Black Buck(40)

“Me,” he said. “You and me in the circle, Buck. Let’s go.”



* * *





My mouth went dry. I tried to think about Soraya telling me to fight, about Mr. Rawlings’s dirt, about Ma and her prophecies of greatness. But none of it helped. The only thing that relaxed me was remembering that I was wearing my black Starbucks apron and that I was once the best Starbucks shift supervisor in the city, maybe even the world.

“Before we begin,” Clyde said, smiling like a hyena on heroin, “put this on.”

I froze when I saw what it was: a black cap with STARBUCKS embroidered in white lettering with that almost invisible ? at the end of it. But it wasn’t just the hat that made my heart stop; it was also the squarish green pin with the Starbucks mermaid and the words CERTIFIED BARISTA next to it, which could have meant only one thing.

“I got it off one of the people who works downstairs,” he said, tickled. “Black kid with the gross pimples? Paid him twenty bucks and he was incredibly grateful. Told me to tell you hi.”

He wants to throw me off and make me fail. Fuck him. I grabbed the hat, placed it on my head, and said, “Who am I calling?”

“I thought you’d never ask. You’re calling Deborah Jackson, VP of HR at Starbucks.”

What a maniac. Instead of making someone up, he was using a real person, someone I actually knew. But Starbucks was my domain, so there was no way he’d trip me up. I smiled and said, “Ring ring.”

“Hello, this is Debbie!”

“Hi, Debbie, this is Darren calling from Sumwun, how are you?”

“Oh, hi, Darren! I’m swell, thanks for asking. Just another day over here in paradise. Grabbed my morning cup of joe, so I’m ready to go! How’re you?”

“I’m great, thanks for asking. What are you drinking?”

“One of our new blonde roasts—can’t get enough of it! How can I help you today?”

“That’s a delicious one. I’ve heard that folks love the hint of lemon. Anyway, I’m calling because we’ve been working with other VPs of HR like you to drive employee productivity through increasing happiness and—”

“Wait, sorry to interrupt. You said your name is Darren, yes?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“This may be random, but you’re not Darren Vender, are you?”

“Um, yes, that’s me,” I replied, suspicious. “Maybe you’ve seen one of my emails? We tend to send a lot,” I said, laughing.

“No, no. Darren, it’s me! Deborah Jackson, remember? Gosh, we haven’t spoken in about, what, a year? You were such a hard worker, stacking boxes and serving coffee the last time we spoke. How are you?”

Where was this going? What the fuck was he doing?

“I’m fine, Debbie. Didn’t notice it was you, actually. So, like I was saying—”

“Gee, Darren. I didn’t even know you left Starbucks. Four years was quite a while, though. Which location were you at again? The one at 3 Park Avenue over in Manhattan?”

I looked around the circle. People stood with confused faces, whispering to one another, finally realizing I wasn’t just a faceless Black guy but that I was that faceless Black guy from the Starbucks downstairs.

“Yes,” I said, taking a deep breath. “That’s the one.”

“And now,” Debbie said, “you’re at this company called, um, Sumwun? It’s so good to see you’re doing well. For someone who didn’t even go to college, no less! Are you still living with your mom in, where was it, Bed-Stuy?”

I was sweating, sinking, and shrinking into a dark hole like a circumcised dick. Clyde dramatically extended his arms and looked around the circle, pretending to be confused.

“Helloooooo? Darren, you there? I asked if you were still living with your mom.”

I’m done. This is too much. But then I heard a voice. One of those voices people hear in movies that all of a sudden give them strength to fight on. It’s cliché as shit but true. And it wasn’t the voice of God. It was none other than Wally Cat’s rich baritone: “In any game, you gotta have a short-term memory. Someone tell you some shit you don’ like? Forget it the minute they mouth close.”

I forced myself to forget all of Clyde’s bullshit and smiled. “I am, Debbie. It’s nice to still be able to see her even with my busy new job. But let me give you the quick, thirty-second pitch on Sumwun, and if it’s a fit, I’ll set up some time for you to speak with my colleague and very best friend Clyde.”

The circle laughed. I loosened up and told “Debbie” about how Sumwun would be an incredible way to invest in her employees’ happiness and mental health.

“Sure, Darren. That all sounds good, but you still haven’t told me what Sumwun is. I’m sorry, but I also can’t get over how cute it is that you’re calling me up and giving me your little pitch!”

“I guess it is, Debbie. Everything has come full circle. Anyway, through our platform, Starbucks employees can speak with what we call assistants, who are folks around the world who specialize in different ways of life. They’re like therapists without all the stuffiness. People can speak with them by phone, computer, or even text. How’s this all sound?”