Only one gargoyle was out: Wally Cat.
“What up, Wally Cat?” I asked, my nerves banging like bells in the wind.
“That you, Darren? I ain’ seen you in what, half a year, nigga? How you doin’?”
“I’m aight.” I wished there was an extra crate for me. Like before. “What about you, man? What’s good over here?”
He shot a stream of spit into the street and looked over his shoulders. “Ain’ shit, you know. Same ole same ole. More whities movin’ in, niggas movin’ out. It’s the damn circle of life out here.”
I had to do something, say something, to let him know I was sorry. About everything. I planted my ass on the curb and looked up to meet his eyes. “Yo, Wally Cat, I’m—”
“Don’ you dare say you sorry, nigga. Everyone makes choices, you know that. And you gotta live with yours, ’specially whatchu did to Percy. You know you was wrong for that, right?”
Mr. Rawlings. I saw him only in my nightmares.
I tried to gather some spit and clear my throat, but it was bone-dry. “Yeah,” I whispered, looking away from Wally Cat. “I know.”
“Good, ’cause every action has an equal and opposite reaction, nigga. And you betta hope he’s aight so you don’ get yours. But”—he placed a hard hand on my shoulder—“I been watchin’ you on TV, seein’ you pop up in the newspaper. Seems like you made a new life for yourself in the WWW. So I’m proud of you. Yo’ momma would be too.”
I can’t lie; hearing that made me feel a little better, but the feeling didn’t stick. Wally Cat was an OG and having his respect meant a lot, but I still had bridges to rebuild. And he couldn’t do that for me.
“Thanks, Wally Cat. I appreciate that more than you know.” I stood up and dusted my ass off. “Where’s Jason at? He still on the corner?”
He nodded at Jason’s corner. “What it look like?”
“Where is he?”
“Mickey D’s,” he said, finally breaking out his big-mouthed smile. “Boy stopped tryna be a gangster and became a man.”
“And Soraya?” I asked, trying to be casual. “You seen her around here lately?”
Wally Cat sucked his teeth and leaned back on his crate, nodding at Mr. Aziz’s bodega. “She over there, you fool.”
“Thanks, Wally Cat.” I dapped him up and he pulled me in for an embrace, holding on longer than he ever had before.
“You didn’ fuck no snow bunnies, did you?” His grip was tight, with grave concern in his voice.
“Nah,” I quickly whispered.
He laughed. “Good. Seven years bad luck, don’ forget now. You gon’ be stickin’ ’round a while?”
“Somethin’ like that,” I yelled back as I crossed the street, opting to begin with the easier of my two tasks.
* * *
There were two McDonald’s about the same distance from us—one on Broadway and the other on Fulton—and I knew that Jason would never work at the one on Fulton because he once said he found a fully fried chicken head in his six-piece McNuggets. But then again, I never could’ve pictured him working at a Mickey D’s, so what did I know?
I jogged to the one on Broadway, looked through the window, and found him behind the counter clad in a short-sleeved blue button-up, a black hat with a big McDonald’s M on the front, and a ‘Please kill me now!’ face as he surveyed the endless line of Black and brown families waiting for their Sausage McGriddles and burnt coffee.
“Yo,” I said. He looked up from the register, surprise flashing across his face, then anger.
“Whatchu doin’ here, nigga? Tryna buy a McFlurry?”
“What are you doin’ here?”
“What it look like? Makin’ an honest livin’. Prolly more than I can say for you.”
He looked the same but slightly older. He stood up straighter and moved his body with more control.
“Whatever, man. Listen, I’m here with an opportunity. To help.”
He stretched his head over the register, scanning the line snaking out the door. “I don’ need your help. If you ain’ gonna buy anything, step up out the line. You holdin’ it up.”
“Tha’s the truth!” an older heavyset man said from behind me. “This ain’ no barbershop. Cut the talkin’ and get to walkin! I’m hungry as a motherfucka and got diabetes.”
“Then why are you at McDonald’s?” I asked, silencing him. “Anyway, what I got will beat eight whatever an hour and help you get your moms out the projects faster than this. If you’re down, meet me at my place on Vernon in two hours. Soraya will be there.”
“Get to steppin’,” the heavyset man shouted, muttering about kids these days, no respect, and blood sugar.
I jogged back to the corner and leaned on Wally Cat, catching my breath. “One down,” I said, plastered in sweat. “One to go.”
“Damn, nigga!” Wally Cat shouted. “You wetter than a drug mule in front of TSA. Wipe yourself off and go do the damn thing ’fore you freeze up.”
I wiped my face, straightened my clothes, and set off for the bodega.
The bells clanged as I opened the door. Soraya was behind the candy-and-cigarette-filled display, but she didn’t see me. She was leaning over the counter, smiling as she twirled this tall, fair-skinned, almost-white-but-not-quite guy’s beard. Not knowing how else to interrupt whatever the fuck was going on, I walked out, then back in, pushing the door open harder so the bells clanged louder.
“D?” Soraya said, eyes wide as she yanked her finger out of the guy’s beard. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, hey,” I said, walking closer. She was wearing a mustard-colored sweater with the initials ZNH written in white cursive on it.
“What’s up?” the guy asked, cutting his eyes at me before turning to Soraya.
“Jalal”—she peeled her eyes off me—“this is Darren, I mean Buck. An old friend. Buck, this is Jalal, my—”
“Boyfriend,” he said, and extended a beige hand. I grabbed it, then turned back to Soraya.
“What happened to nursin’ school?”
“I dunno.” She rubbed the back of her head. “I don’ think it was for me. I probably couldn’ be a real nurse.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have responsibilities, like the stores and . . . other stuff. I also gotta firsthand look at what achievin’ your dreams can do to a person.”
A chill ran down my spine, and it took everything inside me to hold her stare, that piercing gaze that turned me from flesh and bone straight into glass.
“She’s always busy,” Jalal interjected. “Busy, busy, busy. It’s why I love her, but I still don’t know why she loves me.”
His words sounded like a threat.
“Can you come over to my spot? In two hours? Jason will be there, and I wanna show you somethin’. Jus’ as friends,” I said, a little louder so Jalal would back off.
“Who said we’re friends?” she asked, her face turning into stone.
I swallowed hard. “Nah, I’m jus’ sayin’—”
“Jus’ sayin’ what? Why’re you even here?”
“Yeah,” Jalal said, stepping between me and the counter. “I think you gotta leave.”
I looked him up and down, and laughed. “I think you don’ know who you’re talkin’ to, halal. Now back the fuck up before I show you.”
He stared at me for a second before turning to Soraya.
“Jus’ step outside for a second, babe,” she said, rubbing his arm. “He’s harmless, I promise.”
“Whatever.” He bumped my shoulder as he pushed past me, bells clanging on his way out.
She rounded the display and stood in front of me, level with my shoulders but grilling me as if she were seven feet tall. “Now what the fuck was that, huh?” she said. “You think you can come here, outta nowhere, and act like you run the place?”
“Nah, I—”
“Nah is right, Darren, Buck, or whoever the hell you wanna be today. You got ten seconds before I grab my broom and clean the floor with you. Speak.�
��
I took a breath, realizing that this would be harder than I thought. “Listen, I’m jus’ tryna make things right, Soraya. I know I did a lot of fucked-up shit, and I’m not comin’ here tryna start any trouble, but jus’ come through so I can show you what I’m doin’. If you’re not about it and still hate me, I’ll never speak to you again. But I’m the same person you used to know.”
She turned away from me and went back around the counter. “No, I don’ think so.”
“Please, Soraya. Jus’ gimme ten minutes. I promise it’ll be worth it.”
She clenched her jaw and fixed her eyes on mine as if she were trying to find a piece of the old me. Then she closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’ think it’s a good idea, but you said Jason’s goin’?”
“Yeah, he’ll be there,” I replied, unsure if he was actually going to show.
“Fine. If he’s goin’, then maybe I’ll join him. But if you try to pull any slick shit, I’m out and we’re never talkin’ again. Got it?”
I sighed with relief. “I got it.”
* * *
Two hours later, the house wasn’t spotless, but it did have new tables, chairs, dry-erase boards, a few telephones, and even a couch.
“So,” Rose said, standing in Mr. Rawlings’s old living room. “This garden level will be for basic theory, the first floor will have a room where people can practice calls, and another where they can sleep if they’re tired. The second floor is mostly for role-playing, the kitchen for food, and the living room can be like a meeting space. Upstairs, we basically kept your bedroom like it was but turned it into more of an office for you.”
I looked around the room, now empty save for a few piles of trash.
“Who was this?” Rose asked, inserting a half-torn photo into my hand. “You, your mom, and grandpa?”
I quickly tossed the photo onto the trash pile. “No, must’ve been someone the previous tenant knew,” I said. “But, wow, HQ is starting to look good. You sure this is all gonna work?”
“It will if you want it to.”
“And what about the garden in the back? What’re we going to do with that?”
“Leave it as it is. We can use it as one of those little home farms that’re every hipster’s wet dream.”
When we got upstairs, people were already role-playing. There were half a dozen “Ring ring”s going off, and Brian, Jake, and Ellen screamed, “Click! Nope! Try again!” with glee.
“What’s all this?” someone said from the door.
Soraya and Jason stood there, stretching their necks to look around the room.
“This some Black Panther shit?” Jason asked, stepping inside, scanning the room. He was still in his uniform and smelled like French fries.
“Something like that,” Rose said, stepping forward. “Who the fuck are you, the Black Ronald McDonald?”
“Chill,” I said. “These are old friends.”
“Not really,” Jason said.
“Then get the fuck out of here,” Rose snapped, burning a hole in Jason’s head.
“Let me have a moment with them, Rose.” She looked up at me, concerned. “Please.”
She turned around, clapping at the recruits. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. You want to be broke forever? Put some energy into these role-plays. Spit!”
“New girlfriend?” Soraya asked, nodding in Rose’s direction.
“Nah. She’s like a little sister.”
“Aight, nigga. I don’ know why you invited us here, or what this all”—Jason waved his hands around—“even is. But if you don’ get to explainin’ real quick, we out.”
I took a breath and slowly let it out. “Okay. First, I asked you here to apologize.”
“For?” Soraya asked.
“For bein’ an asshole. Actin’ like I was better than both of you. Forgettin’ where I came from. For—”
“Sucker punchin’ me like a li’l bitch,” Jason added.
“For sucker punchin’ you,” I whispered, “like a li’l bitch.”
Soraya slowly clapped. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and stared at us. “Who knew this day would come? The mighty Darren, I mean Buck, Vender would admit he was wrong. He mus’ be in trouble,” she said, turning to Jason.
He smiled. “Mus’ be.”
“I’m not. The second reason I asked you here was to see if you wanted to join us.”
“Who’s us?” Jason asked.
“The Happy Campers,” I said, waving my hand around the room.
“Happy what? Nigga, I sell Happy Meals all day. I don’ need no more happy anything in my life.”
“It’s jus’ a name,” I said. “It can change.”
“And what do the Happy Campers do?” Soraya asked.
“We sell. I’m teachin’ all of them how to do what I do so they can get better jobs, make money, and get ahead. To fix the game.”
Jason shook his head and laughed. “And what’s the catch, huh? We become twenty-first-century enslaved people to some white man on Wall Street?”
“There is no catch. All I’ll do,” I said, looking back at Rose, Jake, Ellen, and Brian. “I mean all we’ll do is teach you and set you up with opportunities. If one is right, you take it and hopefully help others along the way.”
“What makes you think I wanna learn how to do what you do?” Soraya asked, looking like she was about to swing on me. “That either of us wanna be a parta the world that turned you into an asshole?”
“Because neither of you wanna stay here forever. Jason,”—I turned to him—“you wanna sell Chicken McNuggets for the rest of your life? Or go back to pushin’ weight?”
He clenched his jaw, and said, “Of course not, nigga. I’m tryna get my momma out the projects ASAP. Not tryna be stuck here like every other nigga who never got out.”
“Tha’s right. And you, Soraya, you’re tellin’ me you really wanna run Mr. Aziz’s stores until you’re forty? I get it if you don’ wanna be a nurse, but what we’ll teach you will allow you to be free to do whatever you want. It’s about more than workin’ at some tech startup in Manhattan forever. Once you learn how to sell, to truly sell, anything is possible.”
Reader: Quote that last sentence.
I looked down. My shirt was drenched with sweat. My heart thumped like a bass drum. “I can’t go back in time,” I whispered. “But I can help make your future better.”
They looked at each other for a long time. Jason whispered something to her, then she whispered something back. They turned around and headed for the door.
I bent down and sat on the floor, exhausted. I’d given it my all. I understood why they didn’t trust me, why they wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.
“Aye!” Jason called.
When I looked up, they were both standing in the doorway, smiling.
“We’re in,” Soraya said. “But only as long as you keep it one hundred with us. The minute this goes south, we’re out. You got it?”
“Yeah,” I said, finally feeling like I understood who Ma was talking about when she said she wanted me to be who I was always meant to be. “I got it.”
“And I gotta boyfriend now. So don’ think this means there’s anything between us.”
“I got that too.”
“So where the fuck do we start?” Jason asked, taking off his Mickey D’s hat and dunking it into the garbage. “I’m tryna make that Daddy Warbucks paper.”
V.
Close
The good and the great are only separated by the willingness to sacrifice.
—KAREEM ABDUL-JABBAR
6 Months Later
28
I know. The turns in this story are half absurd, half jaw-dropping, and a whole heaping of crazy. But I assure you, every single line is true. I’ve taken countless hours to teach you how to get ahead, to unshackle yourself from the fetters of the twenty-first century, and my job is almost done. But before I go, you must be curious as to how I ended up where I am today—writ
ing to you from the penthouse of a one-hundred-one-year-old building worth millions of dollars that overlooks Central Park.
Well, I suppose all good things must come to an end, including the picture I painted for you when we met. Because, while I am writing this cautionary memoir from the highest floor of my building, the room I’m sitting in is six by eight feet. And if you need me to spell it out, that means I’m in prison—Lincoln Correctional Facility. Inmate number 8121988, nice to meet you. And now I’m sure as hell that you have more questions than a kid with ADHD watching porn for the first time, so let me explain how I became one of the one in three Black males who finds himself locked up. It all came down to one night.
Once we got the Happy Campers up and running, which took no time with the help of Rose, Brian, Ellen, and Jake, our numbers grew by twenty new recruits a week. That was even with us all working on it only part-time. Rose was in charge of making sure everything ran smoothly. Ellen created “homework,” which consisted of dangerous and almost life-threatening assignments for the recruits to execute. Brian was a counselor, ensuring that everyone found jobs. Jake took care of our financial and legal apparatus. And what did I do? Well, I was our fearless leader, the HNIC, and my job was to rally everyone behind our mission, be the final say on disputes, and ensure that we spread faster than syphilis in the sixties.
You see, in addition to directly bringing Happy Campers into Sumwun, the way it all worked was that I’d recommend Happy Camper SDRs to Barry and his portfolio companies. After surviving our top-notch sales boot camp, the SDRs would, of course, destroy the interview and get hired. Once hired, they’d recommend one or two other Happy Campers to the company, who would, of course, also be the best SDRs the company had ever laid their pretty blue or green eyes on.
At tech startups, there’s this ridiculous thing called a referral fee. So if I refer a friend to a job at my company and they get hired, I get a few thousand dollars, maybe more. The Happy Campers had a tradition of always donating half of your first paycheck to the organization as well as at least twenty-five percent of any referral fees you earned. And if the average SDR was getting paid a base salary of $40,000 a year, average referral fees were $5,000 per referral, and we had more than 250 Happy Campers, well . . .
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