Black Buck(75)

“This isn’t some superhero shit, Brian. So I’m going to ask you once more,” I said, focusing every square inch of my power directly into the whites of his eyes. “Do you. Want to. Learn to do. What I do? To sell?”

He scratched the back of his head. “But how can I?”

I let go of him and took my phone out. “You still have the same number?”

He nodded.

“Okay, I just texted you my new address. Be there at six-thirty. Tonight.”

“For what?”

“For class,” I said, and stumbled out the doors.



* * *





After a long day of meetings, I finally arrived at my apartment. “Thanks, Chauncey,” I said, exiting the Tesla.

“Have a good night, sir. I will see you tomorrow.”

I walked up the stairs, inserted my key into the door, and was stepping inside when someone grabbed my arm.

This is it. This is what I get for having sex with a white woman. I’m about to die. Trembling, I turned around only to be face-to-face with Brian wearing a black leather trench coat.

“Fuck, man. Don’t ever sneak up on me like that again. What’s wrong with you? And why are you dressed like Shaft?”

“My bad,” he said, retreating down the stairs. “I was waiting across the street until you got home. You take an Uber every night?”

“Something like that. Come on, let’s go. You probably scared all the white people on the block just by being here.”

“Damn,” he said, stepping out of the elevator into my apartment, his head on a swivel like a horny teen in the Museum of Sex. “This all yours?”

“All the furniture, art, and shit? Yeah. But I’m renting. You want something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” he said, carefully sitting on a tall white chair at the marble island.

“Coke it is.” I tossed a cold can in his direction. It landed on the floor behind him.

He quickly got up and grabbed the can. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t!”

The can’s violent hiss sent brown sugar water all over the white walls, white chairs, and white floors. Brian looked like a dog that had just taken a shit on the floor.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I’m going to go get changed and you’re going to clean this up. Then”—I handed him a roll of paper towels—“you’re going to take a seat over there.” I pointed to the white couch in the living room across from the plasma TV. “And please, Brian, don’t touch anything else.”

Ten minutes later, I found him cross-legged on the couch, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

“Let’s go, Buddha. Time for class.”

He slowly opened his eyes. “Where do we start?”

I rolled out the dry-erase board Rhett and I used for weekend strategy sessions and went through the basics: the role of an SDR, the anatomy of a cold call, objection handling, and more.

“Any questions?” I asked, wiping sweat off my brow and turning to Brian. He was still cross-legged, scribbling notes like a cartoon character who’s actually not taking any notes.

He shook his head.

“Two hours of this shit and no fucking questions, Brian? That makes me nervous, man.”

He just stared at me blankly, his hand still scribbling in his composition notebook. I walked over and snatched it out of his hands. The asshole hadn’t taken any notes. It was just paragraphs of wavy lines, random circles, and other ridiculous shapes.

“Brian,” I said, chucking the notebook at him and trying to steady my breathing. “What the fuck is this?”

“I can’t do this, Darren,” he said, defeated. “None of this—DICK!—excuse me, I’m sorry. None of this makes sense to me. This is a waste of your time, and I’m really sorry.”

I won’t lie; I wanted to hit the motherfucker right in his face.

“Why didn’t you say anything, man? I’ve been up here for hours after a long-ass day at work, and you’re here just scribbling gibberish to make it look like you’re following along? What the fuck, Brian?”

He looked down at his notebook. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Stop fucking saying that and speak up. You know how much shit I have to do? I’m here, with you, right now, investing my time in you.”

“I know,” he said, forcing back tears. “I just wanted you to think I could do it. I’m—”

“Don’t you fucking say it,” I said, pointing a finger at him. “I don’t want to hear you ever say you’re sorry again. It’s a waste of your time and mine.”

I plopped down next to him, taking a deep breath. It was night one, and this shit wasn’t working. Fear wouldn’t work with Brian; it would cause him to be like that guy who ran out of Qur’an on day one never to be seen again, so I’d have to find another way.

“I’ll leave.” He uncrossed his legs and got up from the couch.

“Sit,” I ordered, eyes closed, running through a list of possibilities.

What did I know about Brian? He was a few years older than I was. He was from Connecticut. He had a hard-on for D&D and comic books. He’d never had a girlfriend but wanted one. He worked at Starbucks and was pretty good with people face-to-face, especially when doing something he loved.