Black Buck(67)

From the day I brought you home from the hospital, you’ve been my guiding light, Dar. After your father died, I had no one to turn to except you and God, and seeing your smiling face greet me every morning was what kept me alive. In the same way I gave you life, son, you gave me life, too.

Darren, I want you to know that I am proud of you, that I’ve always been. No matter if you were working at Starbucks or at Sumwun, you’ve always been my proudest accomplishment and you always will be. You were born to lead, son, not follow. And I want you to remember to stay true to yourself and help others like you live the best life they can. It’s the duty of every man and woman who has achieved some success in life to pass it on, because when we’re gone, what matters most isn’t what we were able to attain but who we were able to help.

I’ll always be with you, baby. Never forget that. And when the world beats you down, when you feel like everyone is against you, think of me, because I’ll always be thinking of you until the day we meet again, my beautiful boy.

Be good to those who need love most. Don’t be too hard on the world, especially yourself. And remember that the time we all have on this earth is but a brief flash of beauty, like a shooting star, and that we have to do all we can to live our dreams. You were the best dream I ever had, Darren. May God bless you until I can hold you in my arms again.



Love always,

Ma



The letter, feeling heavier than before, dropped from my hands. I gripped the sides of the table, trying to balance myself. I couldn’t stop shaking. Sadness was transforming into something else, something blisteringly hot like lava, and I couldn’t stop it from engulfing me.

I flipped the table, sending the letters soaring like paper birds into the air. I threw the coffee pot across the room, glass shattering in every direction. I slammed a wooden chair onto the floor again, and again, and again until it broke into splinters. Heavy mugs crashed against walls. Pots and pans clanged like a brass band as I threw them toward windows. I blasted my fists, one by one, into a wall, my knuckles becoming caked with blood and plaster. When I saw the photo of Ma, Pa, and me on the living-room wall watching it all, I walked over and spit in Pa’s face. “If you hadn’ fuckin’ died, Ma wouldn’ have had to work in that factory inhalin’ all those chemicals, you stupid motherfucker!” I never knew him, but that didn’t matter. I hated him for his absence.

When I finally collapsed onto the floor, my lungs working double time, I couldn’t stop thinking: What next? What next? What next? What could I break next? What could I do next? What would happen next to my life that was already so shattered? As the questions piled up like an accident on the freeway, I decided to do the only thing that made sense: get up and go to Sumwun.



* * *





Down the stairs. When I reached the bottom, Mr. Rawlings’s door was open. I walked in. His entire apartment was empty except for abandoned packs of seeds, stray furniture, letters, and ladybugs floating through the air. I walked into the backyard, finding rows of tomatoes, heads of lettuce, carrot tops, and yellow, red, and purple flowers covering the whole yard. He was gone, just like I told him to be. The feeling that I had made a mistake began to bloom in the pit of my stomach, but I quickly killed it. What kind of man lets a mother hide her illness from her son?

Turn the corner. When I passed Mr. Aziz’s bodega, he was sweeping out front. He looked at me, shook his head, and turned away before heading back inside. The gargoyles were where they always were. It was the first time I saw Jason back on his corner since the hospital. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. Our eyes locked and he spit on the ground. Across the street, Wally Cat fanned himself with his fedora, staring at me. There was no longer an empty crate next to him. I ducked into the subway.

When I arrived at 3 Park Avenue, I headed to Starbucks. Carlos was mopping, Nicole was arranging new cardboard cutouts, and Brian was stacking cups. But when I tried opening the door, it was locked. Brian looked up, his eyes met mine, and he went back to setting up. Nicole turned around, frowned, and returned to her cutouts. And Carlos paused, and said, “Not open yet,” then dropped his gaze back to the wet tiled floor. Brian must have said something.

It was 7:05 a.m. and the entire sales team was in Qur’an. As I stepped into the elevator bay, I felt all two-hundred-something eyes on me. But instead of turning left, I went right. It was officially Deals Week, and the floor was empty.

I dropped my bag, booted up my computer, and looked for a Post-it in my file cabinet, the one from Hell Week. Then I found it, a crinkled purple Post-it with three names.

Bernie Aiven, head, Hinterscope Records



Stefan Rusk, CEO, SpaceXXX



Barry Dee, owner, DaynerMedia





“Yo,” Charlie said, pushing open the frosted doors, walking toward me. “Um, you know it’s Deals Week, Buck. Everyone’s in Qur’an waiting for you.”

I typed Bernie Aiven into our lead database and found his number.

“What’s this?” Charlie asked, picking up the purple Post-it. “Your wish list? You can call them after the meeting, dude. Let’s go,” he said, grabbing my arm. I yanked it away, glaring. He flinched and walked back through the doors.

I dialed the number and grabbed the receiver. After a few rings, a woman picked up. “Good morning, Bernie Aiven’s office, how may I help you?”