Black Buck(89)
“A family,” she said, letting out a lungful of air into the cab. “What about you? World domination? Best salesman in the world? Trophy wife who sucks you off every night?”
I shook my head. “No. I just want to make my mom proud.”
“I wasn’t expecting that.” She finally faced me. “Is she hard on you?”
“Yeah,” I whispered, looking out the window at all of the buildings blurring into one sloppy mess of a city. “She was.”
* * *
Having Rose stay over felt like what I imagined having a younger, messy, foul-mouthed sibling was like—one who raided your fridge, left dirty clothes everywhere, and watched endless amounts of Netflix, HBO, and, weirdly, the History Channel until five in the morning. She was annoying as hell, but I can’t front, it was nice having some platonic feminine energy around.
“We’re low on Cap’n Crunch,” Rose announced on Sunday morning, sitting cross-legged on the couch and staring with zombielike fixation at the TV.
“You mean you’re low on Cap’n Crunch,” I said, shoving her over so I could sit on my couch, in my apartment, to watch my television.
“Weren’t you the one who said, ‘What’s mine is yours, Rose, treat this like it’s your own spot’?”
I stared at her, impressed by her relentless wit. But before I could respond, my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” a robotic voice said. “This call will be recorded. This is a prepaid collect call from”—then I heard, “Brian Grimes,” in Brian’s trembling, panic-stricken voice—“an inmate at a New York County detention facility. This call is subject to recording and monitoring. To accept charges, press 1.”
“Who is it?” Rose asked, still staring at the TV.
“No one.” I pressed 1 and shot up from the couch.
From the way she turned and looked at me—eyes narrowed, face scrunched—I could tell she knew I was lying. “Is it Brian? Is he okay?”
“Thank you for using T-Netix,” the robotic voice said. “You may start the conversation now.”
“Buck?”
“Brian, where are you? We’ve been worried sick, and Per Se wouldn’t give me any information about what happened or where you are. It’s been almost two days, man.”
“I’m scared, Buck.”
“Scared? We just skipped out on the bill, Brian. Relax, it’s not like we killed someone. I’ll get you out and pay whatever the fine is.”
There was a pause, and I imagined Brian dressed in an orange jumpsuit with INMATE in black block letters over his heart, shaking with the pay phone in his hands. “It’s not that simple, Buck. I’m at Manhattan Detention Complex, and they do think I killed someone.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said. “Stop playing. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
“I’m not playing—VAGINA! Sorry. I’m serious. I ran down some stairs in the back of Per Se and the cops were there. They grabbed me, read me my rights, and said I’m under arrest for the murder of some guy I’d never even heard of. They brought me in and finally let me have my phone call, so I’m calling you. I don’t know what to do, Buck. Tell me what to do. I feel like Wolverine when he was locked up in Weapon X.”
Tell him what to do? I had no fucking clue. Who was I, Johnnie Cochran? “Brian, just try to relax. Everything will be fine. You didn’t do it, so they can’t hold you. Let’s wait one more day, and if you’re not out, I’ll speak with someone, maybe Barry, and get you a lawyer. Can you do that? Can you hold out for one more day?”
I heard him fill his lungs and let it out. “Yeah, Buck. Okay. Sounds like a plan. Thank you.” Click.
“What the fuck is going on?” Rose stood behind me in my bedroom, hands on her hips.
“Brian’s in jail somewhere in Manhattan,” I said. “They think he killed someone, but he’ll be okay. If he’s not out tomorrow, I’ll get him a lawyer. They can’t keep him; he’s innocent.”
Rose shook her head. “What, you think we live in a world where innocent Black men don’t spend five, twenty, or thirty years in jail only to be let out with an apology? Get real, Buckaroo.”
“Alright, alright, alright,” I muttered, pacing around the apartment, running through every possible scenario. Brian being let out. Brian being falsely imprisoned. Brian committing suicide because he couldn’t take prison life. Brian being shanked for a piece of meatloaf.
“What now?” Rose asked. “You’re the man with the plans, right?”
My phone buzzed. Barry. 9am tomorrow my man. He better be a star. I’m talkin out of this world superstar. Not one of those dwarf stars. He better bring the heat! The fire!
I could think about Brian later. He wasn’t going anywhere. This, Barry, was the priority. “The plan is you have an interview,” I said to Rose. “Tomorrow. 9 a.m. And you better not fuck it up.”
She popped open a soda, chugged half, let out a belch, and smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
26
We spent all of Sunday reviewing messaging and interview questions, role-playing, and strategizing about how to make sure she got an offer and secured a fair salary that any man, no, any white man, would receive.