Black Buck(46)

“It definitely does,” Frodo declared, drinking an entire can of Sprite in one gulp, letting out a stinky, hamburger-laden belch. He wore a T-shirt that read: EVERY DAY IS FIRST DOWN.

“Shit, Frodo. That smells,” I said, shoving him into the elevator.

“Sorry. But like I was saying, if you’re born in the summer, you’re fiery, like the sun. And if you’re born in the winter, then you’re cool, like the snow. Maybe even more relaxed.”

“You do know that Kim Jong-il was born in the middle of February, right?”

“I don’t know who that is. But most people I know named Kim are really nice, like my babysitter, my uncle’s wife, and Kim Possible.”

When the elevator opened, the floor sounded louder than it should have for a Monday at 12:30 p.m. People were shouting into their phones until they were red in the face, some of them were crying, and a few were pacing in circles, squeezing purple stress balls.

“What’s going on?” I asked Charlie, who sat with his head in his hands.

Without moving, he muttered, “The beginning of the end, Buck. The real beginning of the end. It’s all over the news.”

I flipped my Mac open and googled “Sumwun.” The first page was plastered with articles from every major news outlet: “Sumwun is now for no one,” “CEO Rhett Daniels declines to comment on murder,” “Assistants or assailants?,” “Tech darling of NYC drowning as we type,” “Psychologists or psycho killers?”

“Yes, that Sumwun, but I one hundred percent promise it’s nothing serious,” Eddie said into his phone. “These things happen. No, I know. Yes, it shouldn’t have. I assure you we’re doing everything in our power, Jack, so let’s just schedule some—fuck! He hung up. No one is giving us a chance to speak. Everyone knows.”

“Knows what?” I asked, still confused, staring at the headlines on my screen.

Reader: Every great salesperson has to go through tough times in order to find out what they’re made of. The best thing to do is to try to come out as unscathed as possible but to never forget the experience. Pain is a powerful teacher.



“Oh, Buck,” he said, grabbing me. “One of our assistants in China. He convinced a noncorporate user, some depressed sixteen-year-old girl from Arkansas, to go to China and meet him for a face-to-face session. Her parents and friends hadn’t known she went until they forced us to break our user confidentiality agreement and release her sessions’ transcripts. They called the Chinese authorities, and the cops found the assistant’s apartment. But when they got there, the girl was tied up and dead on the floor. They’re looking for him now.”

Holy fucking shit. “So what happens now?”

“Everyone’s canceling. And every deal we forecasted for September is now down the drain. No one wants to sign their employees up for a service that could get them killed.”

Rhett walked out of his office and the floor went silent. His skin was whiter than I’d ever seen, as if he’d just thrown up the previous day’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Porschia handed him a microphone, and he stood in front of the almighty whiteboard with Clyde on his right. The Holy Trinity. He gripped the mic and closed his eyes.

“Listen,” he said, taking in a lungful of air. “There are no two ways about it. And frankly, I’m not going to sugarcoat anything. What the media is saying is true. One of our veteran assistants preyed on a user. And he murdered her.”

He dropped his head to his chest. Clyde placed a hand on his back. Everyone had tears in their eyes, including me. And what’s messed up is that I don’t think the majority of the tears were even for the poor girl; they were for Rhett, for Sumwun, for us.

“It’s my fault,” Rhett said, taking a tissue from Porschia and wiping his eyes. “I take full responsibility. We should have instituted better check-ins, a tighter vetting process, and not been so lax, especially with younger folks who have serious mental issues. I’m sorry.”

I’d never seen Rhett look so defeated, not even when we almost missed our number during my first Deals Week. Fear spread over everyone’s faces, and it truly did, as Charlie said, feel like the beginning of the end.

“What are we going to do now?” Marissa asked, stroking Clifford’s back. No longer a cute piglet, he was now a full-grown, stinky, market-weight pig.

Rhett, cheeks glistening, looked out over the sea of solemn salespeople who, though we were in our early twenties, were like his children. After a second, like Dr. Jekyll transforming into Mr. Hyde, he straightened his back, gritted his teeth, and balled his hands into knuckle-ripping fists.

“We are going to fight,” he announced. Everyone looked up, wiping their tears away. “Because this is war. And the only point of war is to win. Everyone who was on our side before, including the board, doesn’t want to touch us with a ten-foot pole. They say we had it coming all along, that we were growing too quickly, winning too much, and believing in what we were doing too hard.”

“BULLSHIT!” I screamed.

“Yeah, fuck that!” another shouted.

“That’s right!” Rhett roared into the microphone. “It is bullshit. Everyone wants you when you’re hot but drops you once you’re not. But you know what?”

“WHAT?” we shouted, as if we’d just gotten a shot of steroids.