Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  She closed her eyes, rubbing her shoulder. “My dad invited you over for dinner tonight. He saw what happened with Jason and knows you’re goin’ through a tough time, so he wants to cook for you.”

  I’d been to Soraya’s house a handful of times, but never when Mr. Aziz was there. He’d always been nice to me, and he obviously knew Soraya and I were more than friends, but he always just treated me like one of his customers.

  “So I think,” she continued, noting my surprise, “that it’d be a good reset for us, you know? You can get to know my dad more, and he can get to know you as more than jus’ some guy from the neighborhood. We can work it out.”

  I took in a big breath of Bed-Stuy and held it. I’m not gonna lie, I was still upset about the things she’d said and how she’d been acting, but we’d been through shit before and always got over it. “Aight.”

  “Aight?” she asked, smiling.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Aight.”

  “See you at seven then.”

  I passed Jason’s empty corner as Wally Cat shouted, “Aye, Darren! Aye!” But I put my head down and descended into the station, preparing for whatever the day had in store for me even though no amount of preparation could’ve helped with what happened next.

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dawn! This is Darren calling from Sumwun, how are you?”

  “Oh, hi, Darren. I’m sorry, but, um, this really isn’t a good time.”

  “No problem, but I thought you said to call Friday at two? Should we reschedule?”

  “Um, no Darren. We just, I, um, I just don’t think we’re going to need your services.”

  I rubbed my eyes, exhaling. “Dawn, I don’t mean to come off as a pushy salesperson, so please forgive the persistence, but you told me two months ago that Sumwun was exactly what you needed to battle your millennial turnover. Are you not experiencing turnover anymore?”

  “Darren, I did say that, and we are still experiencing turnover, but I’d rather have people leaving Chuck E. Cheese than pay to have them murdered.”

  “But, Dawn—”

  “Goodbye, Darren. Please don’t call again.” Click.

  “Fuck!”

  Charlie looked over. “Sorry, dude. It’s happening to everyone. Those marketing videos we put out yesterday with the young girls saying how we’ve saved their lives and shit were supposed to help, but I guess not.”

  Frodo chimed in. “I think we need Magic Johnson.”

  “What?” Marissa asked. Clifford was ramming his fat head into the back of her chair, rocking her up and down.

  “Magic Johnson,” Frodo repeated, standing up. “Whenever anyone is in trouble, they get, like, uh, a celebrity spokesperson, you know? Someone famous to be the face of the brand. And Magic Johnson could be that for us.”

  The Duchess walked through the frosted doors, sipping a smoothie, and dropped her bag at her desk. Even during Sumwun’s horrible economic downturn, she managed to generate meeting after meeting, coming and going as she pleased. She no longer spoke to us, even to put us down.

  Frodo nodded in Eddie’s direction. “What do you think, Eddie?”

  Eddie was glued to his phone, furiously swiping left and right on photos of buff guys. “Yeah, good idea, Frodo.”

  “Um, thanks,” Frodo said, scratching his head. “Hey, what’s that app? Looks fun.”

  “Well—”

  Charlie slowly rose from his chair and pointed to the frosted doors. “What the fuck?”

  I turned around and thought I was hallucinating. Dozens of men and women in navy jackets poured out of the elevators in every direction.

  “FBI! Everyone stop what you’re doing and put your hands where I can see them,” a pale man in a blood-colored tie and white button-down shouted as he shoved open the frosted doors. “Now!”

  They flooded the entire floor, walking single file throughout the rows and around the corners, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows as helicopters moved across the sky.

  Clyde stormed toward the pale man but froze when the agent gripped his holster. “Make another move and we’ll arrest you!”

  “I hope you bastards have a warrant,” Clyde said. “If not, get the fuck out of here! We know our rights.”

  The pale man reached into his jacket, procured a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Clyde.

  “Court authorized,” the pale man said, smiling. “You think you guys can just get an underage girl killed and not be investigated? This falls under violent crimes against children, online predators, and maybe we’ll find more, but who really knows? Now sit down and shut up!”

  Clyde didn’t sit down. He stood there and read, gripping the paper so hard, it looked like he was going to tear it in half.

  “I said sit!” the pale man roared into Clyde’s face. Clyde wilted into his seat. Pussy.

  “Now,” the man said, as he turned around the room. “Where’s your fearless leader?”

  Rhett walked out of his office looking like he’d just seen a ghost. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on”—the pale man grinned—“is that Sumwun is under investigation. Give us everything you got. And I mean everything.”

  * * *

  I exited the subway. The sun had set, but the humid heat of summer still clung to the September air. There were still trees on the sidewalk with leaves that refused to turn brown, as if change didn’t always win in the end.

  I charged past Wally Cat and Jason’s empty corner, looking through the bodega’s windows to make sure Mr. Aziz and Soraya weren’t there.

  “Hey, Darren,” Waleed, Soraya’s cousin, said from behind the counter.

  “What’s good, Waleed.”

  I walked to the back and grabbed a bottle of sparkling cider.

  “This for tonight?” he asked, ringing me up.

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  He laughed. “Soraya was nervous about you actually makin’ it, but I knew you would. I’m ten bucks richer now. Good looks.”

  I cut left down Myrtle Avenue, passing Crown Fried, Kutz, and the laundromat before hearing rock music blasting from a bar. I stopped at the window and saw only white people inside, playing pool, drinking cold glasses of beer, and jerking their elbows and knees wildly—what I guess they considered dancing. Shit is changing. No doubt about that.

  I buzzed, then heard Soraya’s sandals slapping down the stairs.

  “I didn’ think you’d come,” she said, unable to hide her smile. She wore a modest black dress and looked incredible.

  “Which is why I made sure I did,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I bet. Is that for me?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I handed her the bottle and followed her upstairs, watching her ass shake with each step.

  Like us, they owned their home. They rented the bottom floor to relatives and occupied the others. Soraya had the top floor to herself and Mr. Aziz lived on the second, where the kitchen and living room also were.

  “Darren, marhaban,” Mr. Aziz said, gesturing to a small wooden table set for three.

  I hadn’t been there in a while, but it was exactly as I remembered: brown suede couches; flat-screen TV with a foreign cable box; glass cupboard full of colorful plates, bowls, and utensils; an oversize photo of Soraya’s little sister, destined to be five years old forever.

  “Thank you, Mr. Aziz. It smells amazing in here.”

  He laughed. “Well, I wasn’t sure what you’d like, but Soraya said you eat everything, so there’s maraq, which is a delicious soup made from goat meat broth; mandi, which is spiced rice and slow-cooked lamb made in a traditional tandoor; shafoot, which is a spiced yogurt; and, of course, salad and different types of pita. Please, dig in. I hope you like it.”

  An hour later, I was stuffed. The care that Mr. Aziz put into the meal was obvious; every single bite was different from the last. After we discussed the changes in the neighborhood, Mr. Aziz’s plans for expansion, and the rising cost of liv
ing in Bed-Stuy, Mr. Aziz put his drink down, and said, “So, Soraya and I saw the news about the FBI and Sumwun. What’s going on?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Aziz. We have it under control.”

  “It doesn’t look like it. People are saying your company should be shut down and that your pompous CEO should be in jail. What do you think?”

  I gritted my teeth, beginning to regret not blowing off the dinner. “I’d prefer to not talk about it, Mr. Aziz. If that’s okay.”

  He shot a look at Soraya, then back at me. “Darren, you’re a smart guy. I’ve known it since I first saw you. So why do you want to be mixed up in this? Maybe it’s time to move on.”

  I turned to Soraya, whose eyes were full of concern, like I was a dopehead in need of an intervention. Then I faced Mr. Aziz and forced a smile. “Thank you for your concern, but trust me, everything will be fine.”

  “Will it?” he asked, ripping a floury piece of pita in half. “You need to cut your losses before it’s too late. I’m sure there are plenty of other places where you could work, and with people more grounded than that so-called CEO of yours. He reminds me of—”

  “Mr. Aziz,” I cut in, past my breaking point. “With all due respect, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Soraya coughed, rising from the table. “Tea? I think we need tea.”

  “I came to this country with nothing and made something of myself, Darren. So I believe that I do know what I’m talking about. It’s obvious the company you work for has done more harm than good, so why not take your talents elsewhere? Someone like you can—”

  “Take my talents elsewhere? Mr. Aziz, Sumwun is where I belong, and Rhett gave me an opportunity when I needed it most. We help people want to live another day. And if you call that ‘harm,’ then you’re as crazy as the people who believe everything the news says.”

  “Darren!” Soraya shouted, dropping the saucers onto the table. “Apologize to my father right now. He’s trying to help you. We all are.”

  Mr. Aziz raised his hand in Soraya’s direction. “It’s okay, Soraya. Your boyfriend is what we uneducated and crazy people would call brainwashed. It usually happens to the ones who think they’re too smart to be tricked.”

  Soraya, horrified, looked from Mr. Aziz to me and back to him, no doubt trying to figure out how to fix this. But it was too late.

  In a situation like this, the old me wouldn’t have said anything—he would’ve apologized and tried to smooth things over, but the old me was gone, and I was happy about it, because he was a boy and I was finally a man. A man who took shit from no one.

  “You know what, Mr. Aziz? You’re the one who’s brainwashed. You came to this country thinking that buying a house and setting up a chain of cheap bodegas meant you’d be successful, when selling a bag of chips for ninety-nine cents has never changed the world. You wouldn’t know what innovation was if it slapped you in the face.”

  Soraya rounded the table and knelt beside me. “This isn’t you, D. This isn’t you at all. Please apologize to my dad and let’s just have tea. It’ll be fine, right, baba?” she asked, turning to Mr. Aziz.

  “No, Soraya,” he said, staring at me. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it will be.”

  “Funny,” I said, getting up from the table and heading for the door. “We finally agree on something.”

  17

  “Darren!” Someone was banging on my door. “Darren Vender, wake up! Are you alive in there?”

  My head felt like it had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler carrying elephants and cement. I opened my eyes, my blurry vision slowly focused, and I tried to respond, but my throat was drier than a nun’s vagina.

  “Darren! Do you hear me? If you don’ get outta bed and open this door in five seconds, so help me God I will break down this door and beat you awake.”

  After I’d left Soraya’s, I grabbed drinks with Eddie and Frodo, drowning my anger in vodka, rum, gin, and beer. But hangover or not, I leapt out of bed and opened the door before she reached zero. “I’m up, Ma,” I said, blinded by sunlight pouring into the room. “What’s up, the house on fire?”

  She was dressed in black leather flats, black stockings, a black blouse under a black velvet jacket, and a wide-brimmed black hat to top it off: funeral attire.

  She stared at me—long curly hair matted to one side of my face and nothing but a pair of boxers on—and sucked her teeth. “If the house was on fire, you’d be burnt to a crisp, son. You smell like a pub and look like somethin’ the cat dragged in. Get dressed.”

  “Dressed? For what? Somebody die?”

  “For church. And if you don’ come, you’ll be the dead one.”

  I coughed a few times, bending over. I was about to throw up. “Nah, Ma. No church for me. I’m feelin’ sick today.”

  “Which is exactly why you need to be gettin’ up and goin’ to church, boy,” someone said from the hallway.

  “Mr. Rawlings?”

  “Ain’ no damn Mister Rogers. Get dressed, we gon’ be late now.”

  “I really can’t,” I pleaded.

  “Come on, baby. Please come with us. It’s goin’ to be a nice sermon, everyone over there hasn’ seen you in years and I jus’ . . . I jus’ need you there with me.”

  There was a desperation in her voice, but I ignored it. My head was pounding, and all I wanted to do was go back to bed. “Why today, Ma? You been goin’ to church for years without me. So why do you need me now?”

  She looked at me like she hadn’t seen me in a while. “Baby, it’s jus’—”

  “Sorry, Ma. I jus’ can’t. You know what’s goin’ on at work, and I need as much rest as I can get.”

  “Okay, Dar. It’s okay. Get some rest,” she said, gently closing the door, defeated.

  I got back into bed and curled up with my phone. There was a text from Soraya.

  If you don’t apologize to my dad, never talk to me again. We’re all just trying to help you!

  I didn’t have time for any of that or anyone who thought that fighting for what you believed in meant you were brainwashed.

  The room was spinning, and I covered my face with a pillow, trying to make it all stop. More knocking at my door. It was the Saturday morning from hell.

  “I can’t move, Ma. I’m gonna throw up.”

  “Tha’s what happens when you can’ hold your damn liquor, boy,” Mr. Rawlings said. “But if you don’ open up, I’ll beat the rest outta you.”

  I crawled to the door and opened it. “What’s up, Mr. Rawlings?”

  “Since when you start drinkin’? Jus’ a coupla months ago I couldn’ even get you to have a li’l champagne.”

  “I dunno, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “Sheesh. Get dressed and come to church with me and your momma. It’ll mean a lot to her.”

  “Mr. Rawlings, I get it, but you don’ understand, I’m in no shape for church.” I closed the door until his hand stopped it.

  “I don’ know what’s goin’ on with you, boy. I don’ know if it’s who you’re associatin’ with, if you’re losin’ yourself to the bottle, or somethin’ else, but what I do know is you only got but one momma. And you only got her for a bit of time in this world, so you should do what any self-respectin’ man would do and make her happy while you can.”

  He sold me. I got dressed and went to church. We filed into the rickety wooden pew one by one, and after I kissed and hugged a hundred people, explained where I’d been, and answered questions with yes, that was me on TV, and no, I don’t work for the devil, the minister’s sermon began.

  I’m not going to lie; I fell asleep with my head down fifteen minutes in. No one bothered me since I looked like I was praying. It was perfect until my phone vibrated. Rhett.

  Meet me at my place now. I’ll call you an Uber.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  A woman behind me gripped my shoulder, and whispered, “He soon come, honey. Soon come indeed.”

  I looked to the left and saw Ma wi
th tears in her eyes, gripping Mr. Rawlings’s hand. “Glory be to God!” she shouted in response to something the minister said.

  I couldn’t bear to interrupt, so I quietly got up and walked out without turning back.

  * * *

  Rhett lived on one of those quaint, tree-lined streets in the West Village with cobblestones, celebrities walking their dogs, and boutique shops that need to sell only two pieces a month to survive. He had the entire floor of a brick townhouse all to himself, but he always had people—models, bottle girls, and other glamorous socialites—inside.

  “Yo,” he said, opening his door in nothing but a pair of plaid pajamas. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “What’s up, man?” I dropped my bag and sank into his soft leather couch.

  “I’m losing it and didn’t know who else to call,” he said, arms crossed as he paced around the room. “We’re getting eaten alive. By everyone. The media. The board. Celebrities. Do you know what Mark Zuckerberg said about us? Mark fucking Zuckerberg of all people. That we’re the reason tech startups are getting a bad rap. Can you believe it? Us? When Facebook’s been stealing users’ information from fucking day one. I ought to find him and beat the shit out of him.”

  “Whoa, slow down, man. This is war, remember? This shit happens, and we can’t let it get to us, just like you’ve said this whole time.”

  He sat down on the polished hardwood floor, his head in his hands.

  I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed some expensive faux-­gourmet coffee and put it in the machine.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said, watching his shoulders shake up and down. He was sobbing. Loudly.

  “Get up.” I picked him up and threw him onto the couch. “And drink this.” I handed him a cup of the over-roasted sludge.

  “Thanks,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Lucien and the rest of the board said that if we don’t close a significant amount of cash this month I’m out.”

  “What do you mean out?”

  “Fired, Buck. They said I’m fired at the end of the month if we can’t pull it together. All of this shit, it’s just the excuse they were waiting for to get me out. They’ve always hated us, and I knew it, but now I really know it.”