Black Buck(37)

A shaggy pianist busting out old-time rhythms; nations of Black, Hispanic, and Asian nannies pushing blonde-haired and blue-eyed surrogates in $1,500 strollers; skateboarders abusing Garibaldi when they should’ve been in school; the fountain, like a humpback, spouting water into the sky, catching the light’s reflection. Washington’s words forever inscribed in the arch, built over the bones of the natives buried beneath: LET US RAISE A STANDARD TO WHICH THE WISE AND HONEST CAN REPAIR.

Sounds like a confession, I thought, sitting inside the fountain, out of the water’s reach.

A shadow appeared, blocking the sun’s heat. “Come here often?”

I looked up and saw her sweet, smiling face. Beneath her acid-washed jean jacket, I could make out a white T-shirt with one of Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits on it. For the briefest moment, I forgot why we were there. “Occasionally,” I said, reaching my hand out to help her climb in next to me.

“So.” She grabbed my face with her smooth hands and planted a kiss on my forehead. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’.” I watched little white kids running through the fountain. To be that free, man. That’s the dream.

“Nothin’, huh? Okay,” she said, getting up. “Guess I’ll go back to Brooklyn then. Bye.”

“Wait!” I grabbed her hand. “Aight, aight, aight. It’s work, what else?”

She sat back down. “What about it?”

“I can’t do it, Soraya. This shit’s jus’ not for me. These people, almost all of them, I feel like they’re targetin’ me.”

“Targetin’ you how, D?”

“This guy Clyde. The one I told you about. He goes in on me durin’ role-plays and gives everyone else a pass. He tells me all day about how I’m not good enough and how I’m gonna fail. And then this girl I’m trainin’ with, the Duchess, is OD pretentious. And the other kid, Frodo, he’s mad dumb but not too bad. And Rhett, he’s the only reason I’m there, but even he can’t save me. It’s all jus’ messed up. I’m done. They won.”

“Whoa.” She pulled my head onto her shoulder, the smell of cinnamon and cocoa butter almost calming me down. “Slow down, slow down. All these names. All these people. Isn’ this the whole point of Hell Week, D? For them to make your life, I dunno, hell? In order to see if you can take it?”

“Yeah, but I can’t. This is why you don’ see minorities in these places. We’re not built for this shit. Forreal.”

“So what?” she said, lifting my chin. “You’re jus’ gonna give up, huh? You’re seriously gonna, what, go back to bein’ a shift supervisor at Starbucks? C’mon, D, you’re smarter than that.”

I pulled away from her, my pulse rising. “What the fuck was wrong with bein’ a shift supervisor at Starbucks? You were my girl when I was there, and I never heard any complaints.”

She pulled my hand to her chest and I could feel her heart beating. “Chill out, D. It’s me. Same team, same dream, remember? Always have been and always will be, you know that, but let’s jus’ slow down.”

I closed my eyes, took a big breath, and let it out. The sounds of the city surrounded us: taxis honking; kids laughing; heels clacking on the concrete; the piano mixed in with stray guitars, saxophones, and trumpets.

“I know, my bad. It’s jus’ that I’m tired of all these mind games. Every day is a test, and it all jus’ seems mad unfair, you know? Like why do I gotta be twice as good?”

“You gotta play their game to be able to win it, D. And it doesn’ matter if you gotta be twice or three times as good. What matters is that you don’ let them beat you once, and say, ‘Game over.’ ’Cause if you quit now, it’s gonna be much harder to get back up.”

What she said was true, but I didn’t care. I was tired. Tired as hell. Frodo and the Duchess weren’t going through half of what I was, and it all felt so unfair. Like my skin came with a bull’s-eye.

Reader: Contrary to popular belief, “fairness” has no place is sales. It is not a meritocracy. Every salesperson comes into the game with a different set of advantages and disadvantages, but it’s knowing how to double down on what makes you special that will help you get ahead.



She rubbed my cheek. “You remember when my parents split, and I planned to run away?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Right after your moms moved to Harlem, you came to my house, at like midnight, with a packed bag, all ready to go.”

“And then what?”

“I wen’ inside, grabbed my backpack, and we headed to Penn. We were some stupid-ass twelve-year-olds, though.” I laughed. “Thinkin’ we could grab the Amtrak to Hersheypark at one in the mornin’ with no money.”

“And what did you say to me, D? When I was cryin’ on your shoulder back to BK?”

“I said that everything happens for a reason. And that sometimes, when you run away from somethin’, you miss an opportunity to grow.”

“And what else?”

“And that no matter what happened, I’d always be there for you.”

“Sounded like pretty good advice to me back then,” she said, wrapping her arms around me, pulling me closer. “Sounds like pretty good advice now.”