Black Buck(32)

“It was all you, Clyde. Please, I was just along for the ride.”

It was then that I first saw it. I don’t know if I can say it was the look a father gives a son or an older brother gives a younger one, but what I can say is that it was true love. The love that is exchanged between people who would do anything for each other. And, for the first time, I saw a humanity in Clyde that I didn’t know he possessed.

“Now hit that shit!” Rhett ordered.

Clyde cocked his hand back like a pitcher about to throw a ball at ninety miles an hour and struck the gong with a force that made the ground shake.

“ABC, baby!” Rhett shouted. “Always. Be. Closing!”



* * *





“That’s how you fucking do it!” Clyde screamed, strutting into Bhagavad Gita like a colonizer.

Frodo held his hand up for a high five. “Nice one, Clyde. Can’t wait to be able to close a deal like that.”

“Okay,” Clyde said, ignoring Frodo. “Plan for the day is to role-play with me. Then one-on-one role-playing with a senior SDR until the end of the day. Now’s crunch time, so don’t fucking slack off. Frodo, you first. Stand up.”

Clyde was Karl Schmitt, CEO of Schmitt Dogshit. And Karl schmitted all over Frodo. He even said, “You’re almost worse than Buck, and that’s an achievement.” Aside from “having less of a brain than a mummified corpse,” Frodo’s main undoing was ending statements with a question mark, which Clyde said introduced doubt into the conversation.

Reader: This is one hundred percent true. If you talk like this? People will think you don’t know what the hell you’re saying? So, when speaking, picture ending everything you say with a period. Periods = confidence. Confidence = success.



When it was the Duchess’s turn, Clyde told her to stay seated because she’d pass on Friday without any more sessions. “But you”—he kicked my chair—“get up. I’m Tyrone Williams, VP of people at Imperial Tobacco.”

“Ring ring.”

“Tyrone.”

“Hi, Tyrone, it’s Darren calling from Sumwun. How are you?”

“I’z good, Darren. Hey, now dat sound like a brother’s name. You a brother?”

Ignore it. I wasn’t going to let him get to me.

“Yeah, Tyrone. I’m a brother. And I’m calling you today to learn more about what you’re all doing over there to increase employee wellness.”

“Huh, dat a funny question, Darren. Never tawt about dat one. Gez not much.”

“Great, sounds like it’s a good thing I called. We’re working with companies similar to your own to help increase employee productivity through a more balanced, healthier state of mind. How’s that sound?”

“Gez it sound awright to me, suh! Aye, you ever have a Philly Blunt?”

“No, Tyrone. I don’t smoke.”

“You don’ smoke? What kinda brother ’r’ you? We over here at Imperial Tobacco make ’em! I don’ think I can do business wid someone who’s never had a Philly Blunt befoe.”

Fuck this. He wouldn’t do this to anyone else. Hit him and walk out. No, don’t. This modern-day minstrel show is irritating, but you can take it. Think of Ma. Think of Ma. Think of Ma.

“Well, how about this? I get a little more information from you, Tyrone, and then whenever you’re in New York, we’ll spark up a Philly together?”

“CLICK! What the fuck was that, Buck? You’ll smoke a blunt with him? Christ.”

“They’re also cigars, man. I didn’t mean a blunt.”

“No, you did. What else do you all use them for? Learn the difference between getting familiar and getting too comfortable. What if Tyrone was recording that and posted it online? You’d bring the fucking company down with how unprofessional that was.”

“You were the one acting like a stereotype.”

“Are you calling me a fucking racist, Buck? You better watch it.”

My hand was ready, my heart was ready, and my frustration, reaching magma-level intensity, was there.

“Please do it,” Clyde said, eyeing my fist. “I want you to. It’ll make this easier for everyone.”

“Buck.” Frodo grabbed my elbow. “Chill out.”

Clyde walked toward me and didn’t stop until our noses were touching. He smiled that same fucking smile, with those same sky-blue eyes, and that same stench of self-entitlement. “Sit,” he ordered.

I was tempted to splatter his brains against the dry-erase wall, but that same voice from before said I needed to choose my battles, keep my eyes on the prize, and all of that other Rocky “Eye of the Tiger” bullshit. So, I sat.

Reader: No matter how much it hurts, never let short-term frustration disrupt long-term gain. Sales is a marathon, not a sprint.



“Good boy,” he said, walking toward the door.

Doubts ricocheted inside my head. Is this really what Ma wants? What was so wrong with who I was last week?

“Buck?” Clyde said, pausing in the doorway.

“What?”

“The next time you threaten me, you won’t just be fired. I’ll also have you thrown in jail. You got that?”

No, I don’t fucking got that, you David Duke–worshipping, NRA license–carrying, “Take Me Home, Country Roads”–singing motherfucker!