Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard (2 page)

Taylor stared at my résumé and sneered. “What is your affiliation with the Black Law Students Association?”

“I'm a dues-paying member who goes to meetings.”
 

I lied. I didn't pay dues and went to one meeting. When they ended it by holding hands and singing the black national anthem, I was flabbergasted. I was the only one who knew all the words, including the second verse. It would make no sense that I'd know, since my parents weren't political. But I really liked that song. Made me proud, even though it wasn't about Jamaicans. And why should that matter? I felt proud of the Rebel Alliance in
Star Wars
, but wasn't a, well, you get my drift.

Taylor said, “When I was at Columbia, BLSA excluded students who weren't black, so many biracial people didn't know if they’d be next.”

I guessed Taylor was mixed race. After all, Taylor looked like some of my cousins. I replied, “BLSA isn't like that anymore. I'm mixed too, a founder of the Caribbean Law Students Association, co-chair of Native American Law Students Association, and a dues-paying member of Latin American Law Students Association, South Asian Law Students Association, Asian Pacific American Law Students Association, and OUTLaws. I haven't had any problems.”

“But you have BALSA on your résumé, not BLSA, so I thought there was a rift.”

“No, just a typo.”

We laughed. I guess that meant I had a job offer?

A secretary escorted me to a room. I waited for a half-hour before calling the recruitment coordinator to check if I was in the right place.

“You are, and someone will be right with you.”

Swell. So much for that offer. Unless my experience was a weird hazing ritual or if they were arguing about me.

I hoped Lola had my back.

About twenty minutes later, a receptionist apologized for having me wait, and guided me out of the office.

I asked, “Is there anything else?”

“Nope. You can go home.”

Two weeks later, I received an offer to work at Krueller that summer. But I didn’t know what I would be agreeing to, if I decided to accept. Unbridled love from Lola or cell phone cleavage photos from Walker?

2

“TODAY'S YOUR FIRST
day, Mr. Wang?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many times I gotta tell you to call me Tully? My father's a sir.”

“Okay, Tully. Just as long as you remember to call me Rufus. My father's Mr. Wang.”

“I hear you.”

“Aren't you supposed to work or something?”

“No, I'm a summer associate.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“The firm spends the summer wining and dining us so we’ll come back.”

“So that’s how they pay you?”

“No, we get thirty-one hundred.”

“For the entire summer?”

“Per week.”

“But what do you gotta do?”

“Eat, drink, and be merry.”

“Fuckin’ A. I shoulda gone to law school.”

Tully. Nice guy. Reminded me of home. A gentler time. Before I could get any more melodramatic, someone bumped me. So hard, chocolate milk flew everywhere.

Who in the hell orders chocolate milk in a coffee shop? Someone with kids? Whoever ruined my shirt had to look forward to extended eye contact and a slow beating. Fucker ruined my shirt. Thank goodness the firm had a business casual policy, otherwise that would have been half a grand instead of sixty bucks. Still, I liked that shirt. I really liked it.
 

A voice said, “Sorry.”

“You sure are.”

I looked at the bumbling idiot.

Bumbling, hot idiot?

Her eyes smoldered. Her kissy lips all pouty. I felt my lips pucker. She looked like Uhura from
Star Trek
with the body of those fierce, hot Klingon sisters. I needed to recover. “Some poor kid is going to cry over spilt milk. Where are they?”

Her eyes dropped to the ground. She was broken. And pointed to some annoying little punk with some teenager who I couldn't tell was his mother or sister. I pulled out a twenty. “Give him another, and a couple of pastries you've got back there.”

The kid said, “Yes.”
 

The sister/mother said, “We can't.”

And the waitress said, “Thanks. Let me help you.”

She wiped me down. Tenderly. She could feel my muscles underneath my wet shirt.
 

Got her.

She bit her lip and lingered longer with each wipe.
 

She said, “You want me to stop?”

No. “I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do.”

Tully said, “I want you to. This is a family establishment, after all.”

She froze.
 

Tully clicked his teeth. “It's his first day at work. And look at him.” That was Tully. Saving me from myself.

The waitress said, “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry ain't gonna cut it. You go and buy him a new shirt.”

I stood up. “Don't worry about it.”

She put her hand on my shoulder. My clumsy, bumping hottie said, “No, it's my fault. Really.”

“It's okay. Accidents happen.”

“No, I owe you. Let me get you another shirt.”

“You don't have to. Besides, I'm late.” I had to get out of there.

But she followed. “Let me at least pay for the dry cleaning. I don't have the money on me now, but I can come by your work and pay for it.”

Tully sucked his teeth. “You're lucky he don't sue you, being a fancy lawyer and all.”

She said with a tremble in her voice, “A lawyer?”

Tully fed off her fear. “Yup. And at Krueller too.”

Her eyes bugged. Like she'd seen a ghost. I needed to control things. Say something calming. Relaxing. Something that would let her know everything is okay, without giving her an invitation.

I said, “I have to go.”
 

And I left.

3

I COULDN'T BELIEVE
I’d come so close to doing something I'd regret. Unlike Lola, I felt something with her. I had an in with her. Some silly mistake that we could laugh about. A true bonding experience. Chocolate on my shirt instead of some online ad or patronage for Rhage.

Of all places to find someone with whom I had chemistry, why did it have to be now? Why couldn't I have found it when I was in a different place?

Who was I kidding? I'd probably bungle it, like I bungled everything. I was sure once I was working I probably wouldn’t—

Work. My first day. I needed to change.

My first day.

4

MOANING. PANTING. BLEATING.

I had no clue what this warped, wizened weirdo of a woman was listening to. All I could see was that her nameplate read “Gladys Pitts,” which, strangely, was the name of the firm, “Krueller Pitts.” I didn't know if she was related to the original Piper Pitts, who founded the firm. Maybe that was why she could get away with what sounded to be animal porn on her Beats by Dre headphones that swallowed her tiny wrinkled face. I dared not look at her cell phone screen.

But did anyway.

And yep. It was what I thought and then some. I wished I had one of those
Men In Black
mind-eraser thingies. But I didn't, so I was fated to roam the earth for the rest of my days with the image of a goat gangbanging a farm girl.
 

“Gladys” glared at me like I was interrupting her from something important. “Make yourself useful and get some fudge for Stack.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fudge for Stack.”

“Fudge like?”

“Butt Spooge. Small-size container. None of that industrial-sized crap.”

“What?”

“Look. It's your first day and you gotta earn your stripes. Now you can get them at CNGS on Thirty-Third and Fifth. Also, get me some Jujubes while you’re at it. Remember, small-sized. Not industrial.”

Gladys tossed a twenty-dollar bill at me. Eyes still glued to the screen.

What a first minute of my first day at work.

5

CNGS. SHORT FOR
Cum N Get Sum. Sleazy porn store. I rushed through the aisles with an empty basket and bumped into a pimply-faced punk with a nametag that read “TIM,” struggling to open a large can of some porntastic crap.

I said, “Excuse me, sir. Where is the-” I looked around and whispered, “—fudge?”

He said, “What?”

I raised my voice a half-notch. “Fudge.”

He dug into his ear. “Speak up.”

Forget that noise. I wrote him a note. He read it. Gave me a once-over and said, “Hold this for a minute.”

The porntastic crap can. No way I was touching that.

He tried handing it to me. I stepped back.

He stepped forward. “Look, don't be all dainty. Just hold this.”

I reluctantly took the can. Pinkies up.

He read the note. And leered. “Oh. You want the Butt Spooge. I got some industrial size right here.”
 

Soon as he grabbed a big old can, I shook my head. “I just need a small size.”

He gazed skyward. Bit his inner cheek meat. “Well, I could pour you some of this. If I could only open this can.”

He tried.
 

And failed miserably.

“Oh well. Let me find Budro. Maybe he can find a smaller one.”

I followed him as he went to the back. I begrudgingly held the can.

“Nope. He's not there either. Follow me.”

He sauntered to the front. Grabbed an outrageously phallic microphone. Shouted. “Hey, Budro. We got a guy who needs. Who needs?” He scratched his neck beard. “I plum forgot. What is it again?”

“I already wrote it.”

“I lost the paper. So what is it?”

I didn’t want to say. But what choice did I have? I whispered. “Butt Spooge.”

“I can't hear you. Speak up.”

This again? I raised my voice. “Butt Spooge.”

He tried repeating it, but started to stutter. “Look, you take this—”

He handed me the dong mike and said, “Tell Budro yourself.”

No.

“Look, it ain't gonna bite.”
 

I reluctantly grabbed the mike with one hand, and he took the porntastic can back.

“Tell Budro what you're looking for.”

When in Rome. I said, “Budro. I'll have—”

Tim struggled to open the can.
 

“Budro, I'll have the Butt—”

I couldn't do it. Neither could Tim. I mean, he couldn’t open the can. He tussled with it. Back to me and all. Not seeing my plight. Soon as I tapped him on the shoulder, the can exploded all over me. I felt like a bukkake victim. I said in the mike, “Butt Spooge.”

A voice from afar said, “Aisle Five.”

6

I LIMPED DOWN
the hallway of my new job. Brown paper bag in hand. Soaked in Butt Spooge and dried chocolate milk. I felt like a mouse finding its way in a wooden maze searching for the exit. So embarrassed, I couldn’t ask anyone the specific office location.
 

So I ducked into a telephone closet and looked up the name Hugo Stack.

While searching, I saw the most peculiar name.
 

Had to be a typo. Who would name their child that? And even if a woman, raging with hormones, deigned to curse their child with that name, wouldn’t she or he change it? Especially as a lawyer?

I mean, how would anyone get clients with that name?
 

And he didn’t have an office number. Just the name “APT.” That couldn’t stand for apartment? Could it? Working from home? Must have been some kind of joke.

Anywho, Hugo Stack was easy to find. Just two doors from where I was.

His door was open. So I peeked in and saw a man on the phone in his sixties who looked like that loud guy from
Seinfeld
.
 

He noticed me and waved me in.

I entered and closed the door behind me.

“Fuck that. Time is money. I'll be there in an hour.” He slammed the phone receiver. “You got my spooge?”

“Yes.”

“Well, bring it here, sweet cheeks.”

Sweet cheeks? I froze. Was it a joke?
 

“What's the matter? Think you're too good, homie? What do you think they hired you for?”

I was baffled. “To do legal work?”

He chortled. “A mailroom guy doing legal work? And I suppose you went to law school?”

“Actually, I did.”

He stared. Then laughed. “Whatever.”
 

Now I was angry. I whipped out my transcript. Flashed it to him.
 

He flashed, too. Once reading it, he flushed. Cleared his throat. Blushed. Wriggled in his chair. And uttered a nervous titter. “Well. Yes. I was just…just…testing. Yes, I was testing you on sexual harassment and hostile work environment. Well, go to Mabel down the hall and she'll give you an assignment.”

“Did I pass?”

“What?”

“The test?”

“What test?”

I glared, and he got it. “Oh. That test. Yes.” He stretched out his hand. “You're certified and now know how not to treat coloreds and fillies. Welcome to Krueller.”

7

I FELT LIKE
a victim at Krueller. No one would make eye contact with me. They were too busy reading papers, rushing down the hallway, or just plain snotty. Every three steps, someone gave me a package, confusing me for a mailroom worker.
 

I must have circled the floor three times looking for a door with “Mabel” on it. I did not want to go back to Stack. I wanted to go back home and change. I stared at the floor.

“You need help?”

It was a woman who looked like a New Jersey housewife. Big hair. Big boobs. Big blobs of makeup caked on like a clown. Who was I to judge? She was the first who wanted to help me. I got over myself and smiled. “Yes. I'm looking for Mabel.”

“She don't work here no more.”
 

“Sorry. It's my first day and I was told.”

“You was told wrong. Mailroom help, see Brenda.”

“I'm not supposed to work in the mailroom.”

“Really? What's your name?”

“Rufus Wang.”

She led me to an office with a placard that read “BRITNEY ORGIA” and scrambled through scattered folders, looking for something. “This is my first day as recruitment coordinator.”

“What did you do before?”

“Secretary.”
 

“Congratulations.”