Black Buck(39)

“What do you feel?”

“Dirt?”

“Of course dirt, boy. Stop bein’ so simple. What do you feel?”

I closed my eyes and moved my hands through the soft dirt, grabbing roots, running into what I guessed were worms. “Roots, worms, and other stuff I can’t see,” I replied.

“Life, boy. You’re feelin’ life. And can’ nothin’ grow without fertile soil or the right hands for it. This right here,” he said, touching a dusty finger to my temple, “is soil. Jus’ like this garden. And only you can decide what grows and who you allow to get their hands in it. Understand?”

“I do. Thanks, Mr. Rawlings.”

“You’re welcome. Now go on and get outta here and don’ touch none of my stuff on the way out.”

Turn the corner. Wave to Mr. Aziz.

“Bit tawfiq, Darren!” he shouted.

“Sabah al-kheir, Mr. Aziz. But what’s that mean?”

“Means ‘good luck,’ he said, holding a broom. “Soraya tells me you have an important exam today.”

“Shukran jazeelan, Mr. Aziz.”

It was early, but the gargoyles were there. Jason didn’t look at me. Wally Cat waved me over, but I tapped my invisible wristwatch before diving into the subway.

With Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happiness” bumping in my ears, I closed my eyes, allowing the lyrics—about never letting up, doing what you want, and only focusing on the future even if it includes failure—consume me.

Easier said than done, Cudder. Easier said than done.



* * *





The circle assembled and silently followed Clyde’s movements. I looked around, wanting to see what Frodo’s and the Duchess’s game faces looked like; Frodo, wearing a red T-shirt with some football team’s logo on it, was covered in sweat, and the Duchess, in a beige kaftan, looked as bored as ever.

“Seventy-five left to go,” Clyde said, barely louder than a whisper. “Losers lose; winners win. It’s as simple as that. And we don’t hire losers.”

He uttered the famous Maoist/musketeer maxim, “All for one, and one for all,” and said that we were going to hit our number “because we’re scrappy, resourceful, and more tenacious than fucking HIV in Africa.” I was the only one who cringed.

Rhett appeared outside the circle wearing the same look from a few days ago: pale, with dark rings under his eyes, and hair like a bird’s nest. He was biting his fingernails and tried to go unnoticed, but Clyde looked in his direction, and asked, “Any words, Rhett?”

He coughed and entered the circle slowly. “No, not really. But as we all know, we’ve had three new hires start this week—the Duchess, Frodo, and Buck—and in true Sumwun fashion, today is day five of Hell Week. So you know what that means.”

Smiles, smirks, and other forms of fervor appeared on every face like stars becoming visible in the night sky. The air in the event space, building off Clyde’s energy, surged, sparked, and snapped. It was some real Dr. Frankenstein shit.

“Oh, that’s right,” Clyde said, tapping his forehead. He entered the circle with outstretched hands. “Who should go first?”

Go first? Are we doing this in public?

The circle shouted our names until the chaotic screams settled on “Frodo!”

“Frodo, enter the circle,” Clyde commanded. “And Tiffany.”

Tiffany rubbed her hands together, smiling diabolically, as Frodo, visibly shaking, wiped his sweaty red neck with a paper towel and entered the circle.

“Wear this,” Clyde said, shoving a small football helmet into Frodo’s chest.

“Uh, why?” Frodo asked, struggling to get the helmet over his wide head.

Clyde laughed, pounding the helmet in place. “To get you focused, why else?”

Tiffany circled him like a snake ready to strike.

She had her fun with him, but Frodo, despite his stuttering, asked the questions he needed to, and it ended without too much bloodshed.

Clyde entered the circle, stretching out his thumb sideways, like Commodus in Gladiator, and held it there. It wiggled toward the floor, then toward the ceiling, like a bipolar magnet, then back down, then finally, up. Frodo sighed with relief, and the circle chanted, “Frodo! Frodo! Frodo!” Everyone clapped and laughed, clearly more at him than with him, but tomayto, tomahto.

“The Duchess and Eddie. Go,” Clyde ordered. “But first,” he said, procuring a bedazzled plastic crown, “wear this.”

The Duchess stared at the crown in Clyde’s hand as if he’d gotten it out of the garbage. I thought she was going to refuse, but she rolled her eyes and placed it on her head to everyone’s delight.

Their role-play was short and efficient. Eddie wasn’t an asshole; the Duchess put on a fake smile and went down her checklist of questions. Clyde entered the circle and swiftly flipped his thumb up as if it were a mailbox flag. The circle didn’t chant her name or erupt in applause. She just quietly removed the crown, swiftly broke it in half, and tossed it into the garbage.

“Okay, the best for last,” Clyde said. Everyone in the circle focused their eyes on me. My heart felt like it was going to explode. At least if you die, you won’t have to go. I prayed to God that Clyde wouldn’t pair me with Tiffany or one of the other sadistic AEs. Eddie would be perfect. Even Marissa would do. But no, I got . . .