Black Buck(4)

“Yeah, man. I know.” Not wanting to hear Wally Cat continue panting over the memory of Ma, I changed the subject. “Hey, Wally Cat. Why do they call you Wally Cat again?”

He sucked his teeth and looked over his shoulders. “Boy, don’ ask me questions that don’ concern you. You betta be askin’ questions that give you information you can use in yo’ own life. And no ‘yes or no’ questions. I’m talkin’ the open-ended ones that’ll crack your mind in half. Like why would the valedictorian of Bronx Science be wastin’ his life away workin’ at a damn—”

Reader: Wally Cat is many things, but a fool he is not. What he told me that day was a sales lesson in disguise. The quality of an answer is determined by the quality of the question. Quote that and pay me my royalties.



I was across the street before he could finish. I usually enjoyed chopping it up with Wally Cat, but on this day, the day my life changed forever, I just wanted to go to work, get back home, kick it with Soraya, and sleep.

After transferring from the G to the L at Metropolitan Avenue, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking it was an accident, I turned my music up and closed my eyes. The bass from Meek Mill’s “Polo & Shell Tops” invaded my ears like American troops in Iraq.

Another tap, this time more forceful. Whenever this type of thing happened, I just ignored it. But then a manicured hand grabbed my wrist and pulled it back, bringing me face-to-face with a slim Korean girl with curly brown hair and a jean jacket that fit just right.

“Darren Vender, the ghost of Bronx Science,” she said, glossy lips breaking apart to reveal a Colgate smile.

I removed my earbuds. “Adrianna, what’s up?”

“Not much, heading to Midtown. What about you?”

“Yeah, same. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know,” she said. “I graduate from NYU next week. Actually on my way to an interview right now.”

“That’s awesome,” I replied, shaking off the Bed-Stuy in my voice. “What’s the interview for?”

“I’m sort of embarrassed to say, but it’s one of those entry-level marketing positions at a startup.”

Jesus. If she’s embarrassed by an entry-level marketing position, especially before graduating from NYU, then I’m fucked.

“I’m sure you’ll crush it,” I said.

Thank God she didn’t have X-ray vision. If she did, she would have seen the black apron in my backpack. Thank God twice that the train arrived at Union Square, ending the conversation.

“Thanks, I’ll see you around,” she said, taking off. A second later, I realized we were both hopping on the 6, so I headed to the opposite end of the train.

It’s funny. Back then I didn’t pay any attention to running into Adrianna; ghosts from the past always reappear in New York City. But now that I think back on it, maybe seeing her had something to do with the wild shit that happened next.





2





3 Park Avenue was its own world. Part office building, part high school, the forty-two-floor behemoth stuck out like a sore geometric brick thumb. Twelve elevators. Thirty companies. One Starbucks. One Darren Vender toiling away inside of that Starbucks for coming up on four years. Yes, after nearly four years, I was still in the same place. But at least I wasn’t making the same drinks or even wearing the same lame green apron. The drinks became more ridiculous with every year. People were no longer satisfied with familiar flavors like gingerbread, pumpkin, and peppermint; now they needed Grasshopper Frappuccinos. Fucking grasshoppers.

As for the uniforms, well, most people don’t know it, but Starbucks treats its aprons like martial-arts belts. Green aprons for beginners, black aprons for coffee masters, and purple aprons for gods. I was a black apron. After working there for four years, I was certainly the Head Nigga in Charge. But to be honest, this didn’t mean much.

“Hey, Darren!” Nicole said, tying the straps of her green apron behind her back. Nicole was a large white woman with a pretty face. She was probably thirty-five and always in a great mood no matter how rough customers were.

When I came out, the place was packed. Carlos, Brian, and Nicole were filling cups, making change, and serving pastries as if it were a five-star restaurant. They were a motley crew—Carlos was an ex-con who’d committed a crime he wasn’t allowed to discuss, Brian had charcoal skin with a face full of acne and a side of Tourette’s, and Nicole, though well-meaning, only saw the world through rose-colored glasses—but I molded them all into soldiers. They were never late, always professional, and knowledgeable about every newfangled drink that corporate handed down to us. But most of all, they were just good humans. I don’t have any siblings, so they were the closest thing to it. And even though I was the youngest, they saw me as an older brother.

As the line of morning addicts stretched out the door, I hopped into action. Now I’m not trying to brag, but I was what you’d call a Starbucks prodigy. No one except Carlos, Brian, and Nicole knew it, but that didn’t matter. I could remember someone’s order from three months back, mix and match drinks to accommodate special tastes, and while doing all that, man two registers at once, shuffling back and forth like I was Billy Blanks or Richard Simmons.

We halved the line within ten minutes, and I hadn’t even broken a sweat. Then I saw him. He had started coming in two months ago after his company moved in. Early mornings, he’d enter alone, always on the phone. At ten, he would return flanked by a group of men, all resembling Dobermans. In the afternoon, he’d come in again with a few younger people who beamed at him as he laughed, and he’d tell them to get whatever they wanted. Then late afternoon would arrive, and I never knew what to expect.