“I see.” I ordered the lemon ricotta pancakes and a green smoothie, hoping I’d be able to keep both down. Rhett ordered truffled eggs.
After the modelesque waitress left, we sat there in silence. My hands were sweating, my legs were shaking, and no amount of water I could drink would cure my cotton mouth. I could hear the veins in my skull pulsing with the previous night’s cocktail of debauchery, and I had the feeling that I, at the age of twenty-three, was going to die from a heart attack right then and there. Rhett just kept staring at me.
“Alright,” I said, shakily setting a glass back on the table. “Please, whatever this is, just tell me. I can’t take this shit, man. I feel like you’re about to drop a bomb on me. Just do it already.”
“Bomb?” he said, spreading a cloth napkin over his lap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“C’mon,” I said, like a fiend begging for a drug dealer’s mercy. “Please stop with the games.”
“Games? Again, not sure what you’re talking about, Buck. You okay?”
I brought the cold glass to my lips, but it slipped and crashed to the ground, shattering like ice. “Fuck, my bad.” I started to bend down when a waiter appeared out of thin air with a mop and a dustpan before grabbing me a new glass.
I closed my eyes and tried to steady the pounding in my head.
Rhett laughed. “Relax, Buck. Listen, I’ve been thinking about the sales team. Since Clyde left, things haven’t been the same. Charlie’s overwhelmed and people don’t respect him as a leader. The company’s doing well, better than ever, but we’re not growing as rapidly as I want us to.”
“Okay,” I said, as our waitress set plates of steaming food in front of us. I inhaled the warm vapors, hoping they’d ground me. “And?”
He placed a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“Are you worried about something?”
“I’m worried about a lot of things. Like what Clyde’s going to do. He’s well-connected and angry. He won’t even answer my texts or calls. And we all know how vengeful he is.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, gulping down my smoothie. “How does Charlie play into all of this? Or the sales team?”
“There’s just an obvious gap. And I want to take care of it ASAP.”
“So why don’t you demote Charlie and put one of the other AEs in charge?”
“I am going to demote Charlie, and I am putting one of the other AEs in charge.”
“Perfect. Who?”
“You,” he said, finally smiling. “I want you to be our new director of sales.”
I choked on the thick mix of pancakes and smoothie. When I could finally breathe, I said, “That doesn’t make sense, Rhett. I haven’t even been with the company for a year. No one will respect me.”
“You’ve done more in less than a year than most people do in their entire careers, Buck. And every AE not only respects you but is inspired by you. Plus, they’re all looking forward to grabbing some of your connections through Barry.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I already spoke to all of them. When you walk into the office today, you’ll be the youngest director of sales in New York City, maybe in all of America. At least that’s what BuzzFeed and the Huffington Post are saying.”
My headache and the feeling of impending death slowly returned. I chugged more smoothie. “Wh-why would they be saying that, or anything at all, Rhett?”
He winked, smirking like a bandit. “Because we sent them a press release last night. The news just broke!” he said, reaching his hands toward me.
“Rhett. I don’t know about this, man. It’s just that—”
“Just what? Anyone would kill to be in your shoes, Buck. I thought you’d be more grateful.”
I swallowed. “I am, Rhett. I really am, but—”
“But fucking what? I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now. Why do I always have to push you to accept a golden opportunity? Do you think you’re too good for this? For us? Are you trying to start your own thing, is that it?”
“What? No. What are you talking about?”
“You know, Buck. Maybe Clyde was right. Maybe I backed the wrong horse, and you’re not cut out for this anymore. Maybe I was wrong to think you still cared about the company, about me.”
The waitress walked over and refilled our glasses. “Can I get you two anything else? Coffee? Tea? It’s past eight now, so maybe a mimosa?”
“No, thanks,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Just the check, please,” Rhett said.
We sat in silence as a busboy cleared the table. Rhett picked up the check, and we silently pulled on our jackets and gloves. When we got outside, Chauncey was waiting across Seventh.
I turned to Rhett, who slowly exhaled a plume of breath into the cold air. “Want a ride?” I asked.
“I’ll walk.”
“Okay. See you at the office.”
I took a step into the crosswalk, then felt a firm hand on my wrist. When I turned around, Rhett was shaking like he was going to cry.
“I meant what I said, Buck. Whether you like it or not, when you walk into the office, you will be Sumwun’s director of sales, and you will give more time and attention to the company. It’s the least you can do for everything I’ve done for you. For picking you over Clyde. Understood?”
I stared at his white knuckles tightening their grip on my wrist, burning in the late winter’s chill. “Yeah, my bad. Thanks for always looking out for me, Rhett.”
* * *
The buzzer rang. I got up from the couch and walked over. Then it rang again, long and obnoxiously. It was around six-thirty, so I figured it was Brian and let him up without checking.
Barry was also blowing up my phone.
Got the SDR yet? ;)
Almost, I typed. Unsure why this is so important though?
Don’t worry bout that. Just don’t fk it up. If u do, we’re done
When the elevator opened, I stabbed my head inside, and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I saw Brian, but I also saw the face of an elfish Black girl. She was wearing a black leather jacket and had a pixie cut, black ear gauges, and one of those bull-like septum piercings.
“You’re shorter than you look on TV,” she said, hands on her hips and a face full of disappointment.
I turned to Brian. “Who the hell is this?”
“I’m right here,” she said, pushing past me into the apartment. She took her jacket off and I saw tattoos running the lengths of her arms. “If you want to know who I am, why’d you ask him? You’re probably not used to women speaking up for themselves, but I assure you I am capable of doing so.”
“Brian,” I whispered, looking over my shoulder to make sure she wasn’t stealing anything. “Who. Is. That?”
“Um, that’s Rose Butler.”
“Okay,” I said, squeezing my eyes. “And?”
“And we play poker together. Usually on Wednesdays. When I told her I couldn’t make it, she asked why, so I told her.”
“And?”
“And she said it sounded fun. That she saw you on TV and wanted to meet you . . . and see what you could teach her.”
I grabbed his collar and yanked him out of the elevator. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You think you can just bring anyone here? That this is some sort of a game? And I didn’t know you played poker or even had the money for it.”
“He doesn’t,” she said, grabbing a Perrier out of the fridge and cracking it open. “I have to spot him since I took all of his money last month. But this looks fancy, is it French?”
“Put that down,” I ordered. She chugged half and left the opened bottle on the counter before plopping down on the couch and putting her dirty leather boots on my white oak coffee table.
“I’m sorry,” Brian said, wearing his abused puppy-dog face. “She won’t get in the way, I promise. I told her this is serious.”
“Don’t ever invite anyone here again. Got it?”
/> Still staring at the ground, he nodded.
I looked across the room. She was digging her heels into the coffee table, working stains into it that I’d likely never get out. I stormed over and shoved her feet off. “Get out. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to. Plus, you’re ruining my shit.”
“Oh, like this?” she asked, swinging her feet over the length of the couch, holding them there.
“Don’t you dare. I swear to God. If one piece of dirt gets on that couch, I’m going to have you arrested.”
“You have two choices, Buckaroo. Either let me stay and your couch stays just how you probably like your women, white and pretty, or you kick me out and I drive my muddy boots into the cushions before you have a chance to forcibly remove me. Which will it be?”
I turned to Brian in disbelief. He just shrugged. Who the fuck is this girl? And why does she have bigger balls than I do?
“Okay. I’ll let you stay on one condition.”
She placed her feet on the floor and relief washed over me. “What is it?”
“We role-play. If you last more than a minute, you stay. If you don’t, you leave. Sound fair?”
“Sure, but what kind of role-playing are you referring to? Doctor and patient? Cop and robber? Some weird phone-sex-operator fantasy you no doubt have?”
I felt myself getting hot. “What, no? This is Sales 101. You need to try to sell me something or at least keep me on the line.”
“And what am I selling you?”
I searched my mind for something impossible, something that would allow me to get rid of her ASAP. “Okay, got it. You’re selling me a dildo.”
She threw her head back onto the couch, letting out a hard laugh. “A dildo? Seriously? I didn’t know you swung that way. Looks like we’re more alike than I thought.”
“I don’t swing that way, you fucking goblin. That’s the point. Now say ‘ring ring’ and call me up.”
“Whatever you say, Buckaroo. Ring ring.”
“Hello, this is Buck.”
“Good evening, Buck! This is Rose calling from Diamond Dildos, how are you?”
“Diamond Dildos? I think you have the wrong number.”
“No problem!” she said, smiling with closed eyes. “Happens. But since I have you on the line on this beautiful, wintry New York City night, let’s chat. I’m sure you have a few seconds for a new friend. How’s your evening?”
“Not great,” I said. “I have an unexpected houseguest I’m trying to get rid of.”
“Oh, poo.” She mimicked a sad clown. “That’s never fun. Anyway, I’ll be quick. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Do you have sex?”
“Of course, what kind of a question is that?”
“A good one, trust me. Do you prefer men, women, or like me, both?”
“Women,” I said firmly, unsure of where she was going.
“Would you say you make them orgasm every time? That you’re a pro?”
“Yeah, I’d say I’m better than average.”
“Most men say that, Buck, but do you know how many women fake an orgasm? Just to get it over with?”
“No,” I said, now genuinely interested and a little nervous. “How many?”
“Take a guess.”
“I don’t know, three out of ten?”
“Higher,” she said, looking up from the couch, pointing that impish grin at me.
“Five out of ten?”
“Higher.”
“Seven out of ten?”
“Almost there. So close, I can feel it. Almost.”
“Eight out of ten?”
“Ding, ding, ding! That’s right, Buckaroo. Eighty percent of women fake orgasms, which is why we at Diamond Dildos are in business. Our dildos are guaranteed to increase the number of real orgasms you give women and take the guessing out of all of it.”
I walked to the kitchen to grab a drink. I was suddenly dying of thirst, and this little fucking girl was making me sweat, but I couldn’t let her see that.
“I’m a man,” I said from the kitchen. “Why would I want the help of a dildo?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” she asked, standing up now.
“Because I’m capable of making women orgasm all on my own, thanks.”
“You can lie to yourself,” she said, laughing now. “But numbers don’t. Are you so self-conscious that you’re afraid of a little hand-blown glass dildo?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what are you afraid of? Why not think of someone other than yourself? Someone else’s pleasure instead of your own?”
“Fine!” I shouted, slamming the fridge door. “I’ll buy one if it gets you off the fucking phone.”
She cut a smile at me, exposing a set of straight white teeth. “All I need is your credit card and an address to mail the hardware. You’ve made a wise and empathetic choice, sir.”
I plopped down on the couch, and she took a light bow, rubbing my head before sitting next to me. “So, can I stay?”
“Whatever.”
Brian sat in the corner, his mouth hanging open as if he’d just seen Superman get beat up by some middle-aged average joe. “Um, what’s next?” he asked.
I closed my eyes and thought through a dozen sadistic things I could make them do while also, of course, teaching them about sales. I could make them try selling Blackface magazine again, but this time in Harlem. But I wanted something more fun, something that would make me laugh, especially after this girl, whoever she was, just passed a role-play on her first try.
“Dancing,” I said, chuckling to myself like some maniacal villain. “We’re going dancing.”
* * *
“So what club are we going to?” Rose yelled, excitement bathing her face like a cucumber mask. “I hope they let me in with my dirty boots.”
As we stood in Union Square subway station, all I could do was smile. Packed trains passed us going uptown and downtown, commuters forcing their way in and out like desperate sperm.
“We’ve been here for like thirty minutes, Buck,” Brian shouted over the mechanical screeching. “Shouldn’t we get on one?”
I let a few more pass until they became emptier. Then, when an Uptown 6 pulled up and the platform extensions stretched to meet it, I pushed them inside.
“Uptown?” Rose asked, confused. “I thought all of the swanky spots were in Chelsea or the Meatpacking District. Shouldn’t we be taking the L?”
“You know, you would be right if we were going to one of those. But the club I’m taking you both to is much closer than you think.”
“Okaaay,” she said, cutting a sideways glance at Brian. “Why are you being so strange and mysterious, Buckaroo? Where is it?”
“One second.” I scanned the train, which was weirdly crowded for seven-thirty at night. Exhausted men with stained construction boots and stiff Carhartt jackets nodded off to sleep; teenagers in basketball sweats with Nike gym bags bobbed their heads to hypnotic beats; night nurses heading for Mount Sinai, Lenox Hill, or Henry J. Carter chewed on protein bars; old-money white folks wearing fur coats but too cheap to take a cab rested gloved hands on ivory canes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I shouted. “Please excuse the interruption, but this evening I have a special treat for you all.”
Rose grabbed my arm. “What is this?”
“This is the club,” I replied, winking.
“I have two young and promising dancers from Juilliard—Monte Negro and the Duchess of Philly—here with me to do a new routine they’re working on called ‘Don’t Take Another Step, Whitey,’ which is an avant-garde, modernist interpretation of America’s Reconstruction in which two newly freed enslaved people come to terms with the obvious struggle of Black liberation. Please put your hands together for them!”
The construction workers looked up with puzzled faces; the athletic teens removed oversize headphones; the nurses paused their dinners; but it was the elderly white folks who looked up with eyes full
of joy and clapped loudly.
“Buck,” Brian whispered, sweat making his skin shine like an enslaved man on the run. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m not doing this,” I said. “You are. And you”—I poked Rose’s arm—“you better get this minstrel show hopping. I need big bills—no dimes, nickels, or quarters.”
She scowled. “What the fuck does this have to do with sales? I refuse.”
“If you refuse”—I leaned closer—“then you can kiss coming back tomorrow goodbye. Your ride on the rollercoaster of Sales Sensei Buck ends now, which is fine with me. Plus, sales is about staying loose, enduring humiliation, and being flexible.”
Reader: I know, this was a bit extreme, but when it comes to sales, you either sink or swim.
I removed a portable speaker from my backpack and put on “Say It Loud—I’m Black and I’m Proud.” “C’mon everyone,” I yelled, running down the aisle. “Clap with the beat.”
Once James Brown hit his Uh! the residents of that particular Wednesday night’s New York City Uptown 6 train loosened up and pointed expectant faces in the direction of Brian and Rose. I pushed them forward, but they were as stiff as sculptures.
“The road to greatness ends for you both right here, right now, if you don’t start dancing. No sales. No better life. No cash money or freedom. No escaping the game. You have a choice. To die as an enslaved person or live as a freeman and freewoman. Hit it.”
James Brown wailed into the subway. Brian slid forward like a spastic middle school nerd and turned around, extending a hand toward Rose. She mouthed some obscenity at me, placed her hand in Brian’s, and twisted her body into his.
As the hardest-working man in show business sang about Black people finally working for themselves, Rose pushed herself away from Brian. He stumbled back on his heels, grabbing a metal pole to steady himself. And she hit a series of dance moves—the running man, the tootsie roll, the sprinkler, the robot, and even the YMCA—to the raucous applause of the entire train. By the time the song finished and the train hit Grand Central, stunned passengers walked on to fifty white people clapping and shouting, “Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud, huh!”
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