Black Buck(92)

“What?” Rose asked. “The women, the drugs, and the fame? C’mon, Buckaroo, we all know that shit leaves you empty inside. Last week was the most fun you’ve had in a long time, and you can’t even admit it.”

“We all here with you for a reason, Mr. Buck,” Jake said. “This, us, you, it’s no coincidence.”

“I agree,” Ellen added. “You have the opportunity to change lives.”

“To make your mom proud,” Rose said, standing up. My heart tightened at her words.

“Come here,” she said, staring out the window.

I slowly made my way over. “What do you see?” she asked.

I looked out and saw more than a dozen people still huddled outside, looking up at the window toward us, toward me. “I see people.”

“Your people. And you have a responsibility, Buckaroo. Whether you realize it or not.”

In that moment, I thought of something I’d been trying to block out for months: Ma’s letter.

I looked out the window, closed my eyes, and heard Ma’s voice. It’s the duty of every man and woman who has achieved some success in life to pass it on, because when we’re gone, what matters most isn’t what we were able to attain but who we were able to help.

She was right. And I guessed Rose, Ellen, Brian, and Jake were too.

“We need rules,” I said, facing them. “No one can know I’m involved.”

“Done,” Jake said. The others nodded.

“What will we call it?” Brian asked.

“How ’bout the African Society of Salespeople?” Jake said, scanning the room for agreement.

Rose palmed her face and shook her head. “That spells A-S-S, you ass.”

“Okay, what about the Salespeople of Color,” Ellen said. “S-O-C doesn’t mean anything.”

“That’s wack,” I said.

Brian clapped his hands. We all looked at him. “Rose, what was it you wrote on your Facebook status? You were one what?”

“One happy camper.”

“Yeah, that,” he said, looking around the room. “Why don’t we call ourselves the Happy Campers? It’s fun, and if anyone accidentally lets the name slip, no one will have a clue who we are.”

“Fine,” I said. “We can change it if we need to.”

“?’N’ it’s only for Black folk, right?” Jake asked.

“People of color,” I said. I thought back to Sumwun and every other tech startup sales team out there. They weren’t missing just Black people, but all people of color.

“Perfect,” Rose said. “Now that that’s settled, I think it’s time to invite all of these freezing Happy Campers inside.”

When we got back to the park, the group stared at me like starving refugees. “Rule number one,” I shouted, making them all straighten up. “Only friends are allowed in, and they must be people of color. We’re not against white people, but we are simply ignoring them. They’ve had a mile head start and we’re only a few feet off the starting line.

“Rule number two: you may know me from the news or some other way, but no one else can know I am involved in this. Letting outsiders know I’m leading the charge will only attract unwanted attention.

“Rule number three: you will use what I teach you for good and to get ahead. Not for manipulation nor the mental, emotional, financial, or social harm of others.

“And rule number three-point-five, because, as Jeffrey Gitomer says, you always have to give a little extra: if this is your first night with the Happy Campers, you have to role-play, which is our version of bare-knuckle fighting. The main difference is that the wounds you receive won’t heal as easily.

“If you break any of these rules, any at all, not only will you cease to be a Happy Camper, but the entire group will be dissolved,” I said, wiping my hands. “Understand?”

They all nodded.

“I need to hear you say it, that you understand.”

“Yes,” a few of them said, others eventually echoing.

“Any questions?”

“No,” they replied, shaking harder than before, the hunger in their eyes and bones obvious.

“Good,” I said, stretching out my hands. “Who’s ready to learn how to sell?”





27





On Saturday, twenty Happy Campers descended on Bed-Stuy to set up our headquarters, which was none other than 84 Vernon Avenue, the brownstone I grew up in. I hadn’t been there since the day I closed Barry Dee, having immediately moved in with Rhett before finding the spot on Seventeenth Street.

“Dang, what in the world happened here?” Jake asked. There was broken glass all over the kitchen and living-room floors, yellowed pieces of paper lying on the overturned table, smashed chairs, fist-size holes in the walls, and a thick sheet of dust covering every surface.

“Let’s open these windows,” Rose said. The new recruits jumped into action.

I walked over to the kitchen and picked up the two letters I had tossed there six months ago—the one from Ma to me and the unsigned contract to sell. Since Ma had never signed it, and I sure as hell hadn’t, the place was still ours; all I had to do was pay the rising property taxes that seemed to be whitening up the neighborhood day by day. Till taxes do us part.