“I never said you was. You just another white boy that don’t have to worry about people like me and the shit we go through,” Ike said.
“Look man, the only color that really matters is green. Look at you. You got your own business. You ain’t got a boss you gotta threaten to get some bereavement time. You got a nice house. I live in a shitty-ass trailer in an even shittier trailer park. You doing alright. Hell, you’re doing way better than me. And you’re pretty Black,” Buddy Lee said. Ike gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles popped.
“You don’t know how hard I had to work to just be doing alright. You say you believe that shit about green being the only color that matters, right? So, let me ask you this: Would you switch places with me?”
“Do I get the truck? Because if I get the truck, hell yeah, I’ll switch places with you,” Buddy Lee said. He let out a low chuckle.
“Oh, you get the truck. But you also get pulled over four or five times a month because ain’t no way your Black ass can afford a nice truck like this, right? You get the truck but you get followed around in the jewelry store because you know you probably fitting to rob the place, right? You can get the truck but you gotta deal with white ladies clutching their purses when you walk down the street because Fox News done told them you coming to steal their money and their virtue. You get the truck but then you gotta explain to some trigger-happy cop that no, Mr. Officer, you’re not resisting arrest. You get the truck but then you also get two in the back of the head because you reached for your cell phone,” Ike said. He glanced at Buddy Lee.
“So, you still wanna trade places?”
Buddy Lee swallowed hard and turned his head to toward the window, but he didn’t say a word.
“That’s what I thought. Green don’t matter if it’s in a Black hand,” Ike said. They drove on with the dulcet sounds of D’Angelo having replaced the Good Reverend swimming through the cab.
Ike hit the interstate and headed for Richmond. Fifty minutes later he took the downtown exit and guided the truck through an off-ramp so sharp it could slice bread. He checked the rearview mirror and merged onto Blue Springs Drive. Traffic was a mess, but the dually bullied its way down the road. Ike hated driving in the city. The narrow streets made him feel like he was a rat in a maze.
The GPS said they were two hundred feet from their destination. Ike saw a plain brown five-story building up ahead on the right in the middle of a copse of oak trees. Richmond city planners were trapped between their affections for the natural scenery of Central Virginia and their lust for urban expansion. The R. C. Johnson Building sat at the nexus of those two competing sensibilities.
Ike pulled into the parking lot and shut off the truck. The engine let out a death rattle, then was silent. Ike hopped out and Buddy Lee followed him. The heavy glass doors of the office building squealed when they opened them. The lobby was a time capsule from the eighties. Alabaster models with electric neon lips stared at them from portraits on both walls. Chairs designed with strange geometry were scattered throughout the lobby area. A black pegboard with white letters served as the directory.
“The Rainbow Review is on the third floor,” Ike said.
“Yeah, that sounds pretty gay,” Buddy Lee said. Ike cut his eyes sideways at him.
“What?” Buddy Lee said. Ike shook his head and made a beeline for the elevator. Buddy Lee rolled his eyes and followed him.
The offices of The Rainbow Review were the smallest suites in the building. There were six desks crammed into a space meant for four. A huge personal computer and a laptop adorned each desk. Each desk was manned by a pair of intense-looking young men and women. Everyone was typing on keyboards or talking on their cell phones or doing both simultaneously. Buddy Lee and Ike walked up to the desk closest to the door. A redheaded bearded man and a dreadlocked Black woman had put their heads together and were conferring about an image on her tablet. The man raised his head.
“Do we need to move our cars again?”
“What?” Ike said.
“You guys are from the lawn-care company, right?” the bearded man asked. Ike sighed. He was still wearing his work gear. Randolph Lawn Maintenance was emblazoned over the pocket of the shirt.
“Can we do it a little later? We’re kind of busy here,” the woman with the dreadlocks said.
“Hey, Redbeard, we ain’t the lawn crew,” Buddy Lee said. That got Redbeard’s attention.
“Excuse me?” Redbeard asked.
“You heard him,” Ike said. Redbeard’s face started to match his hair.