“Something like that,” I said, getting a strong cuckold vibe from him. I unbuttoned my jacket and grabbed a manila folder off the table.
“So,” Rhett started. He looked from the three men to me and back to them like he was about to piss himself. “We were just talking about the pilot, Buck. And what we can do to make sure it’s extra special so the five thousand Tesco employees we’re starting off with get the most out of Sumwun.”
“Great,” I said, leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes. Within seconds, I heard myself snoring.
Rhett nudged me in the ribs. “Buck.”
“Huh, yeah?” I said, startled.
Rhett, Clyde, and the three men stared at me in suspense.
“So,” I started, clearing my throat and smoothing out my jacket. “What were you all thinking?”
“Well,” the closeted cuckold said. “We’re thinking of creating some posters to rouse the troops, right? And maybe a short video from you, someone they’ve read about in the newspapers, would help make sure they took advantage of Sumwun. If we can get—”
“I don’t get it,” I said, taking my steaming cup of coffee from Porschia and setting it on the table.
The cuckold tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “Apologies, but what don’t you get?”
“Why a video from me will make your employees more likely to use the service. People use it because it’s going to help them, not because someone they don’t even know tells them to.”
“Right,” he said, twisting his freckled hands. “But every bit helps.”
I shook my head and straightened up, staring the cuckold directly in his eyes, piercing his feeble little soul. “Not in this case. You don’t want your employees to rely on me to get, I don’t know how you say it across the pond, excited—”
“Chuffed works,” one of the other Three Stooges chimed in.
I winked at him. “Thanks. You don’t want your employees to rely on me to get chuffed about using Sumwun. That’s lazy and, frankly, not my job.”
“Well,” the cuckold said, getting red, looking to Rhett and Clyde for assistance. “We just think it’ll help get them behind the deal. A million dollars isn’t a light investment for us.”
“Bollocks,” I said, smirking at him. “You’re one of the world’s biggest grocery chains and brought in over two-point-five billion in profit last year alone. In pounds. So don’t tell me a million greenbacks is going to put you and your friends in”—I turned to the stooge who’d helped me before—“what do you call public housing over there?”
“Council estates,” he said, smiling at the attention I was giving him.
“Yeah,” I continued. “So don’t tell me a million dollars is going to put you and your friends in council estates. Do we have a deal or not?”
After Clyde walked them out, he stormed into Qur’an and slammed the heavy wooden door shut.
“What the fuck was that?” He got so close that pieces of foamy spit landed on my nose.
“Jesus,” I said, plopping down in my seat, rubbing my eyes. “Ever hear the phrase, ‘Say it, don’t spray it,’ Clyde?”
He swung around the table and grabbed Rhett’s shoulder. “Rhett, enough of this shit. This guy has been acting like he owns the place ever since he closed that lucky deal with that maniac and—”
I coughed loudly and theatrically stuck my index finger in the air. “Ahem. Lucky deal that produced other baby deals,” I said. “Many of which I handed off to you because you couldn’t close shit when we were going down. Don’t forget about that.”
“Do you hear this crap?” Clyde turned to Rhett. “He shows up when he wants to, takes all kinds of risks with high-profile prospects, and is one thousand percent on cocaine right now. He looks like fucking Tony Montana slumped over in his chair after he snorted that mountain of blow in the last scene of Scarface.”
“Me?” I asked, standing up and pounding my chest. “I want what’s coming to me . . . the world, Chico, and everything in it.”
Clyde knelt beside Rhett, looking him in the eye. But Rhett had his eyes closed and was whispering to himself. Clyde pushed him and he slowly came to and looked around the room. “Rhett,” he begged. “Say something. This can’t continue.”
Rhett took a deep breath and shrugged. “But at least they signed the deal, Clyde. That’s a million dollars. It’s huge.”
Clyde stood and walked to the windows. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this shit.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re trusting the fate of the company to some uneducated, gallivanting”—
Go ahead. Say it. Say the word you’ve wanted to call me from day one, so I have a reason to bust your pretty white nose open like a coconut.
—“thug. This fucking thug. He’s a charlatan who’s going to bring us down, Rhett. I know it. You know it. I mean, look at how he’s fucking dressed.” Clyde waved his hand in front of my Armani wool-blend Sablé Soho suit and locked his eyes onto my Rolex Oyster Perpetual.
“It was refurbished and under five Gs,” I said, sticking my wrist in his face.
“Fuck you.”
“Let’s discuss this later,” Rhett said. He started gathering the signed contracts. “We closed the deal and that’s what matters most.”
Clyde walked over and slammed the door shut before Rhett could leave. “No, that’s not what matters most. This whole thing is exhausting,” he said, hands on his hips. “So it’s either him or me.”
Rhett groaned and grabbed the nearest chair. “C’mon, Clyde. It’s already been a long day. Buck,” he said, looking at me across the room. “You’ll stop coming late to meetings and make more of an effort to tone everything down, right?”
“Sure,” I said, winking at Clyde.
“I’m serious, Rhett.” Clyde hovered over him like a thick cloud ready to shoot lightning from his skinny gut. “Who’s it going to be? The guy who helped you build all of this or this two-bit clown?”
Rhett shut his eyes and gripped the table. “‘Brothers . . . do not slander one another. Anyone who speaks against a brother . . . or judges them speaks against the law and judges it. When you judge the law, you are not keeping it, but sitting in judgment on it.’ James 4:11.”
“Amen,” I said, clapping. “Stop slandering me, bro.”
“I don’t want to do this.” Clyde placed a hand on the door, lowering his head. “But I have to. You have five seconds to make a decision, Rhett. One.”
Bullshit.
“Two.”
“Cut this out, Clyde,” Rhett ordered. “Seriously.”
“Three.”
Rhett stood and grabbed Clyde’s shoulder, bringing them face-to-face.
“Chill, Rhett,” I said, my feet on the table. “There’s no way he’s leaving. He has nowhere else to go.”
“Four,” Clyde counted, visibly shaking as tears fell from his bluer than blue eyes.
“Clyde,” Rhett pleaded, gripping both of his shoulders. “Stop it, please. Just stop it.”
“Five.” Clyde stared into Rhett’s eyes.
He turned around and opened the door. But before Clyde walked out, he smiled at me. “We’ll see each other again, Buck. You can count on that.”
21
“Ma!” I shouted, bolting up in bed, a mix of salty sweat and tears running down my face, my chest vibrating like an animal that knows it’s about to be murdered.
“What is it, Buck? What’s wrong?”
Caught in the space between the world of dreams and waking life, it took me a second to realize what day it was, where I was, and who was lying next to me. It was Monday. I was in my loft, the top floor of a brownstone on Seventeenth between Second and Third Avenues. But the white woman, who looked like a Nike model, was a blur.
“I’m sorry.” I jumped up and headed to the kitchen. “But who are you?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hoped I hadn’t had sex with her. I had a strict no white women policy, a policy I’d never violated before on account of what Wally Cat said all
those months ago. I wasn’t superstitious, but I preferred being on the safe side.
She sat up and ran a pale hand through her hair, laughing. “All of you guys are the same, I swear. We met last night? At Up & Down? You said I looked familiar and you somehow knew I was a model?”
I chugged a glass of cold water and prayed I’d passed out before anything happened. “Melanie, right?”
She rolled her eyes. “Lexi, actually.”
“My bad. I just had a bad dream. I’m a little confused right now.”
“Yeah,” she said, twisting around in my silk sheets like a snake in the sun. “You were talking in your sleep all night. You said ‘Ma’ a few times, but who’s Soraya?”
Shit. So it was Soraya last night. Some nights it was Jason. Others it was Mr. Rawlings. Every night it was Ma, which was one reason I never kept any woman around for long. I hated the questions.
“No one. But listen, this was fun. I gotta take a shower and head to the office. So . . .”
“So that’s it? Giving me the boot already?”
“It’s more like an expensive alligator-leather loafer.” I smirked.
“Asshole. Can you at least lend me your driver?”
“Lend you my driver? Who do you think I am? Here,” I said, quickly tapping my phone. “An Uber’s arriving in five minutes.”
She jumped out of the bed, punched her arms through her white maxi dress, and stomped across the kitchen. “So how do I get in touch with you?” she asked, a perfect hand resting against the bathroom door.
“You don’t,” I said, pulling the door shut.
“I hope you don’t treat every girl you have sex with like this!” she screamed all the way into the elevator.
* * *
“Morning, sir. Where to?”
“Sumwun, Chauncey. Thanks. And don’t drive too quickly,” I said, absorbed by my phone.
“Yes, sir. Everything okay? You seem tense.”
“Everything’s fine, Chauncey. Let’s just get to Sumwun in one piece.”
I flinched when my phone vibrated. It was Barry.
Find that SDR yet? It’s been a week my man.
On it.
When we got to 3 Park Avenue, I tiptoed up the stairs. I was fiending for caffeine, but I didn’t want to waste time going upstairs, giving Porschia my order, and then waiting, so I walked right into Starbucks.
Brian stood behind the register. The morning rush was just over. But instead of the same green apron he’d worn for years, he now wore a black one.
“Damn, Brian, when did you become a coffee master?” I hoped my cheery tone masked my anxiety. I hadn’t been in there in months.
“Last month.” He avoided my eyes. “Jared got fired for spitting in people’s drinks, and they had no one else.”
“Congrats. What happened to Nicole and Carlos?”
“Carlos disappeared two months ago. I think he got arrested or something. And Nicole had a baby a few weeks ago and moved to Iowa with her wife.”
There was something different about Brian. But I wasn’t sure what it was.
“You gonna order anything?” He clutched fistfuls of black apron with one hand, tapping the counter with the other like a wartime telegraphist.
“Pike Place Roast.”
He nodded to an Asian kid, who immediately got to work. I pulled out my card, but he waved it away. “On the house,” he said, still staring at the floor.
“Thanks, man. Must be nice to be the boss now, right? No one to tell you what to do, and it looks like you have some good soldiers here.”
“I guess. Just took your advice and decided to stick to Starbucks for life. It could be worse, I think.”
“That’s right,” I said, feeling sick. I bent over, gripping my stomach, trying not to throw up everywhere.
“You okay?” He leaned over the counter.
I threw my hand up. “Yeah.” As I knelt on the ground, I realized what was different about Brian. He wasn’t screaming random obscenities every five seconds.
I got up and straightened my suit. “What happened to your Tourette’s?”
“Not exactly sure. But I started going to behavioral therapy and meditating a few months ago, and I don’t have tics as often as I used to.”
“Thanks, Leah,” he said, grabbing my coffee from a white girl and handing it to me. “Here.”
“Listen, Brian,” I started. “My bad for being so harsh last year. I was just stressed out, you know?”
“No worries, Darren. You were right. I was stupid to think I could ever do what you do. I’m making more money than before, and that probably wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t listened to you and focused on being the best barista I could be. So I guess I should thank you.”
Shit, I must be the best salesman in the world if I actually convinced someone that slaving away at Starbucks should be their life’s ambition. But what if I could help Brian and find Barry’s SDR at the same time?
Reader: Always keep your eyes open. Your next opportunity could be staring you right in the face.
“Fuck that,” I said.
He finally looked at me. “Huh?” he said, confusion squishing the pockmarks around his eyes.
I yanked him over the counter. “Forget everything I said before, Brian. I was fucking wrong, man. Do you still want to learn to do what I do?”
He looked down at my hands—gripping his apron, shirt, and probably some chest hair—and then at me, eyes wide and full of fear. I could feel his heart thumping.
“I can’t do what you do, Darren,” he said, swallowing hard. “I gave up on all of that. You were right. Plus, this isn’t so bad. It’s like Green Lantern issue one hundred eighty-one when Hal Jordan retires for good.”
“This isn’t some superhero shit, Brian. So I’m going to ask you once more,” I said, focusing every square inch of my power directly into the whites of his eyes. “Do you. Want to. Learn to do. What I do? To sell?”
He scratched the back of his head. “But how can I?”
I let go of him and took my phone out. “You still have the same number?”
He nodded.
“Okay, I just texted you my new address. Be there at six-thirty. Tonight.”
“For what?”
“For class,” I said, and stumbled out the doors.
* * *
After a long day of meetings, I finally arrived at my apartment. “Thanks, Chauncey,” I said, exiting the Tesla.
“Have a good night, sir. I will see you tomorrow.”
I walked up the stairs, inserted my key into the door, and was stepping inside when someone grabbed my arm.
This is it. This is what I get for having sex with a white woman. I’m about to die. Trembling, I turned around only to be face-to-face with Brian wearing a black leather trench coat.
“Fuck, man. Don’t ever sneak up on me like that again. What’s wrong with you? And why are you dressed like Shaft?”
“My bad,” he said, retreating down the stairs. “I was waiting across the street until you got home. You take an Uber every night?”
“Something like that. Come on, let’s go. You probably scared all the white people on the block just by being here.”
“Damn,” he said, stepping out of the elevator into my apartment, his head on a swivel like a horny teen in the Museum of Sex. “This all yours?”
“All the furniture, art, and shit? Yeah. But I’m renting. You want something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” he said, carefully sitting on a tall white chair at the marble island.
“Coke it is.” I tossed a cold can in his direction. It landed on the floor behind him.
He quickly got up and grabbed the can. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t!”
The can’s violent hiss sent brown sugar water all over the white walls, white chairs, and white floors. Brian looked like a dog that had just taken a shit on the floor.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I’m going to go get changed
and you’re going to clean this up. Then”—I handed him a roll of paper towels—“you’re going to take a seat over there.” I pointed to the white couch in the living room across from the plasma TV. “And please, Brian, don’t touch anything else.”
Ten minutes later, I found him cross-legged on the couch, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
“Let’s go, Buddha. Time for class.”
He slowly opened his eyes. “Where do we start?”
I rolled out the dry-erase board Rhett and I used for weekend strategy sessions and went through the basics: the role of an SDR, the anatomy of a cold call, objection handling, and more.
“Any questions?” I asked, wiping sweat off my brow and turning to Brian. He was still cross-legged, scribbling notes like a cartoon character who’s actually not taking any notes.
He shook his head.
“Two hours of this shit and no fucking questions, Brian? That makes me nervous, man.”
He just stared at me blankly, his hand still scribbling in his composition notebook. I walked over and snatched it out of his hands. The asshole hadn’t taken any notes. It was just paragraphs of wavy lines, random circles, and other ridiculous shapes.
“Brian,” I said, chucking the notebook at him and trying to steady my breathing. “What the fuck is this?”
“I can’t do this, Darren,” he said, defeated. “None of this—DICK!—excuse me, I’m sorry. None of this makes sense to me. This is a waste of your time, and I’m really sorry.”
I won’t lie; I wanted to hit the motherfucker right in his face.
“Why didn’t you say anything, man? I’ve been up here for hours after a long-ass day at work, and you’re here just scribbling gibberish to make it look like you’re following along? What the fuck, Brian?”
He looked down at his notebook. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“Stop fucking saying that and speak up. You know how much shit I have to do? I’m here, with you, right now, investing my time in you.”
“I know,” he said, forcing back tears. “I just wanted you to think I could do it. I’m—”
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