Black Buck(83)

“What’s next?” Rose asked, her voice softer than it was hours ago.

“What’s next is I’m grabbing an Uber and going to bed,” I said. “I’ll drop you each off on the way. Where’re you going, Brian?”

“East Village, thanks.”

“And you?” I asked, looking beyond my phone at Rose, who shrank back into her hardened shell.

“Oh, I’m okay.”

“C’mon, you earned it,” I insisted. “It’s on me.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Uber is a predatory company that takes advantage of immigrants; ignores safety precautions for its riders, especially women; and is everything that’s wrong in a world run by narrow-minded, solely profit-driven white men.”

Brian and I stared at her, blinking. “Well,” I said. “When you put it that way.”

“But tonight was fun,” she said, reaching up, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah, my place at six-thirty. Are you sure you—”

Before I could finish, she was up the stairs and out of sight.





24





Thursday at Sumwun was my day for one-on-ones, which meant utter chaos. I drank about six coffees, ate almost nothing, and spent the entire day from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. meeting with as many AEs as possible.

After escaping, I barreled into the Tesla and locked the doors before some brave soul decided to badger me with “one last question.”

“You look exhausted, sir,” Chauncey said, concerned. “How are you?”

That question. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had genuinely asked me how I was. Ma used to. Wally Cat used to. Soraya used to. Jason used to.

“I’m okay, Chauncey,” I replied, slumping over in the back seat, swallowing memories of a past life. “Thanks for asking. How’re you?”

He smiled in the rearview. “Me? I am good, sir. Always good if you are good. You know, when I look at you—”

I had to tune him out. I liked Chauncey, but he was suddenly reminding me of Bed-Stuy and all of the people who had hurt me. They’d all cared, but what had that amounted to?

“I have a meeting at my place, Chauncey,” I said, once he was finished. “Let’s just go there. And turn the heat up, my nipples are sharper than Michael Jackson’s nose.”

“As you wish, sir.”

We arrived at my building, and I saw a group of people huddled on the sidewalk. It was dark, so I couldn’t tell who it was, but I faintly made out Rose’s pint-size silhouette in the streetlight’s orange glow. Fuck, what is this?

“Chauncey.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you work tonight? I’ll need a ride somewhere in a few minutes.”

“Of course, sir. Whatever you need.”

I hopped out, and after getting closer, I saw Rose, Brian, and two—yes, two—other fucking people.

“Please tell me you all just met outside and that you don’t know these people,” I said to Rose and Brian, nodding at the newcomers.

“I hate to break it to you, Buckaroo,” Rose said. “But I know ‘these people,’ as you so rudely called them. This is—”

“I don’t give a shit who they are,” I snapped, turning to Brian, who was visibly shaking. “I told you last night not to invite anyone else, Brian. The whole thing is off,” I said, my voice rising. “I don’t have time for this shit!”

Rose stepped between us. “Hey,” she said, composed. “It wasn’t his idea; it was mine. We had so much fun last night and learned to, you know, loosen up and be flexible, so I thought it’d be good for others to join and learn from Sensei Buck.”

“Well, you were dead fucking wrong.” I pushed through them and walked up the stairs.

“Each one teach one, Mr. Buck,” someone with a soft Southern accent said.

I turned around and saw a lanky light-skinned fellow sporting long tied-back dreadlocks and a brown leather aviator jacket with the trim looking up at me.

“What?”

“?’Nslaved people use’ to say it. You see, masters ’n’ other people in power knew that in orda to ’nslave the body they had to keep the mind ignorant. ’N’ since ’nslaved people weren’ allowed to learn how to read ’n’ write, when one of ’em somehow managed to become educated, it was his or her duty to teach as many as they could.”

I slowly clapped from the top of the stairs. “Bravo, Jed Clampett, or whatever the fuck your name is. What does this have to do with me?”

“Everything, Buckaroo,” Rose said. “Brian told them how you promised to teach him how to do what you do, to sell, so that he can quit his job and have a better life.”

“I didn’t promise shit,” I said, opening the front door. “And I don’t owe any of you anything.”

Brian ran up the steps and grabbed my arm. “What was all of that stuff you said at the Belfry? About us not being able to even be in the same places as white people fifty years ago and like how we need to do what we can to get ahead, to be happy?”

I looked down at Brian’s hand on my arm. Was he actually trying to sell me? Despite being pissed, I was proud of his newfound assertiveness.