Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  “Okay,” Rose said after we got off, hands on her knees, catching her breath. “That was pretty fun.”

  “Yeah,” Brian echoed, wiping the sweat off his face with a puffy sleeve. “I didn’t even know I could dance.”

  “You can’t,” I said, laughing. “But at least you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself. And you both managed to not only convince a subway full of white people that they were Black but also that they were proud of it. If that’s not sales, I don’t know what is.”

  “Psh,” Rose said. “That’s not hard. Rappers who let white people sing ‘nigga’ at their concerts do it every night.”

  “She has a point,” Brian said.

  I waved a heavy hat in front of them. “Anyway, by the time this went around, we made almost fifty dollars.”

  “Ohhh, gimme!” Rose dug her tiny fingers into the hat, pulling out the big bills. “I’ll take this as payback for the money you owed me from poker, Brian.”

  “Perfect,” he said, relieved.

  “What’s next?” Rose asked, her voice softer than it was hours ago.

  “What’s next is I’m grabbing an Uber and going to bed,” I said. “I’ll drop you each off on the way. Where’re you going, Brian?”

  “East Village, thanks.”

  “And you?” I asked, looking beyond my phone at Rose, who shrank back into her hardened shell.

  “Oh, I’m okay.”

  “C’mon, you earned it,” I insisted. “It’s on me.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. Uber is a predatory company that takes advantage of immigrants; ignores safety precautions for its riders, especially women; and is everything that’s wrong in a world run by narrow-minded, solely profit-driven white men.”

  Brian and I stared at her, blinking. “Well,” I said. “When you put it that way.”

  “But tonight was fun,” she said, reaching up, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, my place at six-thirty. Are you sure you—”

  Before I could finish, she was up the stairs and out of sight.

  24

  Thursday at Sumwun was my day for one-on-ones, which meant utter chaos. I drank about six coffees, ate almost nothing, and spent the entire day from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. meeting with as many AEs as possible.

  After escaping, I barreled into the Tesla and locked the doors before some brave soul decided to badger me with “one last question.”

  “You look exhausted, sir,” Chauncey said, concerned. “How are you?”

  That question. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had genuinely asked me how I was. Ma used to. Wally Cat used to. Soraya used to. Jason used to.

  “I’m okay, Chauncey,” I replied, slumping over in the back seat, swallowing memories of a past life. “Thanks for asking. How’re you?”

  He smiled in the rearview. “Me? I am good, sir. Always good if you are good. You know, when I look at you—”

  I had to tune him out. I liked Chauncey, but he was suddenly reminding me of Bed-Stuy and all of the people who had hurt me. They’d all cared, but what had that amounted to?

  “I have a meeting at my place, Chauncey,” I said, once he was finished. “Let’s just go there. And turn the heat up, my nipples are sharper than Michael Jackson’s nose.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  We arrived at my building, and I saw a group of people huddled on the sidewalk. It was dark, so I couldn’t tell who it was, but I faintly made out Rose’s pint-size silhouette in the streetlight’s orange glow. Fuck, what is this?

  “Chauncey.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Can you work tonight? I’ll need a ride somewhere in a few minutes.”

  “Of course, sir. Whatever you need.”

  I hopped out, and after getting closer, I saw Rose, Brian, and two—yes, two—other fucking people.

  “Please tell me you all just met outside and that you don’t know these people,” I said to Rose and Brian, nodding at the newcomers.

  “I hate to break it to you, Buckaroo,” Rose said. “But I know ‘these people,’ as you so rudely called them. This is—”

  “I don’t give a shit who they are,” I snapped, turning to Brian, who was visibly shaking. “I told you last night not to invite anyone else, Brian. The whole thing is off,” I said, my voice rising. “I don’t have time for this shit!”

  Rose stepped between us. “Hey,” she said, composed. “It wasn’t his idea; it was mine. We had so much fun last night and learned to, you know, loosen up and be flexible, so I thought it’d be good for others to join and learn from Sensei Buck.”

  “Well, you were dead fucking wrong.” I pushed through them and walked up the stairs.

  “Each one teach one, Mr. Buck,” someone with a soft Southern accent said.

  I turned around and saw a lanky light-skinned fellow sporting long tied-back dreadlocks and a brown leather aviator jacket with the trim looking up at me.

  “What?”

  “ ’Nslaved people use’ to say it. You see, masters ’n’ other people in power knew that in orda to ’nslave the body they had to keep the mind ignorant. ’N’ since ’nslaved people weren’ allowed to learn how to read ’n’ write, when one of ’em somehow managed to become educated, it was his or her duty to teach as many as they could.”

  I slowly clapped from the top of the stairs. “Bravo, Jed Clampett, or whatever the fuck your name is. What does this have to do with me?”

  “Everything, Buckaroo,” Rose said. “Brian told them how you promised to teach him how to do what you do, to sell, so that he can quit his job and have a better life.”

  “I didn’t promise shit,” I said, opening the front door. “And I don’t owe any of you anything.”

  Brian ran up the steps and grabbed my arm. “What was all of that stuff you said at the Belfry? About us not being able to even be in the same places as white people fifty years ago and like how we need to do what we can to get ahead, to be happy?”

  I looked down at Brian’s hand on my arm. Was he actually trying to sell me? Despite being pissed, I was proud of his newfound assertiveness.

  I shrugged him off. “I just said that shit to pump you up, Brian. To give you the courage to take a leap.”

  “But it’s true,” the other intruder, a tall androgynous white guy with a long serious face, wire-framed glasses, and wearing what looked like a green woman’s parka, said in an accent that sounded both Southern and British. “In fifty years, a whole lot has changed for us, but we still have a long way to go. And from what Rose and Brian preached, you can help.”

  I looked around to see if anyone else thought it was weird that this white motherfucker was trying to tell me about the plight of blacks in America, but no one moved. I walked down the stairs, stood right in front of him, and said, “Us? We? What the fuck is this white guy talking about? And why do you both sound like you walked barefoot across the Mason-Dixon line?”

  Rose doubled over. Then Brian did, then the lanky guy with the locks—the three of them leaning onto one another, holding their stomachs as plumes of cold air billowed out of their mouths into the street like a dense fog.

  “What the fuck is so funny?”

  Rose eventually collected herself and pointed at the straight-faced white guy in front of me. “First, he is a she. Second, she looks white, but she’s Black. I can assure you of that.”

  “Ellen Craft of Georgia, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, England, and a host of other places,” the tall girl said, taking a bow, a long brown mane tumbling out of her beanie. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  I looked her over in the light. She gripped my hand and her handshake was as firm as any grown man’s I’d encountered. I won’t lie; it was intimidating.

  “And this is Jacob D. Green of Kentucky,” Rose said, motioning to the lanky guy.

  I reluctantly shook his hand. Chauncey rolled down the window. “Shall we go, sir?”

  The four of them looked at me, eyes full of anticip
ation. “What do you have to lose?” Rose asked, grabbing my shoulder. “This is it. Just us four learning how to do what you do. To sell. I promise, Buckaroo, I won’t invite anyone else.”

  My phone buzzed. Barry. Better have someone ready for an interview on mon morning. 9am. SHARP!

  “Fine,” I said, opening the Tesla, nodding for them to get in. “But only if you each promise to do everything I tell you to. No matter how wild, unorthodox, or potentially illegal it may sound.”

  Everyone nodded, and the five of us piled in.

  “Where to, sir?”

  “Just drive, Chauncey. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  * * *

  “Here,” I said, in front of a 7-Eleven on Twentieth and Third.

  “Y’all sure?” Jake asked, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “Lotta of cops ’round here. Doesn’ bode well for five Black folk.”

  “This isn’t the 1920s,” Rose said. “Chill out.”

  “Fooled me,” Ellen said.

  “I’m with Jake,” Brian added.

  “Everyone out,” I ordered.

  Bells clanged as the 7-Eleven’s doors opened, and the Indian man behind the register stared at us one by one.

  I walked to the back, pulled open a beer fridge, and grabbed a different tall boy for each of them. “PBR for you because you’re dressed like a Black hipster and sound like a hillbilly,” I said, throwing it to Jake. “Coors Original for you because”—I handed it to Ellen—“you’re as white as the Rocky Mountains on the can but probably change colors when the sun hits you.”

  “It’s true,” she said, turning over the cream-colored can in her hand.

  “Bud Light for you,” I said, tossing one to Brian. “Because you’re a lightweight.” He frowned, disappointed.

  “And the best for last,” I said, grinning at Rose. “You, little one, get a Busch Light.”

  “Busch Light!” she shouted. “This crap is the bottom of the barrel and tastes like piss.”

  “Now, now, Rose, beggars can’t be choosers. You agreed to do whatever I asked. No complaints.”

  I paid for the beers and we walked outside. “Wait here,” I said to Chauncey, who was parked in front of the store.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now,” I said, facing the group. “Follow me.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least put these in brown paper bags?” Brian asked, his voice cracking in fear.

  “No.”

  “We gon’ get arrested,” Jake said.

  “We won’t.”

  “But we’re heading toward the police precinct,” Brian added.

  “Exactly. Tonight’s lesson is all about tone, confidence, and delivery. What you’re going to do is make a right there,” I said, pointing at Twenty-First Street. “Crack open your beers, walk toward the group of cops hanging outside the precinct, and then you’re each going to casually walk past them. One by one.”

  “Dang, Mr. Buck,” Jake said, blinking hard. “I’m on probation. Can’ do that.”

  “Listen. You said you wanted to learn to do what I do. To sell. And that you’d do everything I told you to. No one is going to get arrested. One of the first rules of sales is that it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. So when the cops stop you and ask what the fuck you’re doing, you drink your beer slowly right in front of them, and say, with chests out, strength in your voice, and a raised head, ‘Just drinking a beer, officer.’”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Rose asked. “You have to be if you think they’re not going to arrest a bunch of Black people parading in front of the precinct with open beers. We’re giving them a reason to do something when they shoot people for less.”

  “Open your beers,” I ordered.

  They turned to one another, stalling. Brian’s hands trembled, but then two quick hisses came from beside him: Rose and Ellen.

  “Fuck it,” Rose said, taking a sip of her piss-flavored beer.

  Ellen raised her can to Rose’s, poker-faced. “Catch me if you can.”

  Brian and Jake followed suit, nervously pulling on aluminum lids, sending sprays of foam into the air, then taking hurried swigs.

  “Single file,” I commanded. People on the sidewalk stared before turning their strolls into light jogs.

  “Now march.”

  The group, led by Rose, walked up Third Avenue and turned right onto Twenty-First Street. A crowd of policemen stood in front of the precinct smoking and laughing.

  “Onward,” I ordered, watching their bodies shake with fear in the freezing winter night.

  “You sure about this?” Brian asked, turning around for one last glance.

  “Nope.”

  Once they reached the cops, they each took a swig from their cans. I moved closer to get a front row seat.

  “Hey,” a short Black cop with a moustache said, turning away from his pals toward Rose and the others. “That’s not beer, is it?”

  The four of them froze, at least twenty cops staring them down. Then Brian, like a moron, said, “Just, just—PUSSY!—drinking a beer, officer.”

  The cop turned to his buddies, laughing, then spun back around gripping a taser.

  “Run!” I shouted, reversing direction and bolting down Twenty-­First Street.

  Jake, with his Gumby legs, stretched past me; Brian, asthmatic, wheezed behind me; Ellen caught up to Jake; Rose zigzagged in the middle of the road like she was dodging bullets.

  Chauncey saw us running toward the Tesla, started it up, and four of us hopped inside before he peeled away.

  “Brian!” Rose shouted, pointing to a shadow on the corner, hands on his knees.

  “Open the door!” I screamed.

  We grabbed him before the cops caught up, slamming the door shut. Chauncey pulled an illegal U-turn and drove down Third Avenue toward Union Square. We collectively exhaled after we realized the cops weren’t chasing us. Cans clinked. Laughter ensued.

  “Woohoooo!” Rose shouted, hanging her head out the window like a dog in the wind.

  “Dang, that shit was wil’,” Jake said, biting his fist.

  “I thought I was done for,” Brian said, traumatized.

  Ellen stared out the window, unfazed.

  We headed back to my place and whiteboarded basic sales theory for a couple of hours. Believe it or not, Jake and Ellen were naturals just like Rose. They still had things to work on—Jake needed to enunciate more, Ellen needed to be less stiff—but they were solid. Even Brian was taking what he learned and applying it with finesse.

  Eventually, they all knocked out, so I ushered them out of my place into the Tesla. I hopped in to make sure they didn’t take advantage of Chauncey’s kindness by asking him to make random stops at fast food spots or anything else like that.

  After dropping Brian and Ellen off in the East Village and Jake in Williamsburg, there was only one left.

  “Where to for you, miss?” Chauncey asked Rose. She was passed out on my shoulder in the back seat.

  I nudged her, and she shot upright, hands in the air. “Relax,” I said. “Chauncey just asked where to drop you off.”

  Rubbing her eyes, she looked around the dark car as we crossed the Williamsburg Bridge back into Manhattan. “Oh, you can drop me off at the bottom of the bridge, thanks.”

  “But where do you live?” I asked.

  “Not far from there. In”—she paused—“FiDi.”

  “FiDi? Why would we drop you off in the Lower East Side then? We got you, sit back and relax.”

  “No!” she shouted, sitting up. “I mean . . . no thanks. I can walk. Seriously. You’ve done enough, spending all of this time on us.”

  I stared at her, trying to figure out what the deal was, why she was so guarded, but I gave up. “Fine, have it your way.”

  She hopped out at the bottom of the bridge, and we turned up First Avenue.

  “Long night, huh, Chauncey?” I asked, stretching out in the back seat.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, his eyes staying closed for a fe
w seconds, then fluttering open. “But it is not over, at least for me. When I go home, I will wake my daughter to sing happy birthday to her.”

  “Oh, when’s her birthday?” I looked down at my phone; it was past midnight.

  “Yesterday, sir.”

  “Yesterday as in a few minutes before it turned twelve or the day before?”

  He laughed, flashing those ivory teeth in the rearview. “As in a few minutes ago.”

  Whatever I ate earlier turned to concrete in the pit of my stomach. I grabbed it and pushed my head to the front of the car, turning to Chauncey. “Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have asked you to drive all night if I knew it was your daughter’s birthday.”

  Without taking his eyes off the road, he gripped the steering wheel, holding his smile. “It is okay, sir. My job is with you; she understands.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She just turned seven, sir.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Amina. It means ‘trustworthy.’ My wife and I hope that this means she will be a lawyer or a big executive like you, sir,” he said, turning to me, laughing.

  “Wife? You’re married, Chauncey?”

  “Yes, sir. Ten years now. I brought her and Amina over four years ago.”

  “From where?”

  “Senegal, sir. It is where I am from.”

  I fell back and rested my head on the seat, breathless at the fact that Chauncey had driven me for six months, yet I didn’t know anything about him. I’d never cared to ask. “Pull over.”

  “Sir? We are almost home.”

  “Pull over,” I repeated. “Please.”

  He crossed Fourteenth and pulled to the side of the empty avenue.

  “Now out.”

  “Sir?”

  “Out,” I ordered.

  He slowly opened the door and stood to the side. I hopped out, grabbed his driver’s cap, and took his place. “In the back,” I said, pointing behind me.

  His eyes went white in the cold orange light of the night, as if he’d seen a ghost. “No, sir. I cannot do that. It is not proper. Please, sir, please step out.”

  Without a word, I closed my door, reached back, pushed open the one behind me, and adjusted the seat. Chauncey was a few inches taller than me.