Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  “She’s aight,” I said, sitting on the crate next to him. Parents with children too young for school and too energetic for home arrived at the playground behind us, Marcy Playground, and let them loose. Screams filled the warm air.

  “Good, good. You know, back in the day your momma was the finest woman in Bed-Stuy. So fine she didn’ mess with no niggas like me. She had to have that high-quality, knowwhatImsaying? Like yo’ daddy. He was one of those clean, suavamente Spanish niggas who had girls all over him, but he was aight.” He removed his fedora, patting his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Yeah, man. I know.” Not wanting to hear Wally Cat continue panting over the memory of Ma, I changed the subject. “Hey, Wally Cat. Why do they call you Wally Cat again?”

  He sucked his teeth and looked over his shoulders. “Boy, don’ ask me questions that don’ concern you. You betta be askin’ questions that give you information you can use in yo’ own life. And no ‘yes or no’ questions. I’m talkin’ the open-ended ones that’ll crack your mind in half. Like why would the valedictorian of Bronx Science be wastin’ his life away workin’ at a damn—”

  Reader: Wally Cat is many things, but a fool he is not. What he told me that day was a sales lesson in disguise. The quality of an answer is determined by the quality of the question. Quote that and pay me my royalties.

  I was across the street before he could finish. I usually enjoyed chopping it up with Wally Cat, but on this day, the day my life changed forever, I just wanted to go to work, get back home, kick it with Soraya, and sleep.

  After transferring from the G to the L at Metropolitan Avenue, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking it was an accident, I turned my music up and closed my eyes. The bass from Meek Mill’s “Polo & Shell Tops” invaded my ears like American troops in Iraq.

  Another tap, this time more forceful. Whenever this type of thing happened, I just ignored it. But then a manicured hand grabbed my wrist and pulled it back, bringing me face-to-face with a slim Korean girl with curly brown hair and a jean jacket that fit just right.

  “Darren Vender, the ghost of Bronx Science,” she said, glossy lips breaking apart to reveal a Colgate smile.

  I removed my earbuds. “Adrianna, what’s up?”

  “Not much, heading to Midtown. What about you?”

  “Yeah, same. How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, you know,” she said. “I graduate from NYU next week. Actually on my way to an interview right now.”

  “That’s awesome,” I replied, shaking off the Bed-Stuy in my voice. “What’s the interview for?”

  “I’m sort of embarrassed to say, but it’s one of those entry-level marketing positions at a startup.”

  Jesus. If she’s embarrassed by an entry-level marketing position, especially before graduating from NYU, then I’m fucked.

  “I’m sure you’ll crush it,” I said.

  Thank God she didn’t have X-ray vision. If she did, she would have seen the black apron in my backpack. Thank God twice that the train arrived at Union Square, ending the conversation.

  “Thanks, I’ll see you around,” she said, taking off. A second later, I realized we were both hopping on the 6, so I headed to the opposite end of the train.

  It’s funny. Back then I didn’t pay any attention to running into Adrianna; ghosts from the past always reappear in New York City. But now that I think back on it, maybe seeing her had something to do with the wild shit that happened next.

  2

  3 Park Avenue was its own world. Part office building, part high school, the forty-two-floor behemoth stuck out like a sore geometric brick thumb. Twelve elevators. Thirty companies. One Starbucks. One Darren Vender toiling away inside of that Starbucks for coming up on four years. Yes, after nearly four years, I was still in the same place. But at least I wasn’t making the same drinks or even wearing the same lame green apron. The drinks became more ridiculous with every year. People were no longer satisfied with familiar flavors like gingerbread, pumpkin, and peppermint; now they needed Grasshopper Frappuccinos. Fucking grasshoppers.

  As for the uniforms, well, most people don’t know it, but Starbucks treats its aprons like martial-arts belts. Green aprons for beginners, black aprons for coffee masters, and purple aprons for gods. I was a black apron. After working there for four years, I was certainly the Head Nigga in Charge. But to be honest, this didn’t mean much.

  “Hey, Darren!” Nicole said, tying the straps of her green apron behind her back. Nicole was a large white woman with a pretty face. She was probably thirty-five and always in a great mood no matter how rough customers were.

  When I came out, the place was packed. Carlos, Brian, and Nicole were filling cups, making change, and serving pastries as if it were a five-star restaurant. They were a motley crew—Carlos was an ex-con who’d committed a crime he wasn’t allowed to discuss, Brian had charcoal skin with a face full of acne and a side of Tourette’s, and Nicole, though well-meaning, only saw the world through rose-colored glasses—but I molded them all into soldiers. They were never late, always professional, and knowledgeable about every newfangled drink that corporate handed down to us. But most of all, they were just good humans. I don’t have any siblings, so they were the closest thing to it. And even though I was the youngest, they saw me as an older brother.

  As the line of morning addicts stretched out the door, I hopped into action. Now I’m not trying to brag, but I was what you’d call a Starbucks prodigy. No one except Carlos, Brian, and Nicole knew it, but that didn’t matter. I could remember someone’s order from three months back, mix and match drinks to accommodate special tastes, and while doing all that, man two registers at once, shuffling back and forth like I was Billy Blanks or Richard Simmons.

  We halved the line within ten minutes, and I hadn’t even broken a sweat. Then I saw him. He had started coming in two months ago after his company moved in. Early mornings, he’d enter alone, always on the phone. At ten, he would return flanked by a group of men, all resembling Dobermans. In the afternoon, he’d come in again with a few younger people who beamed at him as he laughed, and he’d tell them to get whatever they wanted. Then late afternoon would arrive, and I never knew what to expect.

  His appearance changed depending not on the time of day but on whom he was with. When alone, he was pensive; with his Dobermans, he was focused; with his young disciples, he shined brighter than the sun itself. He’d never order food, and despite his athletic build, well-groomed hair, and healthy olive complexion, I was sure he ran on nothing but coffee.

  I can’t tell you why I did what I did next; I suppose I just wanted to be helpful. He walked up to the counter, earbuds firmly in his ears, his face twitching in frustration. But instead of getting him his regular Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew—I waited. He nodded his head, then finally said, “I know, I know. It’s going to be fine, trust me. I’ve got the board handled.”

  I served customers on the adjacent register until he looked up, and said, “Hey. Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew. Like always. You remember, right?”

  By now, the last of the morning customers had grabbed their drinks, and it was just us at the counter.

  “I don’t think you want that today,” I said.

  I didn’t know why my heart was furiously beating against my ribs. But looking back on it, I realize my body must’ve known that this was a pivotal moment in my life, that these supernatural turns of fate are rare.

  Reader: What you are about to see is what happens when intuition overrides logic, which is the mark of any salesperson worth their salt. People buy based on emotion and justify with reason. Watch.

  “Yeah, hold on,” he said into his mic, staring at me. His eyes burned with anger. “Why wouldn’t I want that today?” he asked, growing larger, like a lion with its prey in reach.

  “Because I always hear you on your phone talking about efficiency. And the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew isn’t built for that. You want something like—”

  He laughed, b
ut it wasn’t the kind where someone actually finds something funny; it was the type where you’re so pissed off, you’re about to snap. He took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. “Listen, I’m good on whatever you’re selling, just give me my regular. I don’t have time for this.”

  Just give him his regular. Stop fucking around. But I didn’t listen. What I said next had to be divine intervention because I didn’t know where it came from.

  “That’s what the last five customers also said to me, until I gave them another option that solved a problem they didn’t know they had.”

  He clenched his jaw and leaned toward me like he was going to Tyson my ear off.

  “Because,” I continued, too committed to stop, “believe it or not, when you come here and order something, you’re not ordering a drink, you’re ordering a solution. A solution to fatigue, irritability, and anything else that a lack of coffee means to you. So, if you’ll indulge me, I’m confident that the Nitro Cold Brew with Sweet Cream is what you actually want. It has ten grams less sugar than your regular, forty fewer calories, and one hundred forty milligrams more caffeine. But at the end of the day, those are just numbers. So if you buy the Nitro Cold Brew and don’t like it, you can come back, and I’ll give you your regular free of charge. What do you think?”

  Silence. Ten full seconds of silence. If you don’t think ten seconds of silence is long, just count it out while picturing a grown man staring directly into your eyes as if he’s going to snatch the black off you. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. I was tempted to tell him to forget it, that it was my bad, but something told me not to. I just stared back into his eyes until he said, “Did you just try to reverse close me?” He relaxed his jaw and his eyes softened with curiosity.

  It was then I realized Carlos, Nicole, and Brian had been staring at us the entire time. I felt their hearts collectively skip a beat when the guy spoke, and I remembered the color of the apron I was wearing, and that I was the HNIC. “I suppose I did,” I said, nodding at Brian to make the guy’s drink.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Darren. Darren Vender.”

  “Rhett Daniels,” he said, extending a hand over the counter. I quickly wiped the sweat off mine before gripping his.

  “Nice to meet you, Rhett. I see you in here every day. Well, a few times a day, actually.”

  He laughed. Genuinely this time. “Yeah, I run on coffee. What do you do besides work here?”

  “Read, watch movies, hang out with my girlfriend. Normal stuff guys get into in the city.”

  “And how much do you make?”

  Damn, how much do I make? This guy was going in deep. I shrugged.

  “Your drink is ready,” I said, nodding toward the far side of the counter.

  Rhett slowly walked over, never taking his eyes off me, grabbed the drink, and took a sip. “This is delicious. Thanks for the recommendation, Darren.”

  “No problem.” I felt uneasy. Something had shifted.

  “Listen, I gotta get to work. But here’s my card. Why don’t you swing by the office after your shift?”

  Swing by the office? I had no clue what this guy was talking about. “For what?”

  “An opportunity.”

  “What kind of opportunity?”

  He was already walking out the double doors leading to the lobby. “Come by and you’ll find out.”

  * * *

  “So did you meet him?” Soraya asked, a film of sweat spreading across her naked body thick with curves all over. She twisted her long curly black hair into a knot.

  My heart was still beating from our lovemaking session. I took a big gulp of cold water and collapsed back onto the pillow. “Nah.”

  She propped herself up on an elbow and raised a thick eyebrow at me.

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause the whole thing was strange and mad fast,” I said, distracted by her beautiful brown areolas. “Plus, I was jus’ messin’ around. I dunno what made me do it, but I sorta wanted to see if I could actually change this powerful white guy’s mind.”

  “And you did,” she said, tracing my chin with a slender finger. Shit gave me chills.

  “Yeah, but I was jus’ messin’ around. I dunno what this guy actually wants. Plus, I’m too busy with everything else.”

  “Everything else like what, D? You’re always sayin’, ‘I’m jus’ waitin’ for the right opportunity.’ Isn’ this it?”

  “Nah, this isn’ it. At least not what I envisioned.”

  “And what did you envision, Cassandra?”

  I sat up. “Man, quit that Cassandra shit.” I had to give it to her; like Ma, she knew how to push my buttons. We’d met when we were seven. She’d just moved to the States from Yemen, and Jason saw her at Marcy Playground playing alone. He ran to my house, and when I opened the door, he said he’d found an alien, pushing her in front of me. When I said, “Hello,” she said, “As-salamu alaykum!” “See,” he said, nodding in self-satisfaction.

  We brought her up to show Ma, and Ma slapped both of us upside the head, and said, “She’s not an alien, silly boys. She’s jus’ new. You better treat her like a queen.” I’ll skip the corny romantic shit, but we became best friends, and then, around middle school, became more than that, and have been together ever since, minus a few minor breakups. She was my Wonder Woman.

  She laughed. “You know what my dad said about you?”

  “Nah, what’d Mr. Aziz say about me?”

  “He said you’re a smart guy with a bright future. And, jus’ from lookin’ at you, the way you actually listen to people, and are always curious, that you’re not like the other guys around here. That you’re different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I don’ know. Jus’ different. So keep it real with me. Is it really jus’ not the right opportunity, or is it somethin’ else?”

  I turned away from her. She had the type of eyes that saw through you. “Somethin’ else like what?”

  “Like you bein’ afraid of what could come of it but disguisin’ that by sayin’ it’s not the right opportunity ’cause you wanna stay here and take care of Mrs. V when she’s the last person who needs to be taken care of. Plus, she knows you’re holdin’ yourself back for her, D. She jus’ wants you to get started with your life.”

  Damn. The pro of being with someone for more than half your life is that they know you better than you know yourself. The con of being with someone for more than half your life is that they know you better than you know yourself.

  “I have started. What would I be afraid of?”

  There was a knock at the door. “Dar, I brought some pizza home for us all to eat.”

  “Thanks, Ma. But who’s us?”

  She sucked her teeth behind the door. “Don’ think I don’ know Soraya’s in there. Hi, baby.”

  Soraya shifted under the covers, wrapping her naked body as if Ma had X-ray vision. “Hi, Mrs. V.”

  “Mr. Rawlings is comin’ up to join us, so get dressed and come on out.”

  The good thing about living in a three-story brownstone was that there was plenty of room. Mr. Rawlings lived on the garden floor, Ma’s bedroom was on the first, we had a large living room and kitchen on the second, and I had the entire third to myself. I’d told Ma I could stay on the first floor with her, to make room for another tenant, but she said that I was grown and that grown men need their space.

  Even though we all had access to the back garden, Ma and I rarely went. First thing, Mr. Rawlings loved that garden. He tended it all day and night, even in the winter when he’d put up frost blankets, bedsheets, and heat lamps. It blew my mind to see radishes, broccoli, turnips, kale, spinach, and other vegetables sprouting when there was snow on the ground.

  Second, the man was about as old as the earth itself. He was in his late seventies back then and had lived at 84 Vernon for decades before Ma inherited it. I’d never heard him talk about family, so I assumed he didn’t have any. But after Ma’s par
ents passed only months apart when she was twenty, he treated her like a daughter, and then when I came along, he treated me like a grandson. All this made Mr. Rawlings the man—a Bed-Stuy veteran to be respected.

  Soraya and I entered the kitchen. “Hi, Mr. Rawlings,” she said, planting a wet kiss on his bald, liver-spotted head. He was wearing his usual outfit: the Old Geezer™ starter kit equipped with soft-soled black leather shoes, gray slacks, and a tucked-in plaid shirt with a navy vest over it. Sometimes he exchanged the vest for suspenders. Yes, suspenders. His rosewood cane rested on the arm of his chair.

  “Good evenin’, Jasmine,” he said, winking at her. Jasmine, of course, being the princess from Aladdin.

  She pinched his cheek. “Don’ start, old man.” Like I said, the man was a Bed-Stuy veteran to be respected, but if you’re going to dish it out, you also got to take it.

  “Take a seat and let’s say grace,” Ma said from the head of the table, still rocking the clothes she always wore to and from work—a loose fitting white blouse tucked into blue jeans—smelling like chlorine. I knew breathing that shit in all day wasn’t good for her, but she refused to quit, saying that she was good at her job and needed to feel good at something.

  The four of us held hands and Ma prayed. “Dear Lord, thank you for your unconditional love, the opportunity you’ve afforded all of us to be able to sit down with one another, eat good food, not have to worry about where our next meal is goin’ to come from, and—”

  She pulled her hands away, her whole body convulsing like the cough was coming from somewhere deep inside of her. As if a monster had wrapped its phlegmy tentacles around her insides.

  “Ma,” I said, rubbing her back. “Spit it out. Whatever it is, spit it out. You’ll feel better afterward.”