Black Buck(43)

“Fuck that!” Rhett shouted, yanking his door open with an arm around Chris. “Month twelve, baby! We hit it!”

Instead of throwing papers in the air, jumping around, and clapping until their wrists snapped off, the entire floor looked at Rhett in disbelief. He walked over to the board, erased the $48,000 under the LEFT TO GO box in the center, and put a big fat $0!!! in its place. Everyone audibly exhaled.

When he capped his marker, the floor exploded. The Black Eyed Peas’ “Let’s Get It Started” bumped from the ceiling speakers. Porschia and her team walked out with carts bearing bottles of champagne and branded glasses.

Rhett gripped a microphone. “Woooooo!” he shouted. “We almost didn’t make it, team. We seriously almost didn’t make it this month.”

“But we did!” someone shouted, violently chucking a purple stress ball directly into his face. He remained unfazed, like he enjoyed it.

“That’s right!” he said. “That is fucking right. And we did it because people believe in us. Because of each and every one of you beautiful, brave, and ballsy people,” he said, aggressively grabbing a fistful of his testicles.

“You. All of you are the definition of Sumwunners. I know that we cut it close and you were nervous but that,” he said, beating his chest, “in your soul you believed. That you KNEW! Someone, hit me with a ball!” Dozens of people obliged him. A shower of balls hit his body at warp speed.

“Now I want you all to forget the month. Forget how hard we worked. Forget the tears, sweat, and, in some cases, blood. I want you to head to the event space, grab a drink, food, and get ready for the night of a lifetime. Lucien from Poplar Capital called, and he gave us the green light to go insane. So put on your fucking dancing shoes and finest threads, because we’re hitting the club! ‘Clap your hands, all peoples! Shout to God with loud songs of joy!’ Psalms 47:1, motherfuckers!”

Everyone rushed into the event space. I sat glued to my chair, trying to fathom what the hell just happened. The insanity of the week had paralyzed me.

Rhett stood next to the whiteboard removing Silly String from his hair, and Clyde walked over to him. They embraced for minutes, Rhett whispering into Clyde’s ear, Clyde silently nodding and, I shit you not, sobbing. Rhett held Clyde’s head and kissed the top before they walked off the floor.

The event space was full of people downing shots, doing keg stands, and swaying off rhythm to music with bass heavy enough to make your heart shake.

“Buck,” Rhett said, opening his arms with a smile that automatically made me smile. “Come here.”

He wrapped his arms around me more affectionately than any man ever had. He was warm and held me until his head fell on my shoulder. “We did it, Buck.”

“Yeah,” I said, unsure of what to say. “I mean you did, Rhett. You did it.”

He shot up and held me in front of him. “No, Buck. We. You are as much a part of this as anyone here. And you’re going to be better than all of them, I know it. So stop acting like this isn’t you,” he said, jabbing a hard finger into my chest. “And that you’re not one of us, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. Tears began forming in my eyes. I don’t know why I was so emotional. I looked around the event space, saw all of the people laughing, dancing, and hugging, all of the real, tangible love, and I started to believe. To believe in the Gospel of Rhett. In the Church of Sumwun.

Clyde waved me over from across the room. Fuck. Everything’s going so well, what could he want?

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“Listen, Buck. I know I was hard on you this week, but it’s my job.”

I stared at him, thinking about the torture he put me through. The embarrassment and humiliation. All of it.

“Rhett likes you. And if Rhett likes you, I like you. So what do you say?” He extended a porcelain, blond-knuckled, manicured hand. “Truce?”

Didn’t this guy mouth Fuck you to me hours ago? I had no plans of becoming “best bros” with Clyde, but I figured it was better to let bygones be bygones than be the “angry Black man” at Sumwun. And as crazy as it sounds, seeing how he was with Rhett and watching him console everyone earlier made me believe that he wasn’t a complete asshole; he was just someone who wanted to make his mentor proud.

“Yeah,” I said, shaking his hand. “Alright, man. Truce.”

“Good,” he said. “Now chug this.”

This was a red Solo cup filled to the brim with beer.

“No, thanks,” I said, pushing the cup toward him.

“C’mon, Buck,” he said, staring at me with a childlike smile. “We’re friends now. So let’s make it official with a drink. Is it against your religion or something?”

“No, I just don’t drink. It’s not for me, you know. Makes people lose their minds.”

“One drink won’t hurt,” he insisted, pushing the cup toward me. “I promise.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He thrust the cup into the air. “HEY, WHO WANTS TO SEE BUCK CHUG THIS?”

Everyone looked up, already possessed by liquor, greasy food, and God knows what else, and screamed, “CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!”

I started to shake. The week, the screaming, the pressure, all of it became too much and I wanted to shut it out. I grabbed the cup and drained it in one gulp. The coppery liquid gushed down my throat and pounded into my stomach, and I bent over in pain.