Black Buck(15)

He gave me a round of applause, walked over to a phone, and pressed some buttons.

“Yeah?” It was Rhett.

“He’s ready,” Clyde replied, shoving an open hand toward me.

I still didn’t know what the company did or what I would be doing for them, but I grabbed his hand and shook it. Deep down, I knew Clyde was right. Whatever happened next, I was ready.





II.



Qualifying





Most people want to avoid pain, and discipline is usually painful.

—JOHN C. MAXWELL





5





“And then what happened?” Ma asked, tearing a piece of flesh off her signature well-done-but-really-almost-burnt-to-a-crisp burger and cracking it in her mouth.

Mr. Rawlings, Soraya, and Jason were over, likely wishing Ma had ordered out. As far as anyone was concerned, our home was their home, and in some ways, the family you choose can be stronger than the one you’re given or, in my case, missing.

“Then the other guy, Rhett, walked in and slapped me on the back so hard he knocked the wind outta me. He sat down at the head of the table, and the white boy, Clyde, sat across from me. Rhett asked how much money I was makin’. I told him about $9 an hour. Around $19,000 a year. He looked at Clyde, then back at me, and asked how the hell I was survivin’ in New York City.

“He ran his hand through his silky hair, like some movie star, you know, and said he wasn’ a stranger to the woes of minimum wage. Then he told me they’d pay me $40,000 a year with at least $25,000 on top of that if I hit my goals.”

“What? $65,000 a year! You ’bout to be richer than that cracker kid in Home Alone, boy!” Mr. Rawlings shouted, banging his rosewood cane on the floor and spitting charred hamburger all over the table.

“That’s more than I make, baby,” Ma said, grabbing my hand with tears in her eyes. “And I’ve been workin’ at the Clorox Company for over two decades.”

I knew she was happy for me, but I can’t lie, something felt strange about making $65,000 a year for sitting in a room and talking on the phone while Ma, a chemical process operator, stood on her feet all day breathing in God knows what.

“I’m proud of you, D,” Soraya said, rubbing my dick under the table. I spit bits of charred burger all over.

Ma brought out a cheap bottle of champagne and poured everyone a glass. “You want one, Dar?”

“No thanks, Ma.”

“Ah, c’mon, boy,” Mr. Rawlings pressed. “Nothin’ wrong with a li’l bubbly every once in a while. It’s not like you ’bout to go lose your damn head and gamble your life savin’s away.”

That’s oddly specific.

Everyone raised their glasses. I toasted with a cup of Mountain Dew. “To my baby, Dar,” Ma said. “Thank the Lord for puttin’ his hands on him and settin’ him on the path of success, like we all knew he was destined for. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” everyone echoed. Except Jason.

“So what is it you gon’ be doin’ anyway?” Mr. Rawlings asked, topping his glass off.

“Well, I don’ really know,” I said, realizing I still had no idea what Sumwun did.

Mr. Rawlings hit me with the stank eye. “You don’ know? How you gon’ be up in there making $65,000 a year without knowin’, boy? Is this one of those Wall Street scams where we gon’ find you on TV one day, reporters sayin’ you played old folks for their pensions?”

The table shook with laughter. “Nah, I don’ think so, Mr. Rawlings. After I signed some papers, they said I was gonna get unlimited vacation, health benefits, one thousan’ stock options, and a 401(k), though. There’s also a gym, you can bring pets, and they play a lot of music. I’m sure I’ll find out more on Monday.”

“Things have changed,” Ma said. “Back in my day, no one was gettin’ unlimited vacation or had gyms inside of offices. I’m sure it’s gonna be quite the place to work, Dar.”

“Who the hell needs a gym in a damn office?” Mr. Rawlings asked, twisting his head around. “And animals runnin’ all up in there like it’s a damn farm? Sounds funny to me.” He stuffed his face with potato chips, washing them down with more champagne.

“Aye,” I said, turning to Jason. “You sorta quiet, bro. You good?”

He grabbed a second rock-hard patty and took a brave bite. “Yeah, bro. Jus’ don’ forget those people ain’ your people. It’s easy to get it twisted. Damn, Auntie, these burgers are type delicious.”

“Eat as many as you like, baby,” Ma said, as she walked into the living room. “And since we’re all talkin’ news, I got somethin’ interesting in the mail today.” She returned with an envelope.

NEXT CHANCE MANAGEMENT was typed on the front. “What’s this?” I asked, removing the letter.

Ma smiled. “Read it.”

Dear Mrs. Vender,



I hope this letter finds you well.

My name is Richard Lawson and I’m writing to you on behalf of Next Chance Management, a real estate firm specializing in high-value properties throughout New York City, including Bedford-Stuyvesant. We’ve worked with folks like yourself for years, helping them sell their properties in order to move somewhere more comfortable.