Black Buck(2)

As with any other day, my alarm went off at 6:15 a.m. The buzzing interrupted an unremarkable dream that left me with morning wood. But instead of rubbing one out, I kissed my photo of my girlfriend, Soraya; straightened my leaning tower of books; said good morning to my posters of Scarface, The Godfather, and Denzel as Malcolm X, and stood in front of my mirror, taking stock of the person staring back at me.

I didn’t know it back then, but I was, and am, an attractive Black man. At six two, I’m taller than average, and my skin, comparable to the rich caramel of a Werther’s Original, thanks to my pops, is so smooth you wouldn’t believe it’s not butter. My teeth are status quo and powerful, also known as white and straight, and my hair is naturally wavy even though I usually keep it short with a tight fade. Goddamn! The kid looked good and he didn’t even know it. I took a deep breath, hopped in the shower, and began my morning routine.

The house smelled as it always did at 7 a.m.—like coffee. It made me want to puke. After years of being surrounded by it, I could tell where a bean was sourced without even tasting it, which I would never do because I hate coffee. Yes. I. Hate. Coffee. It’s black crack. Nothing more. Anyone who drinks coffee craves it, needs it, and shakes, scratches, jerks, and twerks for it every minute it’s not coursing through their collapsed veins.

A “café” is a euphemism for a crack den. But instead of lying on a moldy sofa cushion stained with blood, sweat, and semen, folks with names like Chad, Kitty, and Trip sit down on plush leather-backed chairs licking the sweet white foam off of a seven-dollar venti, caramel, mocha, choca, cock-a-doodle-do, double-espresso long macchiato. But I digress.

This morning’s narcotic of choice was an Indonesian blend from Sumatra if my nose was right. When it comes to coffee from a far-flung location, your normal run-of-the-mill American addicts either fall in love with the high-body, caramel, and chocolaty explosion of flavor or hate it.

“Coffee?” Ma asked, smirking as she filled her favorite “Coffee’s for Christians” mug.

“Funny,” I said, planting a kiss on her cheek and grabbing a banana.

“Darren,” she said, staring at the banana. “You’re forgettin’ somethin’.”

I stared at the banana, then at her, then at the photo of her, Pa, and me on the living-room wall. “My bad, Ma.” I crossed the hardwood floor from the kitchen to the living room, leaned over, and kissed the glass protecting Pa’s smiling, tanned, and clean-shaven Spanish face. “Mornin’, Pa,” I said, before returning to the kitchen.

Ma looked at her watch and sat next to me, staring. She was fifty but didn’t look a day over forty. Her hair was always shoulder-length and relaxed. And with makeup, which I almost never saw her wear, she could pull off thirty-five. Back in the day, she was prom queen and had plans of being Miss America until her parents dissuaded her. But Ma’s magic wasn’t in her appearance, which used to get me into fights on the regular. It was in her ability to make you think you were meant for more, and almost believe it, just with a stare.

“What?” I asked.

“What what?” Her eyes smiled at me, ready. I turned my body into rubber, bracing for impact.

“When’re you goin’ to quit that job and go to college, Darren?”

Knew it. She’d asked me the same question for the last four years, in different forms. Like the time she told me how useful LinkedIn was for finding internships. Or when I found a new white button-up, brown leather belt, shoes, and khakis neatly folded on my bed with a note that said, “For campus visits!” If she only knew why I stayed home, she wouldn’t ask that question and do these things, I thought. But I’ll die before I tell her.

“I dunno. Jus’ waitin’ for the right opportunity, Ma. You know that. Plus, why you tryna get me up out the house, hmm? Gotta new man I dunno about?”

She sucked her teeth. “Don’ be silly. You know I only have room for one man in my life. But I swear, if you jus’ keep waitin’ for the right opportunity, as you always say, and don’ put that big ole brain to good use, it’s gonna get you in trouble. Mark my words.” She bent over, coughing like something serious was stuck in her throat.

I rubbed her back just like she did to me when I was a kid. She gripped my other hand and smiled.

“I’m okay, Dar. Don’ worry ’bout me.”

“But I do worry. You been coughin’ like this for a month, Ma. Mus’ be all those chemicals you messin’ with at the factory.”

“Well, let’s make a deal,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I’ll stop messin’ with all those chemicals when you get rich enough to take care of me. How’s that sound?”

She was always looking to make a deal. I should’ve seen it back then—that Ma was the best saleswoman I knew. She’d made deals with me ever since I was a kid. A deal for me to go to bed by a certain time. A deal for us to take a trip to some random island if we ever won the lottery. A deal. A deal. A deal. Every day in my house was deals day; everything was up for negotiation.

“Deal,” I said, kissing her forehead before jetting out.



* * *





It’s important for you to know that we weren’t poor, that not everyone living in what some white folks think is the “hood” is poor. Thanks to Ma’s parents, who passed when she was twenty, we owned a three-story brownstone in the heart of Bed-Stuy. And even with the rising property taxes, we made enough between the two of us to avoid the Key Food on Myrtle. We weren’t middle class, but life isn’t that bad when you own your home and earn side income from tenants.