Black Buck(36)

“No deals,” Clyde said. “It’s Thursday, and we haven’t had a deal since Virgin.”

The circle was as frozen as an Inuit’s titty.

“That means we have two hundred and fifty thousand to go find in”—he looked down at his bare wrist—“less than two days. And normally, you all know, I’m as cool as a cucumber. But every single one of you”—he swung his finger around the circle as if it were a Death Eater’s wand—“better haul ass today. If I don’t see money on the board, heads will roll. Understand?”

Everyone nodded.

“Good. Because, while I can’t guarantee that we’re going to hit our number even though we’ve hit every fucking number for the last year, I can guarantee that if we don’t hit I’m firing someone. No,” he said, his eyes ablaze with visions of fire and blood. “I’m firing a group of you. The fat. And after you’re gone, there will only be meat. Sweet, delicious, savory, and delectable meat. Now go,” he commanded. The circle scattered like roaches when the lights are turned on.

“Frodo, Buck, the Duchess,” he shouted. “Book of Shadows. Now.”

Book of Shadows? I imagined dark screeching spirits flying out of an oversize leather-bound book, forcing their way down our throats, overtaking our souls.

This can’t end well.



* * *





We shuffled in one by one, and once the door closed, we were bathed in ultraviolet light. It made Clyde and the Duchess, with their glowing white manes, brightly colored skin, and piercing eyes, look like alien nobility. Intricate illustrations of pentagrams, moons, horned man-beasts, and candles glowed on the carpet, and we all sat in a circle cross-legged, kumbaya style. Clyde explained that the designers had come up with the room to scare people.

Skipping Frodo and the Duchess, Clyde role-played with only me. He was Marshall, CEO of Marshall Bakeries, and even though he made it nearly impossible by saying he wasn’t interested, repeatedly telling me he had to go, and even calling me “boy,” I ended up fully qualifying him. But after we hung up, there was silence. It floated throughout the room like smoke, stopping to caress my face before growing deadly.

“It astounds me,” Clyde said, pausing, “how much you fucking missed.”

“Missed? I qualified you!” My voice was rising.

“The guy was obviously yessing you to death to avoid being impolite. Dude wouldn’t have showed up to the next meeting if you offered him a million bucks.”

My whole body shook, but I wasn’t going to give in. Not when I was almost on the other side.

“Let me ask you a question,” Clyde said, dragging himself across the circle. “What did you do the first time you tried to fuck your girlfriend? When you put your hand down her tight little jeans. You didn’t flinch, did you?”

I dug my fingers into the carpet.

“Because if you flinched,” he continued, his teeth shining like turquoise Tic Tacs, “she would’ve slapped your hand away. And you would’ve never fucked, right?”

Do not give in. Do not give in. Do not give in. I repeated it like a prayer, like it was the only thing that would prevent me from finally hitting him or running out the door.

“Yes or no?” he pressed.

Think about the future, when you’re on an island with Ma, Soraya, and maybe even Jason and Mr. Rawlings. None of this will matter.

“Yes,” I whispered through gritted teeth.

“What?” he said. “I couldn’t hear you, brother. Speak up. It’s dark in here, but you don’t have to be so quiet. C’mon.”

Be the man Pa would’ve wanted you to be.

“Yes,” I repeated, louder.

“If you can’t speak up for yourself, those leads will swallow your ass alive. Speak the fuck up!”

Man up, man up, man up.

“Yes!” I repeated, even louder. I felt like I was about to throw up.

“Just pack your shit up and leave. You won’t last an hour out on that floor. I said SPEAK THE FUCK UP!”

“YES!” I shouted, heavy tears staining my cheeks. “YES! YES! YES!” I stopped caring. I no longer gave a fuck. About Clyde. About proving that I could do it or anything else. I was done. They had won. I bent over and the tears continued to fall; my body shook as I struggled to breathe.

“Shh. There you go,” he whispered, gently rubbing my back. “Finally, a broken Buck.”



* * *





“Hey, you coming back?” Frodo asked, as I waited for the elevator.

“Don’t know.”

“This is all just, uh, part of it, you know, Buck? It was like this when I started playing for Notre Dame. You gotta go through the pain to get to the pleasure. Can’t let ’em get to you or else—”

“Word,” I said, entering the elevator.

I crossed the lobby, pushed my way out into the sunlight of a hot May day, and texted Soraya, asking where she was. She replied in seconds: At the shop, where else?

I knew she’d be there. She was always there during the week. But I couldn’t think straight. The only thing I knew was that I needed her. Can you meet me in Washington Square Park?

On the way, she replied.

The entire twenty-eight-block walk to Washington Square Park was a blur. I can’t tell you what the city buses advertised on their sides. I don’t remember the tunnel of smells I encountered as I navigated through Murray Hill, Gramercy, and Union Square, down to the Village. The panhandlers with outstretched cups, the businessmen and women, and the dog walkers were all as faceless as storefront mannequins. But what I do remember, finally, is the park.