Black Buck(84)

I shrugged him off. “I just said that shit to pump you up, Brian. To give you the courage to take a leap.”

“But it’s true,” the other intruder, a tall androgynous white guy with a long serious face, wire-framed glasses, and wearing what looked like a green woman’s parka, said in an accent that sounded both Southern and British. “In fifty years, a whole lot has changed for us, but we still have a long way to go. And from what Rose and Brian preached, you can help.”

I looked around to see if anyone else thought it was weird that this white motherfucker was trying to tell me about the plight of blacks in America, but no one moved. I walked down the stairs, stood right in front of him, and said, “Us? We? What the fuck is this white guy talking about? And why do you both sound like you walked barefoot across the Mason-Dixon line?”

Rose doubled over. Then Brian did, then the lanky guy with the locks—the three of them leaning onto one another, holding their stomachs as plumes of cold air billowed out of their mouths into the street like a dense fog.

“What the fuck is so funny?”

Rose eventually collected herself and pointed at the straight-faced white guy in front of me. “First, he is a she. Second, she looks white, but she’s Black. I can assure you of that.”

“Ellen Craft of Georgia, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, England, and a host of other places,” the tall girl said, taking a bow, a long brown mane tumbling out of her beanie. “Pleasure to meet you.”

I looked her over in the light. She gripped my hand and her handshake was as firm as any grown man’s I’d encountered. I won’t lie; it was intimidating.

“And this is Jacob D. Green of Kentucky,” Rose said, motioning to the lanky guy.

I reluctantly shook his hand. Chauncey rolled down the window. “Shall we go, sir?”

The four of them looked at me, eyes full of anticipation. “What do you have to lose?” Rose asked, grabbing my shoulder. “This is it. Just us four learning how to do what you do. To sell. I promise, Buckaroo, I won’t invite anyone else.”

My phone buzzed. Barry. Better have someone ready for an interview on mon morning. 9am. SHARP!

“Fine,” I said, opening the Tesla, nodding for them to get in. “But only if you each promise to do everything I tell you to. No matter how wild, unorthodox, or potentially illegal it may sound.”

Everyone nodded, and the five of us piled in.

“Where to, sir?”

“Just drive, Chauncey. I’ll tell you when to stop.”



* * *





“Here,” I said, in front of a 7-Eleven on Twentieth and Third.

“Y’all sure?” Jake asked, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “Lotta of cops ’round here. Doesn’ bode well for five Black folk.”

“This isn’t the 1920s,” Rose said. “Chill out.”

“Fooled me,” Ellen said.

“I’m with Jake,” Brian added.

“Everyone out,” I ordered.

Bells clanged as the 7-Eleven’s doors opened, and the Indian man behind the register stared at us one by one.

I walked to the back, pulled open a beer fridge, and grabbed a different tall boy for each of them. “PBR for you because you’re dressed like a Black hipster and sound like a hillbilly,” I said, throwing it to Jake. “Coors Original for you because”—I handed it to Ellen—“you’re as white as the Rocky Mountains on the can but probably change colors when the sun hits you.”

“It’s true,” she said, turning over the cream-colored can in her hand.

“Bud Light for you,” I said, tossing one to Brian. “Because you’re a lightweight.” He frowned, disappointed.

“And the best for last,” I said, grinning at Rose. “You, little one, get a Busch Light.”

“Busch Light!” she shouted. “This crap is the bottom of the barrel and tastes like piss.”

“Now, now, Rose, beggars can’t be choosers. You agreed to do whatever I asked. No complaints.”

I paid for the beers and we walked outside. “Wait here,” I said to Chauncey, who was parked in front of the store.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now,” I said, facing the group. “Follow me.”

“Shouldn’t we at least put these in brown paper bags?” Brian asked, his voice cracking in fear.

“No.”

“We gon’ get arrested,” Jake said.

“We won’t.”

“But we’re heading toward the police precinct,” Brian added.

“Exactly. Tonight’s lesson is all about tone, confidence, and delivery. What you’re going to do is make a right there,” I said, pointing at Twenty-First Street. “Crack open your beers, walk toward the group of cops hanging outside the precinct, and then you’re each going to casually walk past them. One by one.”

“Dang, Mr. Buck,” Jake said, blinking hard. “I’m on probation. Can’ do that.”

“Listen. You said you wanted to learn to do what I do. To sell. And that you’d do everything I told you to. No one is going to get arrested. One of the first rules of sales is that it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. So when the cops stop you and ask what the fuck you’re doing, you drink your beer slowly right in front of them, and say, with chests out, strength in your voice, and a raised head, ‘Just drinking a beer, officer.’”