Black Buck(61)

She was dressed in black leather flats, black stockings, a black blouse under a black velvet jacket, and a wide-brimmed black hat to top it off: funeral attire.

She stared at me—long curly hair matted to one side of my face and nothing but a pair of boxers on—and sucked her teeth. “If the house was on fire, you’d be burnt to a crisp, son. You smell like a pub and look like somethin’ the cat dragged in. Get dressed.”

“Dressed? For what? Somebody die?”

“For church. And if you don’ come, you’ll be the dead one.”

I coughed a few times, bending over. I was about to throw up. “Nah, Ma. No church for me. I’m feelin’ sick today.”

“Which is exactly why you need to be gettin’ up and goin’ to church, boy,” someone said from the hallway.

“Mr. Rawlings?”

“Ain’ no damn Mister Rogers. Get dressed, we gon’ be late now.”

“I really can’t,” I pleaded.

“Come on, baby. Please come with us. It’s goin’ to be a nice sermon, everyone over there hasn’ seen you in years and I jus’ . . . I jus’ need you there with me.”

There was a desperation in her voice, but I ignored it. My head was pounding, and all I wanted to do was go back to bed. “Why today, Ma? You been goin’ to church for years without me. So why do you need me now?”

She looked at me like she hadn’t seen me in a while. “Baby, it’s jus’—”

“Sorry, Ma. I jus’ can’t. You know what’s goin’ on at work, and I need as much rest as I can get.”

“Okay, Dar. It’s okay. Get some rest,” she said, gently closing the door, defeated.

I got back into bed and curled up with my phone. There was a text from Soraya.

If you don’t apologize to my dad, never talk to me again. We’re all just trying to help you!

I didn’t have time for any of that or anyone who thought that fighting for what you believed in meant you were brainwashed.

The room was spinning, and I covered my face with a pillow, trying to make it all stop. More knocking at my door. It was the Saturday morning from hell.

“I can’t move, Ma. I’m gonna throw up.”

“Tha’s what happens when you can’ hold your damn liquor, boy,” Mr. Rawlings said. “But if you don’ open up, I’ll beat the rest outta you.”

I crawled to the door and opened it. “What’s up, Mr. Rawlings?”

“Since when you start drinkin’? Jus’ a coupla months ago I couldn’ even get you to have a li’l champagne.”

“I dunno, Mr. Rawlings.”

“Sheesh. Get dressed and come to church with me and your momma. It’ll mean a lot to her.”

“Mr. Rawlings, I get it, but you don’ understand, I’m in no shape for church.” I closed the door until his hand stopped it.

“I don’ know what’s goin’ on with you, boy. I don’ know if it’s who you’re associatin’ with, if you’re losin’ yourself to the bottle, or somethin’ else, but what I do know is you only got but one momma. And you only got her for a bit of time in this world, so you should do what any self-respectin’ man would do and make her happy while you can.”

He sold me. I got dressed and went to church. We filed into the rickety wooden pew one by one, and after I kissed and hugged a hundred people, explained where I’d been, and answered questions with yes, that was me on TV, and no, I don’t work for the devil, the minister’s sermon began.

I’m not going to lie; I fell asleep with my head down fifteen minutes in. No one bothered me since I looked like I was praying. It was perfect until my phone vibrated. Rhett.

Meet me at my place now. I’ll call you an Uber.

“Jesus,” I said.

A woman behind me gripped my shoulder, and whispered, “He soon come, honey. Soon come indeed.”

I looked to the left and saw Ma with tears in her eyes, gripping Mr. Rawlings’s hand. “Glory be to God!” she shouted in response to something the minister said.

I couldn’t bear to interrupt, so I quietly got up and walked out without turning back.



* * *





Rhett lived on one of those quaint, tree-lined streets in the West Village with cobblestones, celebrities walking their dogs, and boutique shops that need to sell only two pieces a month to survive. He had the entire floor of a brick townhouse all to himself, but he always had people—models, bottle girls, and other glamorous socialites—inside.

“Yo,” he said, opening his door in nothing but a pair of plaid pajamas. His eyes were bloodshot.

“What’s up, man?” I dropped my bag and sank into his soft leather couch.

“I’m losing it and didn’t know who else to call,” he said, arms crossed as he paced around the room. “We’re getting eaten alive. By everyone. The media. The board. Celebrities. Do you know what Mark Zuckerberg said about us? Mark fucking Zuckerberg of all people. That we’re the reason tech startups are getting a bad rap. Can you believe it? Us? When Facebook’s been stealing users’ information from fucking day one. I ought to find him and beat the shit out of him.”

“Whoa, slow down, man. This is war, remember? This shit happens, and we can’t let it get to us, just like you’ve said this whole time.”