Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  “I still can’t believe how hard you destroyed Sandra Stork,” Eddie said, sitting across from me in the event space.

  “Yeah, Buck,” Frodo added, as he inserted a piece of raw steak into his mouth. “It was like, I don’t know, like she didn’t know what to do.”

  “Can you not eat that in front of Clifford?” Marissa asked, patting her pig with one hand and offering him a palm full of potato chips with the other.

  “What? What’s wrong with this?”

  Eddie pinched his nose. “It’s fucking raw meat, Frodo. Why on earth are you eating a raw steak for lunch?”

  “Oh, uh, I’m on the Paleo Diet. So, if a caveman wouldn’t eat a certain type of food that exists today, like those potato chips Marissa’s feeding Clifford, I won’t eat it. It’s supposed to be healthy.”

  “But why raw meat?”

  Frodo smiled, gripping Eddie’s bony shoulder with his beefy paw. “Because cavemen didn’t have stoves, Eddie. Come on.”

  “Buck, is that you?” Marissa asked, pointing to the flat-screen TV across the room. “Hey!” she shouted. “Turn up the TV; it’s Buck!”

  I looked up and instantly froze. It was a photo of me at Starbucks smiling as I served a customer while Carlos, Brian, and Nicole watched in delight—a professional photo corporate took for promotional material. But I didn’t know why it was being plastered across PSST News.

  “Turn it up!” I screamed.

  A standard male TV voice spoke. “But who is he really? A few days ago, Sumwun CEO Rhett Daniels appeared with this no-name sales kid in an obvious PR stunt. He acted cute for the camera, had some clever answers for Sandra Stork, but how credible is he? Here at PSST News, we decided to search for answers, and what we found was startling. Before working at Sumwun, where he’s been for only three months, he was a shift supervisor at Starbucks. And before that, well, he was just someone who never even went to college. We have Bonnie Sauren on the ground in Bed-Stuy, which sources say is where the young man is from. Over to you, Bonnie.”

  My photo with a superimposed question mark switched over to an attractive blonde girl in a white dress and heels walking out of the Myrtle-Willoughby stop on the G train—my subway station. The same subway station I entered every morning and exited every evening. The subway station across from Wally Cat’s corner and right in front of . . . wait. No. No. No.

  “Thanks, Chet,” Bonnie said, smiling with teeth as white as her dress. “This afternoon I’m in Bed-Stuy, home of the random boy who Sumwun paraded around on national television a few days ago. What we know is that he’s worked there for only a few months, and before that, he was a Starbucks barista after graduating from Bronx School of Science as the valedictorian.”

  “Whoa, Buck,” Frodo said, as everyone in the event space stared at me. “You were the valedictorian? Why didn’t you say?”

  “Uh,” I groaned, and focused back on the TV.

  “But the public wants more answers. So we’re here to get them today. I have with me Jason Morris, a friend of Darren Vender who says he’s known him longer than anyone else.”

  Fuck. Oh fuck.

  The camera focused on Jason, who was wearing a black balaclava, black hoodie, and baggy black pants with his underwear exposed.

  “So, Jason,” Bonnie said. “If you don’t mind, could you remove the ski mask so we can see your face?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I don’ wan’ no feds being able to identify my ass.”

  “But, Jason, we’ve already said your full name on national television,” Bonnie said, looking nervous.

  “Whatever, man. Then I ain’ gonna make it worse by showin’ my face.”

  “Okay. So, Jason, what can you tell us about your friend Darren Vender?”

  “Friend? Nah, you got me BLEEP up. Darren Vender ain’ no friend of mine. He’s a punk-ass BLEEP who think he’s better than everyone around here. He think he comes from, iono, wherever you’re from.”

  “Bismarck, North Dakota?” Bonnie asked, confused.

  “Yeah,” Jason nodded. “He think he from North Dakota, Beverly Hills, or some BLEEP. Guy’s been on his Hollywood ever since he gotta job wit’ those white people in Manhattan. Walkin’ ’round here like he ain’ grow up hittin’ a lick or two on an ice cream truck.”

  “Hit a lick on an ice cream truck?” Bonnie said, pushing the microphone closer to him. “What is that? Hitting a lick?”

  “You know,” Jason said, pulling his balaclava down farther, looking over his shoulder. “Robbin’ BLEEP for some candy, a little ice pop, or some change.”

  “Excuse me, Jason. Just for clarification, are you saying Darren Vender used to rob ice cream trucks with you?”

  “I ain’ sayin’ BLEEP,” he said. “Ain’ nobody snitchin’ out here. I’m jus’ sayin’, dude think he smooth, politickin’ and BLEEP on television. That BLEEP ain’ BLEEP.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I thought my body was going to spontaneously combust where I sat. I knew we had our issues, but I didn’t think he’d do me like that on television. I was hurt, but beyond that, I was furious. I would’ve never betrayed him like that no matter what.

  “Thank you, Jason,” Bonnie said, shaking his hand then wiping hers off on her dress. “And there you have it, America. Darren Vender. Salesman. Starbucks barista. Thug. Our sources also say Jason Morris was arrested a few years ago for grand theft auto and served twelve months. It sounds like Sumwun still has more explaining to do. Back to you, Chet.”

  Eddie grabbed my shoulder. “Buck.”

  “Don’t,” I said, digging my nails deeper into my thighs. With dozens of eyes on me, I got up, grabbed my bags, and headed for the elevator.

  I felt exposed. Like every single person—security guards, people entering elevators, postal workers—were all staring at me and wondering, Is that the kid? I hurried across the lobby and shoved my way through the revolving doors.

  “Hey.” Someone running up behind me tapped my arm.

  “What!” I screamed. It was Brian with his green Starbucks apron over a black short-sleeved button-up.

  “Sorry, Darren—SHIT! I just saw the news. Everyone’s talking about it. You okay?”

  “I will be,” I said, walking down the steps.

  He jogged after me. “Hey, Darren. Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “Um, it’s just that, uh, you said you would try to get me a job at Sumwun, right? Doing what you do. And I know that it didn’t work last time, but, um—COCK! Sorry, uh, maybe you could talk to Clyde and ask for a do-over?”

  “I don’t have time for this, Brian,” I snapped, my voice soaked in rage. “I got you an interview a month ago, like I said I would. I vouched for you, like I said I would. And you fucked it up, like you said you wouldn’t.”

  “But—”

  “But what, Brian? You think I’m just some endless well of opportunities? You think I can just, as you say, ‘Talk to Clyde and ask for a do-over?’ Life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes you get one shot at the game,” I said, jabbing a finger in front of his face. “And if you fuck it up, you’re done. And it doesn’t mean it’s right, but that’s just how the game is. But it’s a good thing you didn’t get the job. Because, frankly, you don’t have what it takes. You would’ve been eaten alive, and it would’ve been more of a waste of your time than the time I’m wasting with you right now. So just stick to Starbucks, okay?”

  Tears welled up in his eyes and slowly crawled over the pimpled and pockmarked surfaces of his face. He nodded, walked back up the stairs, pushed his way through the revolving doors, and disappeared.

  * * *

  When he saw me exiting the station, Wally Cat stood up from his crate, eyes wide in fear. Today his Hawaiian shirt featured red, blue, and yellow parrots on various tropical leaves. “Aye, don’ do nothin’, Darren! It’s not worth it!”

  Jason was where he always was: on his corner, wearing the same black hoodie with the sagging black pants and rolled-up black balaclava from
TV. He was on the phone, waving a hand full of cash in the air. Before he could turn around, I rammed my fist into his face, knocking him to the ground. His phone bounced off the concrete and the wad of hundred-dollar bills exploded like confetti.

  “Yo, what the fuck?” he shouted, eyes knocked into the back of his head.

  “What’s good now, son!” I said, crashing heavy fist after heavy fist into his face. Left eye, right eye, left cheek, right cheek, nose, chin, upper lip, bottom lip. My hands knew no boundaries, traveling freely from place to place like migratory birds.

  He scratched and clawed at my face, doing anything to make me stop, but I was already on top of him, the weight of my body planted on his chest, my feet firm on the concrete.

  “Big man now, huh?” I shouted, pummeling his face like a raw piece of meat, unable to feel the tears flying out of my own eyes. “I’m not shit, right? Said I forgot where I come from, right?” I beat his mouth so many times I felt teeth break right out from his gums, heard his nose crack to the left, then straighten to the right, saw blood pooling in his mouth so dark and red, it resembled oil.

  “You’re gonna kill the nigga!” someone shouted.

  “WORLDSTAR!” another said, cell phone cameras flashing as if I were surrounded by paparazzi.

  I didn’t care. Nothing hurts worse than betrayal from someone you love.

  “D! Stop!” someone yelled. I looked up, and in the dense crowd that swarmed the corner, I saw Soraya, a hand covering her mouth and her face wet with tears. Unable to continue, I got up, wiped my eyes, and walked over to her.

  When I looked back at Jason, he was choking on his blood. Wally Cat turned him over and pounded his back. Blood splattered all over the corner, filling the cracks in the concrete.

  Police sirens grew louder, and the crowd dispersed in every direction. I stood still. The wind blew a strong smell of cinnamon and cocoa butter toward me; I allowed it to fill my nose and spread throughout my body.

  “Let’s go!” Soraya pulled me away.

  I looked back and saw Wally Cat holding Jason in his arms, rubbing his head.

  As we passed the bodega, I waved to Mr. Aziz, but he just stared. We turned the corner and bolted up the stairs.

  * * *

  “I don’ understand,” Ma said, dabbing my face and hands with alcohol.

  “Ow!” I shouted. “That hurts, Ma!”

  “Well maybe it should hurt more. I don’ understand how you and Jason went from bein’ Batman and Superman to fightin’ on the corner like animals.”

  “You saw the interview, Ma. You saw how he did me, didn’ you?”

  She pressed the alcohol harder into my cuts, bringing the pain to an all-time high. “How he did you?” She sucked her teeth. “What’s gotten into you, Darren Vender? You’re startin’ to sound like one of those prepubescent gangbangers on Judge Hatchett, talkin’ ’bout street justice and other nonsense I raised you to steer clear of.”

  Soraya walked into the living room, waving my phone. “It’s ringin’, D.”

  I swatted Ma’s hand away and sat up on the couch. Rhett. Fuck.

  “Hey, Rhett,” I said, trying to sound normal.

  “Jesus, Buck. What did you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Buck,” he said, spitting my name out. “The video is all over every news channel. Why did you do that? I thought you had more sense. I thought you knew what was at stake.”

  Shit. “I don’t know, Rhett. I wasn’t thinking. I just saw what he said about me and lost it. I’m sorry, man. I’m really sorry.”

  He drew a lungful of air. “Sorry doesn’t work here, Buck. Not at all. We were counting on you. You never get emotional in war, Buck. Ever. Listen”—he paused—“don’t come to work tomorrow.”

  My heart stopped. And when I say that, I truly mean it. For a moment, I couldn’t feel it. While the idea of dying on the couch in our living room was bad enough, the thought of my career ending at Sumwun was infinitely worse.

  “Are you—are you saying I’m fired?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

  Silence. Silence that likely lasted only a few seconds but sprouted legs and ran far and hard.

  “I should fire you, Buck. It’s what the board wants.”

  Salty tears gushed from my eyes, stinging my cuts. Whatever I had eaten in the morning started to reverse its trajectory through my intestines, and the room spun around me.

  “But no, Buck,” he said. “I know that what happened today won’t happen again. I promised you that as long as you’re honest with me I’ll always have your back, remember? But you need to lay low over the next few days until this blows over, okay?”

  All I could do was sigh with relief. I grabbed the paper towel from Ma and wiped my eyes with it, forgetting about the alcohol. I didn’t care.

  “Okay, Buck?” he repeated. “Promise me that you’re not going to give the news anything to write about. Nothing.”

  “I promise,” I said, still crying but shedding tears of relief now. “Thank you, Rhett. I’m sorry. Nothing like this will ever happen again.”

  “I know, Buck. It’s going to be fine. You know I see you as my brother, right?”

  “I know, Rhett. I see you as my brother too. Forreal.”

  “Good. So here’s what I want you to do. Take tomorrow off and go to Shangri-La Palace. It’s on Thirty-Second and Sixth.”

  “Alright, but for what?”

  “To relax, Buck. What else? I’m sure you look like shit right now. I’ll book a body scrub, facial, and massage—the works. You wanna take Soraya?”

  “Sure,” I said, unsure of everything. I just wanted the day to be over.

  “Great. I’ll book it for two. My treat.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Rhett. I appreciate it, man. Everything.”

  “Of course. Love you, Buck. Rest up and see you at seven sharp on Monday. We’ll keep fighting, but we need you in top shape.”

  “Love you too, Rhett. See you on Monday.”

  15

  “You happy?” Soraya asked, storming into my bedroom and throwing a pile of papers at me.

  “What?” I quickly sat up.

  “The papers.” She pointed to the mess at the bottom of my feet.

  “What are you talkin’ about? I see the arts section about some new play hittin’ Broadway, some shit about baseball and politics.”

  “This!” she shouted, shoving one of the sheets in my face.

  It was me, well, a close-up of that Starbucks photo of me, with the words YOUNG THUG HITS BACK plastered in bold white lettering. Fuck.

  She crossed her arms, cradling her breasts as if they were ripe melons. “Well?”

  “Well what?” I threw the front cover to the floor and lay back down.

  “Are you happy with yourself? With all this publicity you’re gettin’?”

  “Habibti, c’mon. You know I’m not. It was my bad. Can we forget about it?”

  “Forget about it, D? This isn’ somethin’ you jus’ forget about. You better go and apologize to Jason.”

  I shot straight back up. “Apologize? That motherfucker was comin’ at me on national television. We’re even now and I don’ feel sorry about a damn thing.”

  “Alright, D. If you say so.” She quietly gathered the papers and threw them in the trash before heading for the door.

  “Wait.” I jumped out of bed and grabbed her hand. “Where you goin’? Let’s go to the spa, relax, and have a good day. I don’ have to go in, remember?”

  She yanked her hand away and opened the door. “Good for you. Now you’ll have plenty of time to think about how wrong you are. Peace.”

  “C’mon, Soraya, don’ be that way. I’m the victim here. I got people comin’ at me from all angles and you’re takin’ their side? What is this? I thought it was always me and you.”

  She paused at the door, inhaling deeply before facing me. “It is, D. And if you think I’m takin’ someone else’s side, then you’re more messed up than I thought. So what I�
��m gonna say is this: either you grow up and apologize to Jason, or I’m not gonna see you for a very, very long time. Hal tafham?”

  I closed my eyes and saw Jason with Bonnie Sauren, wearing that black balaclava with that black hoodie and those saggy black pants. Talking shit about me. My heart banged against my chest like a stranger in the night. Harder. Faster. Louder. And my jaw became so tight, I swore I was going to split my teeth in half. But when I opened my eyes, Soraya was gone. The door downstairs slammed shut. In my boxers, I ran down the stairs and out the door after her.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I said, snatching her hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll do it. I’ll get dressed and say sorry to him on the way to the spa. Deal?”

  Satisfied, she cracked a smirk and pointed to the house. “Go.”

  “Damn, boy. You lookin’ more naked than a jaybird,” Mr. Rawlings said from his window. “Put some clothes on ’fore the po-lice arrest you for prostitution. Yeesh!”

  “Aight, aight,” I said. “Mornin’ to you too, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “Also, your momma feelin’ better?”

  “I think so,” I said, running up the stairs before the police actually did stop and ask what the hell I was doing. “She went to work, so probably.”

  “Mm-hmm. You better keep outta trouble now,” he said, shutting his window.

  Minutes later, I was dressed and jumping down the stairs. We walked toward the corner. No Jason. Just Wally Cat sitting on his crate.

  “Aye, come here!” he shouted.

  “Hang here for a second,” I told Soraya. “Let me see what he wants.”

  “Wassup, Wally Cat?”

  “Wassup? Nigga, you almost killed someone yesterday, tha’s wassup. If it wasn’ for me, he would’ve bled out on the street right there. I seen that shit too many times on this corner to be seein’ it again. What got into you?”