The Bad Poet

by Michael Paul Fuller

“Morning, Doris,” I greeted my favorite co-worker and administrative assistant.

  “Yeah, right,” Doris grumbled holding a cup of black coffee in one hand and a smoldering cigarette butt in the other. She was slouched over the outdoor steel ashtray grabbing the last of the morning air before heading into work. She turned and stepped through the mechanical doors into the building.

  We reached the second floor and Doris’s dark movie star Bvlgari sunglasses remained pressed firmly against her face and concealed something that I had to ask her about. “Ooh, honey, what did you do this weekend?” I searched those black-lensed shades for her spherical mooneyes. Doris Simmons was a chocolate five foot, one inch fireball who had been my administrative assistant for six years. She was very loyal to me and would fight a bear if it got in my way. I knew my back was covered as long as Doris was around.

  “Pollen,” she sniffled.

  “What pollen?”

  “It’s the fall season. You know pollen’s all over the place.”

  “Pollen? In the fall?”

  Doris protested and leaned back in the desk chair with her mouth held wide open as if she was sucking up all the air in the room. “Yeah, pollen’s in the fall.” She held a used hanky in her hand which she dabbed against her running nose. “I know, it looks like Mike Tyson jacked me up in an alley, doesn’t it?” She sounded miserable like nose plugs were stuck in each nostril.

  “Is there anything you need? I’ll go to Walgreens and pick something up for you.”

  Sounding like a muted trumpet, Doris continued, “I bought Sine aid and some pills my doctor prescribes for me.” She raised the Sine aid and prescribed pills and then flipped them on the desk. “I don’t even know why I take the stuff, it don’t do no good.” She reached over and sipped her coffee.

  “How’s your son?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Mfume?”

  “Ah huh.”

  “Oh, he’s doin’ real good. They won their basketball game Saturday.”

  I nodded and could see the pride rise up in her voice when I mentioned her son.

  “The mighty Panthers,” she proudly said. “Mfume scored 25 points. Ooh wee, that boy’s good! They might do something this year.”

  “It was storming Saturday something terrible, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, honey, pourin’ down somethin’ fierce. So, I almost didn’t go. But Harold pleaded with that strong voice of his, ‘Come on baby, we gotta see our little boy do his thang.’ My husband is so proud of Mfume. Talks about him all the time.”

  “You and Harold have done a great job with Mfume. I remember the year he was in eighth grade when you didn’t know what to do with him.”

  “Oh honey, he was a mess. Hormones jumping all over the place, and he didn’t know if he was a baby, a boy or a man. But one thing was fo’ sure, if he kept mouthin’ off at his daddy and me he was gonna be slammed to the turf. Oh, it don’t matter if he a old boy or a young man, you know Harold don’t play that shigatty.”

  We both laughed, as Doris seemed to be coming out of her Monday morning funk. “I’ll be in my office,” I said.

  “Okay, boss lady,” she tooted.

  Doris’s phone rang. “Ms. King’s office. Yes, sir.” Then she hung up. “That was Mr. Kravitz. He wants you to call him when you get settled in.”

  “Thanks.” I can honestly say that I love my job. I’ve been working for Jackson Coleman National Bank almost fifteen years. The company was doing great, until the recession. But while other banks ran wild, Mr. Benjamin Clausen, the founder and CEO kept things close to the vest. As a relatively small community bank of four branches spread throughout metropolitan Chicago, we made our share of loans during the deregulation years, but we stayed away from the high risk investments and all the quick real estate, second mortgages and shady money circulating around. I was one of the people who questioned why we weren’t more aggressive and jump on the band wagon of interest only, six month adjustable, high risk loans. But Clausen National maintained its standards and remained conventional, with old fashion lending practices, which in the end paid off for everybody involved. I had risen from bookkeeping to Staff Accounting Manager. Doris had worked with me for the last six years as my administrative assistant. She and her husband, Harold, had also played Cupid more than once, trying to hook me up with various male friends and family members.

  I remember they introduced me to Rohan “Big Butter” Miller, a second cousin of Harold’s. No need to discuss why they nicknamed him Big Butter. Big Butter should have just been given the moniker, “Big Butt”. Rohan stood about six foot six and more than three hundred pounds. When we climbed into his souped-up Chevy Tahoe pickup truck, Big Butter reached into the ashtray and pulled out this enormous joint and lit it like I wasn’t even sitting there. He thought of himself as this Caribbean Rastamon about town, but not only was he not from the Caribbean, but was born somewhere in Iowa and had never been southeast of Louisville, Kentucky. Plus, the brother had the nerve to speak with a Geoffrey Holder Jamaican accent. However, with all that faking, Big Butter was a whole lot of fun with non-stop dancing and singing the night away and he had the soul and spirit of Harry Belafonte. It would only last that first and only evening, and he knew it. So Big Butter took me home, kissed me on the cheek and moved on to his next adventure.

  After the date, I asked Doris why she thought Big Butter would attract me to him. She just shrugged and said, “I just figured he’d be good entertainment for you.”

  But throughout this time period we hung tough in this bank, and as we’ve seen employee after employee get fired, laid off, or quit, Doris and I have worked hard and stayed clean. My office phone rang before I could hang up the Romanian-made suit coat that I bought from The “Price Is Right” second hand store located on north Clark Street.

  “Hello, Carla speaking.”

  “Hey girl, what’s happening?” It was Natalie’s cheerful voice, checking in at 8:40a.m.

  sharp. She was always on time with her morning phone call. Natalie had worked at Washington Title Company in the escrow department, but was laid off three months ago. Even if an attorney were sitting right in front of her complaining about the chain of title or some encroachment left on the title policy or her closing skills, she’d call me for some meaningless chitchat. Even being unemployed, she still continued her morning coffee calls.

  “Mornin’, lady. What’s on your mind this Monday morning?” I pressed the handsfree button on the phone and placed her on the squawk box.

  “I’m just checking on you. You know me, Carla.” “That’s right, I know you like a fish know water,” I said, cracking a wide smile.

  “Guess what?” she said in an excited whisper.

  I knew that sound in her voice, the sound of dirty laundry and it was gossip, the eighth deadly sin. “What?” I asked while scanning my desk to answer some of my boss’s questions. But as usual she swooped me into the rumor mill with only a few words.

  “I saw that ol’ Fisher King,” she said.

  How come the people that keep hearsay, rumors and innuendoes going are the ones that always see the people for whom gossip is told? “God, where’d you see Sidney?”

  “This morning, driving a new banana yellow BMW.”

  “BMW!! What a piss-ant. That fool can’t help his daughter go to homecoming or help pay for her dentist bill, but he can buy a new car?”

  Natalie snapped, “Aw’ight, girl, handle yo’ biz’ness.”

  “We’ll see about this. Thanks, Natalie. That’s why I love you. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Ain’t nothin’, girl. Bye.”

  And just like that, with the speed of lightening, she had struck and was gone. My ex was a low life weasel that hadn’t given us a dime in years. I took pity on Sidney after he’d lost his job at the Arlington Park Racetrack. That definitely was not the job for him. It was like sticking the fox in the hen house. You just know that fox is going to get after those chickens sure as the sun is going to rise in the east. H
e’s had a few jobs since then, so I never bothered him again. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse when the office phone rang again. Without hesitation, I picked up the receiver, “Carla speaking.”

  “Hey, Carla,” it was the energetic voice of my boss, Dan Kravitz.

  “Good morning, Dan. How was your weekend?”

  “Great, but it was way too long,” he said and laughed.

  “And yours?” he shimmered with confidence, even over the phone.

  “The same, I couldn’t wait to get back to my desk,” and we both laughed again.

  “We need to meet right away on the Boston reports. Mr. Grey wants to push up the final date.”

  “He hasn’t given us five days, and he wants it already?”

  “Well, Carla, we get this done, and I’ll give you some comp time,” he said.

  “Ha, you promise?”

  “You know me.”

  With sarcasm, “Yes, I know you. That’s why I want it in writing and signed with your blood.”

  “You got it. Come into my office as soon as you can,” he said.

  Dan was a good boss and a man of his word. Cool as a cucumber unless his wife was involved. Marla knew how to strike the right nerve with that man and it seemed like she enjoyed pulling his string. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “See you then,” he said and hung up.

  I scrolled through my cell phone contact list, M, N, O, to P, and fingered down. Posten-Attorney Claudette Posten, I dialed the number.

  A brassy female business cadence greeted me. “Claudette Posten’s office.”

  “Hi, is Ms. Posten in?”

  “Who may I say is calling?” she said in a very varsity voice.

  “Carla King.”

  The professional sounding lady said, “Please hold.”

  An instrumental version of James Brown’s, “I Feel Good” was playing on the office phone system’s hold program. As soon as I started humming to JB, Claudette answered the phone.

  “Good morning Carla. You finally decided to file a claim against Sidney, huh?” Claudette Posten had that low-pitched silky voice that sounded like some of those female DJs, the kind of tenor you wish you had and men loved to hear.

  “How did you know?”

  She paused, the caring sensitivity of her voice changed.

  “Oh, Carla, I’m sorry, I was just kidding around.”

  Claudette and I attended DePaul University together and remained good friends after graduation. She cut her teeth at Heltzer and Steinman Law firm, a mid-size downtown law office, and became a brilliant esquire who represented me for every legal challenge from real estate to divorce. Then after seven years with Heltzer and Steinman, she opened her own practice in a small storefront location in Evanston. Since then she’d hired three fulltime attorneys, two paralegals and three administrative assistants.

  “Well, its time,” I declared. I’m sure Claudette felt my frustration over the phone.

  “I didn’t ever think you’d ever do this,” she said.

  My mind flashed to Sidney riding in a brand new yellow BMW. “Well, things change.”

  “That’s the truth,” Claudette said.

  “So when can we get together?”

  “How about at my office next Monday around three?” she said without hesitation.

  “Three it is, then. Oh, and Claudette I might have another issue coming up, but I hope not.”

  “Remember, I’m just a phone call away,” she said.

  When she mentioned that, the jailhouse experience flashed through my mind. Why I didn’t mention it to her baffled me. I was just embarrassed that I had given up my rights just so that I could believe that justice would prevail.

  She continued, “Tell your mom and dad that I said hi. Love you.”

  “Love you more.” I hung up the phone with nostrils flaring and fingers tapping rapidly on the desk, with enough heat emanating from my anger to warm the North Pole. That man had given no assistance in raising Zoe, and he went out and bought himself a new car. If only he’d shown a little support. She loves him so much, but he just traverses along with his selfish ways.

  Back when we had a little marital trouble, Claudette suggested that I file brutality charges against him. But Sidney was going through a lot at the time, and I didn’t think it would do Zoe or me any good. He had never hit me before then and although he’d lost control that night, I, too, said some very disrespectful things at the wrong time. No man should have to go through what I put him through that night. His dad was ill, and Sidney and I weren’t exactly best friends. Some people think that I didn’t support him, but we had been distant for some time. His indiscretions with Myra Jordan, an old co-worker of his weren’t the only thing that caused us to split. We probably could’ve gotten over that. I knew he had no real feelings for that woman and was just having a little job fling. Lord knows, I’d been thinking about creeping with Jeremiah Tyndale, a man in our Racine office.

  Sidney was self-serving, inconsiderate and thought only of himself. Heck, I might have been able to get over that, but it was how he treated Zoe that broke the relationship down to a nub. He used to demean her for not getting straight A’s, or scold her for learning the latest dances, or for just not being what he had determined to be the perfect little girl. He couldn’t and wouldn’t forgive her, or people in general, for not living up to his expectations. For the past ten years, Sidney hadn’t given Zoe nearly enough money, but mainly she needed more love. His visits were too few and too far between. She didn’t always say it, but I know she missed his tired ass.

  As it sat, Sidney had to do better and the sooner Claudette shuffled him to the whipping post and let the courts take control of the situation, the better.

  The tone of the phone intercom interrupted my thoughts, so I depressed the handsfree button. “Mr. Kravitz wants to know if you’re ready,” Doris said.

  “Tell him I’m on the way.”

  Unexpected circumstances kept coming the entire workday. Problems and people invaded my office by e-mail, phone, or in person. It felt like I was the only one who could put out fires at this bank. Was Dan testing me? Or did I really know everything and the rest of them were just idiots? Either way, I needed a raise.

  CHAPTER 9

  Live, die and cry we must

  No Rescue

  No Understanding

  Young tragedy

  Just Grief

  And Pain

  No escape

  Your baby’s gone

  CK

  09’