Black Buck(102)

30





“Okay,” I said, wrapping up the Monday sales meeting. “Anything else before we break?”

Hundreds of eyes stared back at me, too many to count. Among them were Brian, Kujoe, and almost fifteen other Happy Campers I’d hired in the last six months. And despite what segregationists would have you think, things were as smooth as a baby’s ass. At least I thought they were.

“Yeah,” Tiffany, the blonde, sadistic former senior SDR—now an enterprise AE—said from the back of Qur’an. She was wearing a white button-up blouse with maroon high-waisted pants.

“You have the floor, madam,” I said from the head of the table. Rhett was no longer in these Monday meetings, so I was the Lord and HNIC of the sales team.

“I know we have a bunch of snowflakes who are going to be offended,” she said, standing up. “But I have to call out the fact that a lot of the newer SDRs are handing over shit that never closes.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, really. And since none of the other AEs want to come out and say it, I will. It’s all of the new minority SDRs who are handing over shit.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. “Hold up, Tiff—”

“Funny,” Kujoe said, also standing up. “All of us minority SDRs have felt like the obroni AEs have been scrutinizing our handoffs harder than those of the other obroni SDRs.”

“Obroni?” Tim, a newer white AE said, getting in Kujoe’s face. “This is America, not Mali or whatever shithole country you’re from. We speak English here.”

“I’m from Ghana!” Kujoe shouted, shoving Tim back.

More white AEs stood, getting in minority SDRs’ faces, and other white SDRs crowded the AEs, picking their allegiances based on skin color. Brian looked over at me, nervous, and I had no idea what was happening or where this was coming from. I just knew I had to stop it before a race riot broke out.

“Hold the fuck up!” I shouted. Everyone froze. “And sit the fuck down,” I ordered, scanning the room. “Now!”

Everyone sat, but now the room was literally divided by minorities on one side, leaning against the glass that looked out onto the hallways, and white salespeople on the other, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Park Avenue.

“What is going on?” I asked, looking at Tiffany.

“What’s going on is that we’re finally standing up for our rights, just like Clyde would have done if he were still here. Ever since you got in that seat, we’ve seen how you favor the Black SDRs and how much time you spend with them. White lives matter, too.”

“Okay,” I said, standing with my hands out, surrendering. “I’m sorry if some of you feel like I’ve played favorites or that”—I looked at the minority SDRs—“certain people are out to get you. But we are one team, and the company is doing better than ever, so we can’t become divided now. Please, just go get some food and let’s start the week off right.”

I sat with my head in my hands as everyone poured out of the heavy wooden doors. Then I felt a thick, burly hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah?” I said, trying to smile as I looked into Frodo’s concerned face. He was still an SDR, having plateaued months ago. However, he had upgraded his wardrobe from football T-shirts to pastel-colored polos with the collars popped. Some people are hopeless.

He grabbed a chair and sat next to me. “Buck, is everything going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing his back. “You just focus on getting promoted, man. Don’t let this shit bring you down.”

He nodded. “I will, but I’m hearing things, Buck.”

“Hearing things? Like voices, Frodo?”

“Yeah, but not like, uh, in my head. Just, um”—he looked toward the window—“more talk about race and stuff. Ever since that video with Clyde and his group. I think he has followers here.”

Clyde. The gift that keeps on giving, like hemorrhoids.

“Okay, Frodo,” I said, helping him up. “What I need from you is to be my eyes and ears. If you hear something, say something. I don’t want to be caught with my pants down, you know?”

“What do you mean, Buck? Do you, uh, need a belt?”

I looked at him for a while, knowing he meant well but that he was still as dumb as rocks. “Yeah,” I said, laughing. “You’ll be my belt, man.”



* * *





So much for a belt. On Tuesday morning, all hell broke loose. I was at Sumwun reviewing the AEs’ Q3 pipelines when Rose texted me.

Washington Square Park. The arch. NOW!

“Sorry,” I said, rising from the table in Qur’an. “I have an emergency. Eddie, keep it going.”

By the time I got to Washington Square Park, there was a crowd in front of the arch. I planted myself on a bench near the fountain close enough where I could see what was going on but far enough where I’d be hard to recognize, especially with the oversize hoodie and sunglasses I’d bought.

From where I sat, I saw balloons, smiling teenagers, and tourists munching on cupcakes, cookies, and pie. Rose stood off to the side, enraged. A PSST News truck was parked beyond the arch, which could only mean one thing.