonnie, pleased, sat in her seat as snug as a white bug in a rug.
After a few minutes of this, which felt like a few days, she gripped her microphone, smiled, and said, “I’m with each and every one of you. But we’re here for a conversation, so please let us get on with it.”
Conversation? More like a modern-day lynching. When I looked out into the crowd, all I saw was a sea of red-faced men and women out for Black blood—my Black blood.
“You know?” Bonnie said, turning to me with that same plastic smile plastered to her plastic face. “We’ve actually never met before. But I met your friend Jason, right? That guy with the ski mask who said you both used to rob ice cream trucks together?”
“THUG!” someone shouted not too far from the stage.
“But,” Bonnie continued, “the two of us have never had the pleasure of meeting. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Drake? I’m Bonnie,” she said, extending a hand toward me.
“Buck.” I shook her hand. She wiped it off on her skirt.
“Buuuuuck,” she said, drawing it out. “What an interesting name. Why don’t we start there, hmm? How did you get the name Buck?”
“It was a nickname I got when I started at Sumwun.”
“And who gave it to you?”
I flashed back to that day in Qur’an. “An old colleague,” I said, straightening up.
Bonnie nodded. “Old indeed, huh? I heard it was Clyde Moore the Third, president of the White United Society of Salespeople. Is that true?”
I grabbed my bottled water from the little table between us and nodded.
“And it was because you had worked at Starbucks for, what, four years?”
I nodded again.
“My, hiring standards sure have dropped over the years,” she said, turning to the audience. Laughter spread throughout the theater faster than the Paris Hilton sex tape.
“Okay, so you used to work at Starbucks. Clyde Moore hired you—”
“Rhett Daniels,” I said, my voice cracking in all the wrong places, forcing me to take another sip of water. “He hired me.”
“That’s not what he says. He says it was Clyde’s idea to take a chance on you, that he was just there to try to mentor you. And look at how you repaid him. By proving to be a closeted racist and founding a terrorist organization.”
“It’s not a—”
“Which brings us to the topic of today’s conversation. Diversity gone wrong. When power is placed in the hands of the wrong people and abused, just as you abused yours. So, tell us, why do you hate white people, Buck?”
Everything slowed down, and the only thing I could hear was my heartbeat, ticking like a bomb. It pulsed in my ears, and in the veins in my head, arms, hands, legs, and feet.
I turned toward the audience. There was so much anger on their faces—red, fiery, heart-stopping anger. I truly didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand why they looked like they wanted me dead when they didn’t even know me. And if they didn’t know me and already hated me, I had nothing to lose, so I reached for my water, drained half of it, and took a deep breath.
“I don’t,” I said. “But let me ask you something, Bonnie. How many Black people are employed by LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, Google, Twitter, and Tumblr?”
She rolled her eyes, looking to the audience, and laughed. “Oh, come on. Not the race card. That is so played out, Buck.”
“You played the race card when you asked me why I hate white people, which I don’t, so humor me. How many people, say, out of a hundred, are Black at those companies?”
“I’d say thirty, maybe forty,” she replied, annoyed.
“It’s two. At each of those companies, only two in a hundred employees are Black. For most of them, only four in a hundred employees are Latinx.”
“Boo-hoo,” she said, pretending to rub her eyes. “You know why there aren’t more? Because they don’t have the skills, buddy. If more Black and Latin-whatever people were competent enough to get these jobs, they would. Look at Asians. You don’t see them crying and blaming the white man for not succeeding. No, they just buck up, get good grades, and reach for the American dream.”
“YEAH!” a man shouted, rising from his chair and clapping. The rest of the crowd clapped along with him.
“I’m not here to convert you,” I said, facing them. “And I’m not here to, as you say”—I turned to Bonnie—“play the race card. I don’t want to waste your time. So just humor me for a second and close your eyes.”
“What is this?” Bonnie asked. “I thought you just said you weren’t here to convert us.”
“I’m not, I promise. And I’m tired of arguing, defending, and everything else you brought me here for. You win.” I addressed the crowd now. “You all win. But before I go, just close your eyes. It’ll only be for a second.”
I turned to the side of the stage where the man with the headset stood. “Dim the lights, please.”
As the lights turned down, I closed my eyes and brought the mic closer to my mouth. “I want you all to think back, way back to when you were a kid. Think back to where you lived, to your parents or whoever raised you. Think back to the school you went to, your first crush, what you loved to do on Saturday mornings, your favorite types of snacks.
“Think about what you wanted to be when you were younger. Maybe it was a firefighter, nurse, actor, police officer, doctor, lawyer, hell, maybe even president. Try to remember what that feeling felt like, when you really believed you could be anything you wanted. That not even the sky was the limit. And now hold that feeling in your chest. Feel it in your heart—its warmth, how it lifts you up like your mom or dad carrying you on their shoulders.
“Now I want you to think about the moment you reali
zed you wouldn’t be what you wanted to be. Maybe you never saw anyone who came from where you did achieving what you wanted. Maybe it was a teacher, or one of your parents, who told you to get real. Shit, it could’ve just been as small as a friend laughing at you when you told them your dreams, and that little laugh, that seed of doubt, crushed you. You felt less than, like you weren’t worthy of being more, of being better. Like who you were wasn’t good enough.
“That is why we started the Happy Campers. Not to be labeled as terrorists, racists, or anything else the media loves to portray us as, but because we wanted to help others—people who, maybe even like you said, Bonnie, usually don’t have the skills for those jobs—get ahead. Because we know that when you lift others up, regardless of their skin color, your arms get stronger. And what I want for those Happy Campers is the same thing I want for you all here today. To never, ever, feel less than again.”
I opened my eyes and saw the men and women in the crowd opening theirs too. When I looked into their faces, everything that had been there before—the red anger, electric violence, and blistering hatred—was still there, but it was softer. Like they remembered the children they were, the dreams they had, and when they’d lost themselves.
I turned to Bonnie. Her face was trembling as if she were fighting a war inside of herself. She slowly raised her mic, and said, “I wanted to be an actress, but my . . . my mother said I was too fat, that Hollywood would never let someone as large and clumsy as me in any movie.”
She paused. A tear of mascara rolled down her cheek, staining her signature white dress. In that moment, I didn’t care that Bonnie Sauren was an evil white supremacist who probably wished the South hadn’t lost the war. I got up and did what I would’ve done with anyone else: I gave her a hug.
The crowd didn’t applaud, but they also didn’t boo. Bonnie, rendered defenseless, sobbed into my chest in front of five thousand people who may have still hated me but also, I hoped, saw my humanity, which was a win. The wars I had fought to get there were over, and now, no matter what happened, I was finally, truly, and completely free. Whoosh! Bang! Poof! Every day is deals day, baby. Every day is deals day.
Reader: There’s nothing like a Black man on a mission. No, there’s nothing like a Black salesman on a mission. And don’t you forget it.
35
“How did it go, Buck?” Chauncey asked.
I laughed. “I guess as well as it could’ve, Chauncey. I’m still in one piece and no one broke out a noose.”
“Of course you are still in one piece. I told you, strength lasts forever. So, if you are free tonight, maybe you could join Fatou, Amina, and me for dinner at my home?”
“Sounds like a plan. Is Fatou going to make—” My phone buzzed. “One second.”
It was Kujoe. “Kujoe,” I said, anger bubbling in my stomach.
“Buck, I know you told me not to call, but—”
“But what, Kujoe? Don’t fuck up my perfect day, man. Especially with all of the shit you’ve pulled. Trey is fucking dead, and it’s probably your fault.”
“But, Buck, I’m calling to—”
“You’re calling to get me heated, Kujoe. Listen, you’re done. HQ is destroyed, and we need to start over, and it pains me to say it because I liked you, but you’re not going to be a part of it. You only get so many chances in this life, Kujoe, and your time with the Happy Campers is over,” I said, and hung up.
“Like I was saying, Chauncey, I really hope Fatou’s making some of that stuff, what was it? With the chicken, vegetables, and rice in peanut sauce?”
Chauncey laughed, slapping the steering wheel. “Mafé, Buck. You are really becoming an African! I think my job is done.”
I laughed too, my mouth already watering at the thought of the delicious food we were about to have. “Yeah, maybe.” My phone buzzed again. I quickly picked it up.
“What the fuck did I just say, Kujoe? Don’t fucking call me again or—”
“D?” It was Soraya. “What are you talkin’ about? What did Kujoe do?”
“Oh,” I said, sitting back, relaxing my muscles. “Sorry. Nothin’, he’s jus’, it’s nothin’. What’s wrong?”
“You’re lyin’,” she said. “But it doesn’ matter. Jason’s in the hospital.”
“Hospital? What happened?”
I tapped Chauncey on the shoulder. “Turn back around, Chauncey.”
“Okay, Buck. What is going on?”
“Yeah,” Soraya continued. “He’s okay, but he has a broken leg and some bruises. He’s at Beth Israel. I was jus’ there but came to your place to rest. He’s really okay though, D, trust me, but he’s askin’ for you, so can you go and see him?”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll see you right after. But what happened?”
“He jus’ said he was randomly attacked in Chelsea.”
“But what was he doin’ in Chelsea?”
“Won’t say, maybe you can get it outta him. But I’ll see you soon. I love you.”
My heart jolted. It would take me some time to get used to hearing her say that, or maybe I never would, and every time would feel like the first. All I knew was that it felt good. Really good.
“Well,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’m waitin’.”
“I love you too, habibti.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, hanging up.
I told Chauncey to hang outside once we got there. If Jason wasn’t really messed up, then I’d just go check him out before scooping Soraya and heading to Harlem for some of that mafé. This was just a small hiccup.
A nurse directed me to his room, and on seeing him lying up in bed and scrolling on his phone, I said, “Damn, son. Looks like you’ve upgraded your hospital game since I put you in Woodhull.”
“You think you so funny, nigga. Funny for someone who I was jus’ visitin’ in the hospital.”
I sat next to him and examined his leg, which was already in a cast and elevated by some hanging ceiling contraption. He had a few bruises on his face and scratches on his arm, but he seemed okay overall.
“What happened?”
“Motherfuckers came outta nowhere, bro. There was like four of ’em rockin’ some scary-ass cryin’ baby masks. One hit me in the head, and I managed to knock two of ’em down, but then one guy, some shorter nigga, took out a bat and caught me in the leg. Doctor said my tibia’s fractured, so they put a metal rod in me and now I’m here, talkin’ to you.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to piece everything together. “You’re sayin’ four dudes jumped you . . . in Chelsea . . . while other people were around?”
“Yeah, nigga. You tryna say I’m lyin’ or some shit? I don’ need that.”
“Nah, man. I’m jus’ sayin’ it’s weird. Shit like that doesn’ happen in Chelsea. What were you doin’ there?”
He picked his phone up and started scrolling again.
“Yo.” I snatched the phone out of his hands. “What were you doin’ there, going to SoulCycle or some shit? Why’re you bein’ so sus?”
He snatched his phone back. “Funny, ha-ha-ha. I was buyin’ some high-end wine and cheese, nigga. Tryna elevate myself, you know.”
“Did you jus’ pick the whitest things you could think of and lie to me?”
“Basically,” he said, laughing. “But, okay, Imma keep it real with you, because you my boy and I need your help. But you gotta promise not to flip, aight?”
“Aight.”
“I was bustin’ a trap.”
I shot up from my chair, using every inch of force I had not to strangle him. “You were what? I hope you’re fuckin’ with me, Batman. I really do.”
He shrugged.
“Why?” I looked up at the ceiling and paced around the room. “Why, after joinin’ the Happy Campers, gettin’ a job, and everything you’ve done, would you still sell drugs?”
He put his phone down and looked at me. “It’s not that simple, G. The money I was makin’ was okay, but my momma is in some serious debt with s
ome serious people. I’ve been workin’ for, what, a coupla months? I know the money I need will come, but I had a few opportunities to make some real loot, and I wasn’ tryna pass ’em up.”
“So, what, you were dealin’ to someone in Chelsea? How long you been doin’ this for? How many clients you have, man?”
Jason sat up, laughing. “I thought you taught us to only ask one question at a time, nigga. Look atchu.”
I clenched my jaw.
“Aight.” He took in a lungful of air. “It was jus’ one client. Some rich guy who would only hit me up every coupla weeks for some serious weight. Must’ve been supplyin’ all of lower Manhattan or maybe steppin’ on it and flippin’ it himself. But I’ve only been doin’ it for about a month. Matter fact, I was done dealin’, bro. Trey’s the one who said he knew someone that wanted, and when he told me how much, I’m sayin’ like ten stacks’ worth, I said hell yeah I could do it. So I hit up Malcolm, he hit me with the weight, and I made the money easy.”
“Why didn’ you stop then? Ten Gs mus’ be enough to clear your moms’s debt.”
“Nah, bro. It’s some killer debt, and not the kind you pay the government, you feel me? So when homie called me for this flip, I was like, ‘Bet. This is the last time Imma do this. After this, plus my savin’s, her debts will be cleared, and we’ll be set.’ So when those niggas jumped me, I texted the guy and said I’d have to bring it in a coupla days, but he said he didn’ have a coupla days, that it was now or never. And I’m not about to be on the hook with Malcolm for ten Gs, so I gotta get it to the guy tonight.”
He reached over the side of his bed, grabbed a black backpack, and threw it at me.
“I can’t trust anyone else,” he said. “This guy is straight, bro. I promise. All you gotta do is ring the buzzer, take the elevator up, drop it on the floor, grab the money from a little table, count it, and be out. You never see him; he never sees you. I don’ even know what this nigga looks like.”
Black Buck Page 34
