Black Buck

by Mateo Askaripour

  She went to the fridge and grabbed a gallon of Poland Spring. “Is that what you were going to say?”

  “What do you want?” he asked, twisting his head around. “Money? I can give you that.”

  “Don’ need it,” Jason said.

  “Okay, then what? I’ll do anything.”

  I won’t lie; seeing him like this, desperate and vulnerable, made me feel good despite all the shit it was going to land us in.

  “For starters,” Rose said, uncapping the jug, “you can stop all this white supremacist bullshit you’ve been spewing for the past couple of weeks.”

  I opened my mouth, but Jason clamped his palm over it. He shook his head. I understood. Clyde knew my voice. If he could identify me, we were in trouble. Jason switched on some jazz; a saxophone’s wail filled the room.

  Rose poured water over the rag covering Clyde’s mouth, causing him to shake like he was undergoing electroshock therapy. “I’m sure you’re used to Evian, but I hope you don’t mind Poland Spring.”

  “Please!” he screamed. “Please stop.”

  “That’s what we want you to do,” Rose said. She tilted the plastic jug again and poured water on his head for ten, maybe twenty seconds.

  “What you’re experiencing,” she shouted over the music, lifting the jug up for a moment as Clyde coughed, then resuming, “is the sensation of drowning.”

  He jerked his head in every direction, his hands and feet convulsing as if he were possessed. Before, it was fun, even exciting, but now this was real one-hundred-percent bona fide torture. My heart was beating faster and faster.

  “You see, the water soaks the rag,” Rose continued, “causing it to cling to your face, making it harder to breathe. The water enters your mouth, runs down your throat and nostrils, making you feel like you’re really—”

  “Drowning!” Clyde shouted after she emptied the last of the jug and removed the rag. “I can’t! I can’t breathe,” he said, spitting water all over the kitchen floor.

  “Are you gonna stop this Nazi bullshit?” Jason asked, kneeling next to Clyde’s drenched body.

  Clyde twisted and pulled on the damp plank before nodding.

  “Are you gonna get rid of the White United Society of Sadists?”

  A whimper escaped his mouth—the sound of an abused animal.

  “What was that?” Rose asked. “Louder.”

  “Yes,” Clyde whispered.

  “Louder!” Jason said, pulling out his phone, recording the scene. “Say ‘I am Clyde Reynolds Moore the Third, and I am wrong for what I’ve done. The White United Society of Salespeople is racist, bigoted, and evil.’”

  “I,” Clyde started, choking on his spit.

  “Shout it to the heavens!” Rose ordered. “So loud your precious white God and blue-eyed, blond-haired Jesus can hear you!”

  “I,” he said, louder now, “Clyde Reynolds Moore the Third, am wrong. The White United Society of Salespeople is racist, bigoted”—he paused and Jason squeezed his leg—“and evil.”

  Jason and Rose bumped fists. I stood there speechless. I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and chugged the entire thing in one gulp, trying to taste something, anything.

  “If we hear anything from you again,” Jason said, rolling the black bag back over Clyde’s mouth, “we will take you, jus’ like we did today. But you won’ live another day to talk about it.”

  “I understand,” he said, soaking in fear. “N-n-now what?”

  “You’re going to go to sleep for a while, and then you’ll wake up like nothing happened,” Rose said.

  “Huh?”

  She delivered a swift kick to his head, knocking him out.

  “Start the van,” Jason instructed her. “We’ll carry him down.”

  As we carried him down the stairs—I held his legs while Jason held his arms—Jason whistled as if everything were normal. We shut the doors to the van Ellen usually used with the new recruits, and Jason hopped into the driver’s seat. Rose took shotgun.

  “Don’t worry,” Rose said. “We got this.”

  Jason smiled from his window. “Yeah, Superman. Go home and get some sleep. You can finally rest easy now that this is all over. Told you this was the only way.”

  They peeled off down the street. I waded through the thick humidity of a summer night, heading for the subway, wanting the underground to take me as far away from what just happened as possible. We had crossed a line and there was no going back—especially not with someone like Clyde.

  Before finding sleep, I called Kujoe, who denied being the rat but admitted to discussing the Happy Campers with Eddie. Did I truly believe that he wasn’t the rat? No, not at all. Anyone who broke our primary rule of not discussing the Happy Campers couldn’t be trusted, so I told him he was banned from HQ until further notice and to keep to himself at Sumwun or I’d fire him.

  With that done, I mentally prepared myself for whatever was going to happen next, even though I could have never anticipated the lengths Clyde would go to to win. But sleep was pulling me into its abyss, and I had to surrender, at least for the night.

  32

  Nights later, HQ was buzzing. Just like the sadists at Gitmo and Abu Ghraib, Jason and Rose made no effort to hide what they had done. The video of Clyde’s confession looped on the screens, and the Happy Campers celebrated as if we had truly won.

  “Aye, lemme getchyour attention,” Jake said, raising a beer. “I know it’s been a rough coupla weeks ’n’ that we all been a bit divided, but here’s to the enda that.”

  “And to Jason and Rose for doing what they had to do to keep us safe,” Ellen added.

  “As well as t-t-to Sensei Buck,” Trey chimed in, winking at me. “For remaining our f-f-f-fearless leader.”

  “To Jason, Rose, and Buck!” everyone shouted, clinking cans, downing flutes of cheap champagne, and passing joints around like they were at Burning Man, Woodstock, or one of those events where white people suspend all law and fuck themselves senseless.

  I didn’t feel like celebrating—not yet. It all felt too soon. I was headed upstairs when someone grabbed my hand.

  “Hey,” Soraya said, not letting go. “Not in the mood to celebrate?”

  “Nah, not really. Mad tired. Jus’ gonna knock out, but have fun.”

  “If you say so.” She sounded disappointed.

  A few hours later, as I was finally settling into sleep, my phone went off, snapping me awake. I picked up without looking at it, betting it was Kujoe calling to beg me to let him back.

  “Hello?”

  “Buck?”

  It was a woman’s voice. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Who’s this?”

  “Sandra Stork. I’m calling because you’re in trouble.”

  “Trouble?” I asked, turning the light on. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Buck.” She paused. “Everyone knows. The media is already drafting their articles to drop tomorrow morning.”

  “Everyone knows what?”

  “Listen, we could play games or you could be straight with me. An anonymous source reached out to all major outlets an hour ago saying that you’re behind the Happy Campers. They sent a video of you addressing a large group of people, discussing plans for combating that group of Nazi salespeople. There are also other clips.”

  Kujoe, that motherfucker. He must’ve been recording the Hush Harbors.

  “Even if that were true,” I said, closing my eyes, “why are you calling me?”

  She laughed. “Because I can’t stand to see smart young brothers used for target practice. So I want to give you a chance to get ahead of this. Come on Rise and Shine, America tomorrow and present your case before it’s too late. I won’t go easy on you . . . because I can’t, but at least you’ll be able to control part of the narrative.”

  I had known the war wasn’t over; it couldn’t have been. People like Clyde—rich, white, and powerful—don’t succumb to physical threats, and they also don’t make them. Their warfare is
institutional, psychological, and strategic. In chess, you don’t beat your opponent by rocking them in the jaw, you back them into a corner until they have nowhere else to go.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, clutching a pillow to prevent myself from breaking something.

  “Are you sure, Buck? This may be your last chance before everything gets out of hand.”

  I took a breath and replayed the last week in my head: Clyde’s videos, the bake sale, our failed attempt at cyberwarfare, the race riots at Sumwun, Clyde’s kidnapping; everything was already out of hand, and the only thing I could do now was face the music instead of trying to control, control, and control it.

  “Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “I’m sure. But thank you for looking out, Sandra. I appreciate it.”

  “Of course, Buck. Good luck.”

  After that, sleep was impossible. I walked downstairs and people were passed out all over the place, looking like bodies on a battlefield. Except for one. Soraya stood in the kitchen nursing a glass of wine.

  “Hey,” I said. “Got one for me?”

  She forced a smile and poured me a glass of red. We clinked glasses. But there was enough pain in her eyes to let me know the smile was a front.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was jus’ thinkin’ about Mrs. V, that’s all. It was only a little over a year ago when me, you, her, Jason, and Mr. Rawlings were in here eatin’ pizza and laughin’. But now”—she waved her glass around—“everything, I mean everything, D, has changed. This room, this house, you, me, us. Sometimes I think, Man, this is all so great, I’m somewhere I never thought I’d be, but then I remember the past, your mom, and I jus’ miss it all so much.”

  I put my glass down and took her face into my hands, wiping as many of her tears away as I could. “I know the feelin’, habibti. Trust me.”

  She brought my hand to her lips, holding it there before looking up at me. “Whatever happened to Mr. Rawlings, D? Did you ever go look for him? Did you try to help him?”

  I tried to speak, but there was a lump in my throat. Ever since I kicked him out, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.

  I looked at her and shook my head; tears blurred my vision.

  “He didn’ deserve that,” she said as she rested her head against my chest. “He didn’ deserve any of that.”

  “I know.” I wrapped my arms around her, trying to fight my way back to the past. “I know.”

  * * *

  It was exactly as Sandra had said it would be. The next day, I was all over the internet. My face was on every major newspaper, with some people even calling me a terrorist. Texts and emails caused my phone to overheat so badly that I just shut it off.

  “Good morning, Chauncey,” I said, climbing into the back seat. “Let’s go to Sumwun.”

  He swallowed hard and looked at me in the rearview. It was only after we crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and made our way up First Avenue that he spoke. “I read the newspaper, Buck. Are you okay?”

  I looked out the window at Black nannies pushing white kids in strollers, food cart owners stacking blue paper cups, dogs shitting on the sidewalk without a care in the world. “I’m not”—I closed my eyes—“but I will be. Nothing lasts forever, right?”

  “Yes, that is true.” Chauncey smiled at me. “But you are one of the strongest people I know, Buck, and strength lasts forever.”

  “Thanks, Chauncey. I hope so.”

  I pushed the revolving doors open and looked into Starbucks; everything was just as it had been a year ago except I didn’t recognize anyone working. People were frantically shouting at one another and spilling drinks as they tried to keep up with the morning rush. Fuck, everything’s falling apart.

  I exited the elevator, paused in front of the frosted doors, and took a deep breath before pushing them open. The floor was bubbling with chaos—balls flying in every direction, people screaming, slamming their phones, dogs sprinting, salespeople pacing around the rows—a fearsome cacophony for anyone not used to it.

  But when I walked in, everything stopped. It became so silent that I could hear the wall clocks ticking in a dozen different time zones. Well, the cat’s out the bag. At least now I won’t have to denounce the Happy Campers.

  Rhett’s door opened, and he stepped out. “What the hell is going—” Seeing me, he stopped, then said, “Everyone get back to work.” But no one did. Their eyes followed me as I walked past their desks toward Rhett, a few of them coughing out “traitor” as I traversed the floor. Only when the door shut behind me did the deafening roar return.

  It was a Wednesday afternoon, but Rhett’s office had the feeling of that first Deals Week when he’d been a nervous wreck, sure of Sumwun’s demise. He sat on his leather couch, a glass full of gin in his hand, ice clanking around like rattling chains.

  “Hey,” I said, standing in front of him, unsure if I should sit. His button-up was wrinkled, which could only mean the worst.

  He silently nodded, peering into his drink like he was trying to find an answer in it. Seeing him like that, deflated, sucked all of the confidence right out of me.

  “Rhett,” I said, finally sitting next to him. “Look at me, man. Please.”

  He wouldn’t. He took a sip and turned toward the window, squinting in the bright September light.

  “Where did I go wrong?” he finally asked. He stood up and walked to the windows.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what did I do to you, Buck? Where did I mess up?”

  I got up and stood next to him, watching boats glide across the East River and the tips of buildings reflect the sunlight like diamonds. “I don’t understand, Rhett.”

  He shook his head and emptied his glass in one shot. “Me neither. I gave you everything, Buck. Every opportunity I never had at your age. The sun, the moon, and the stars. But now look at you.” He finally faced me.

  “‘If an enemy were insulting me, I could endure it. If a foe were rising against me, I could hide. But it is you, a man like myself, my companion, my close friend.’ Psalm 55, Buck. Verses twelve and thirteen.” He grabbed his bottle of gin and took one long gulp directly from it. “Do you know what it means?”

  “Rhett, I—”

  “Go,” he said, turning away from me, pain rising in his voice. “Just go, Buck. I don’t want to see you again until the conference. After that, you’re free to leave, like I know you want to. So please, just go.”

  I felt like shit. Rhett had given me the opportunity of a lifetime, but it came at the cost of my freedom. And it was then, as I walked out of his office past the hundreds of salespeople laughing as they saw their fearless leader fall, that I realized it was freedom that had motivated me from the very beginning. Not money, power, the need to prove myself, or even to make Ma proud, but the freedom to breathe where I want, when I want, how I want, and with whom I want in my beautiful brown skin.

  Reader: By this point, you should know nothing in life is free, especially freedom.

  33

  “Buckaroo! Buck-a-fucking-roo!”

  I opened my eyes. Rose stood in my bedroom. Light fought its way in through the drawn shades.

  “Why the fuck aren’t you answering anyone’s calls?” she asked, throwing a T-shirt and pair of pants at me. “Get dressed,” she shouted. “Now!”

  “What? What time is it?”

  “It’s Thursday afternoon, and someone fucking lit HQ on fire. Chauncey’s outside. Get up, now!”

  I got dressed and jumped into the elevator so quickly that Rose had to chuck a pair of shoes at me.

  “What’s going on?” My heart was pinballing around in my ribs.

  “Are you fucking deaf? I said HQ is on fire. It had to have been those WUSS motherfuckers. Where have you been?”

  We jumped into the Tesla and Chauncey peeled off before the doors shut. “I cannot believe this,” he shouted, as we sped down Second Avenue. “These are the real thugs!”

  “Where have you been?” Rose r
epeated, furiously chewing a piece of gum. “We were all waiting for you last night. We had balloons, confetti, fucking everything to celebrate you finally being out to the world as our leader, but you never showed.”

  “I went home. If you couldn’t tell, a lot’s going on. I’m a terrorist now, didn’t you know?”

  “You can’t just do this, Buckaroo. You can’t just abandon us when we need you.”

  “Abandon you? It seemed like you and Jason had everything under control.”

  She rolled down the window and spit her gum at an unsuspecting pedestrian. “Are you crazy? We’re just the muscle. You,” she said, pointing, “are the heart.”

  We could see the black smoke rising once we got off the Williamsburg Bridge. Chauncey pressed on the gas, blowing through as many red lights as he could without injuring anyone. But when we passed Marcy Playground and reached the four corners—Wally Cat’s, Mr. Aziz’s, and Jason’s old corners—there were cop cars, fire trucks, and ambulances blocking the street.

  We jumped out of the Tesla and ran toward the corners, but two heavyset cops blocked our path. “Stay back!” one yelled, and gripped his holster.

  “It’s my house!” I shouted, pushing past him.

  “No, you don’t,” the other said, grabbing me. “We got a million kids like you out here saying it’s their house. Whose fucking house is it?”

  “It’s ours!” Rose kicked the cop in the balls, which forced him to let me go. The other restrained Rose. I ran for the house and ducked under the blue wooden police barriers and the caution tape that stretched across the street like a finish line.

  A crowd stood on the sidewalk across from HQ: Happy Campers.

  “Buck,” Brian said, running toward me. “We don’t know how it happened—BITCH! It must’ve been Clyde and them. This is some Magneto work, I know it.”