Black Buck(8)

I crossed my fingers behind my back and looked into her eyes.

“Aight, Ma. I promise.”





3





I lied. I lied because I didn’t want Ma to feel like I wasn’t trying to better myself. I lied because of the stank eye Mr. Rawlings gave me as a string of cheese clung to his lip for dear life. But most of all, I lied because I was afraid. You see, it’s easy for someone to walk around telling everyone that they’re “jus’ waitin’ for the right opportunity,” but an entirely different thing when they actually receive it. An opportunity means change. An opportunity means action. But most of all, an opportunity means the chance of failure. And it’s the potential for failure, more than failure itself, that stops so many people from beginning anything. Back then, I was no different.

When I walked into work the next morning, I received a roomful of applause. The room only contained three people, but it was a roomful of applause nonetheless.

“Man, you really gave it to that gringo,” Carlos said, giving me a hearty dap and bringing it in so close I almost blacked out from the thick fog of vodka, weed, and cheap cologne.

“Uh, it was nothing,” I said and headed to the back before noticing Nicole’s wide-eyed look.

“Come here, Darren,” she said, wrapping her thick, plush arms around me. “Where did that come from? It was like you transformed into someone else. Like the Hulk!”

“The Black Hulk, hermano,” Carlos added. “I knew somethin’ was comin’ when you hopped on both registers. You had this look in your eye, like you was the same person but sorta different. Like a superhero who sees the city burnin’ down and you had to step in to help out. Except this Starbucks isn’t like a city, but, wait, maybe it is; if you think about it, we gotta—”

“Yeah, I get what you’re saying, Carlos,” I said, deciding whether to call him out for being high, drunk, both, or something else. But every soldier deserves a break, so I dropped my bag, threw my apron on, and unlocked the front door.

When the room fell silent—that crisp silence before the first person walks in clip-clopping their expensive leather shoes like a horse—someone tapped my shoulder.

“Hey, Darren?” Brian said, looking in every direction except at me.

“Yeah?”

“You think you could, uh, you think you could—shit!—sorry. You think you could”—he quickly brought a hand to his mouth, muffling a still discernible “Penis!”—“Sorry, sorry.”

Now, not everyone with Tourette’s involuntarily curses like a sailor with syphilis. It’s called coprolalia, and only about one in ten people with Tourette’s has it. Brian Grimes—age twenty-six, born in Virginia, raised in Connecticut, avid Dungeons & Dragons player, and spectacular barber—was that one. And even though I’d never sat around a table and battled mythical beasts with him, we often bonded over comic books and our shared ironic hatred of coffee. He also gave me lifesaving shape-ups once in a while.

I put my hands on his shoulders, and said, “Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

I should also mention that, even though he was older than I am, Brian—perhaps because I was a Black man like him except with a little power—looked up to me. So, being the HNIC, I did my best to make him comfortable, put him at ease, and let him know he was doing a good job.

“Thanks, Darren. What I wanted to ask was if you think you could teach me what you did yesterday?”

“What did I do, Brian?”

“How you, uh, how you—”

“Take a breath, man. You know I’m here to help.”

“How you did mind control on that guy? To buy the Nitro Cold Brew instead of his regular?”

I laughed. “It wasn’t mind control, Brian. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t that.”

“Yes, it was! The dude came in here wanting one thing and walked out with another. Not only that, but he enjoyed the other thing. It was like you put him under a spell. And I’m not saying I want to be a wizard or anything like that, or that I want to control what people drink, but I just want to be able to”—he paused to scratch at his face—“to be persuasive, you know? Like maybe if I can learn how to do that, I can get a girlfriend or something like that?”

I didn’t want to break the bad news to him, but the power of persuasion probably wasn’t going to do the trick as long as his face looked like a burnt pizza.

“Listen, Brian. I don’t know how to do mind control, nor do I know how to be really persuasive. It was just something that happened in the moment. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but what I can do is make sure you’re as good a barista as possible so you can woo women with your coffee-making skills.”

“Yeah, okay. But I just want to say one last thing.”

“Go for it.” The first clip-clops of the day walked in. Nicole and Carlos were handling them but would need backup soon.

“Most superheroes don’t know they’re superheroes until they get caught up in a moment, just like you. Something either overcomes them, showing them a glimpse of their hidden powers, or they’re pushed so far past their limitations that they have no choice but to succumb to whatever makes them most special.”

“Thanks, Brian. I’ll keep that in mind. Now let’s get to work.” But in that very moment, his eyes went wide, his mouth fell half-open, and he raised a zombielike finger toward the door.