The Pride

by Wallace Ford

  This work required her to go on the road a lot more than she wanted. Of course this meant that she had to spend time away from Hector Junior. Too much time as it turned out.

  The money was good and for twelve years she would wake up too many mornings in hotel rooms in Miami, Paris, Los Angeles, or San Juan. She would be by herself wondering what the hell she was doing so far from her son.

  And then one day she received a call in Atlanta from the headmaster of the boarding school in Connecticut which Hector Junior attended. She was told that Hector was about to be expelled for fighting and starting fires.

  Berta called New York and told her boss that she was quitting immediately. She flew back to New York that afternoon and was in Connecticut picking up Hector Junior within ten hours of the wake up call that changed her life.

  Within the week Berta had found an apartment in Riverdale in the Bronx and enrolled her son at a Catholic school three blocks away. She obtained work with a temporary secretarial services agency. That way she could set her own work schedule and have as much time for Hector Junior as he needed.

  Before too long, thanks to Berta being with him, Hector was just fine. He got into very few fights, his academic record improved. And there were no more fires.

  Over the next few years Hector grew up to become a fine young man. Berta’s heart was full and fulfilled because of this remarkable transformation. She had plenty of work as a temporary executive secretary. Paris and Los Angeles and San Juan seemed a million miles away.

  But the one constant in life is change. Her son continued to excel at school and he received a full academic scholarship to Temple University in Philadelphia. He was close enough so that Berta could see him often and conveniently. But he was far enough away so that she knew that in many ways she was alone. And she came to know that in many ways she was alone for the first time in her life.

  It was about this time that I was going through my eighth (or ninth or one hundredth) secretary since I had started my firm. I was giving serious thought to resigning myself to working with temporary secretaries for the rest of my life. And then the agency for whom Berta worked assigned her to me for a month.

  In our professional roles, we were made for each other. Berta was the smart, intense, loyal and intuitive assistant that I had needed and had been looking for. She has always seemed to just understand what I am trying to do without my having to say a word. Someone once said that watching us work together was like watching Magic Johnson and James Worth working on a fast break that would lead to the inevitable slam dunk.

  I know that I can always take care of myself. Nevertheless, I have to confess that Berta’s protective nature clears a few minefields in my daily life. There is something about her that makes me feel that she would stand between me and the doors of hell. And it has been this silent, brutal, gentle velvet ferocity that I have valued the most. And this is what has made her the most trusted person in my organization.

  West Philly, Yale, Columbia, and Wall Street have taught me one thing, if nothing else. Always watch your back. Berta always has watched my back.

  CHAPTER 43

  Jerome

  Bad moon rising

  And as I walked through the doors that led to my office suite I could tell by the look on Berta’s face that there was a problem that she couldn’t handle. But this was a problem that I had been expecting since the luncheon at the Water Club.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hardaway.” The arch of Berta’s eyebrow confirmed that my intuition was correct.

  “I guess it is evening, Berta. Obviously lunch went a little longer than I had planned. No need for you to stay late though.”

  “Anything I need to know regarding the lunch? I didn’t see it on your schedule.” Berta completely ignored my lightweight attempt at humor regarding her working late. And she would wear gold lamé curl-toed slippers to work sooner than she would leave the office before the work of the day was completed.

  Her comment regarding her surprise at my unexpected lunch meeting was discreet and I heard her loud and clear. Berta knew that I would always tell her everything that she needed to know. When it came to work we had no secrets between us.

  “Please make sure to remind me to tell you all about it tomorrow. Paul had some interesting ideas to share with Gordon Perkins, Diedre Douglas, and myself over lunch.

  “I am going to need your help in putting together some information that I need for the next meeting that we have scheduled. I already put it in my personal book. You can copy the details later.”

  I was leafing through Berta’s file of notes, correspondence and other papers while speaking with her. I noticed that the door to my private office was ajar. I always like to keep it closed. Berta knew that. Something was up. Again, I was not surprised in the least. I kept on with the business of the day.

  “By the way, I have to attend a dinner at Diedre Douglas’s home the Thursday before President’s Day weekend. Paul, Gordon, and Ray will also be there.”

  “Do I need to make arrangements for Mrs. Hardaway?” This was Berta’s way of asking whether the event was social or business. I could also sense her tensing.

  “No Berta. Charmaine will not be attending.”

  “By the way, speaking of Mr. Beard … he’s in your office right now, waiting for you. Mr. Hardaway, you know I know how you feel about people in your office when you are not around. Let’s just say that Mr. Beard was very insistent.

  “I might have stopped him from going in there. But I also know how you feel about anyone causing scenes in your office.”

  I had to keep myself from smiling at the thought of Berta booting Ray Beard out of my office. Berta worked on Wall Street, lived in Riverdale and had been to Paris and seen the world. But Berta had never left East Harlem behind. Ray would never know how lucky he was.

  “Like I said, he was very insistent. And, he seemed upset. I have never seen him like this before. So I made a judgment call. And I know how much special interest that you have shown to Mr. Beard. So I let him wait in your office.”

  There was something about the way that she gave me all of this information that let me know about her ambivalence regarding my very high opinion of Ray. I certainly picked up on it.

  Ray was my protégé, that’s for sure. Some people thought of him as my alter ego, even though that certainly was never the case.

  He was somebody whom I thought to be very, very special. And I wanted to make sure that he was being groomed for something very special in the future of my firm.

  In my view special people deserve special treatment. Just his being in my private office was special treatment in my book. That was for sure. But I do recall the moment when the coats of finishing provided by Wall Street, Columbia, and Yale almost fell away, leaving the original West Philadelphia to surface, and I was ready to jump all over young Mr. Beard. Fortunately for both of us, it was only for a nanosecond … or two.

  I could tell that Berta could tell, however. Ray was his usual oblivious self, simmering and stewing in my office. But Berta and I both knew that Raymond Russell Beard III was a very lucky man.

  I composed myself. I knew what kind of conversation Ray and I were going to have. I really wasn’t in the mood.

  “Thanks, Berta. If there’s nothing else, why don’t you plan to leave for the day? It would seem that I should take some time to consult with Ray.”

  This time it was me arching an eyebrow as I said “consult.” I know that Berta appreciated the rather subtle humor that I was employing to help me get myself together.

  “Thanks, Mr. Hardaway. Have a good evening and I will see you in the morning.”

  “The morning will be just fine Berta. Get home safely.”

  With that Berta went to straighten up her desk and I turned toward my office. I took a deep breath and walked in. At least Ray wasn’t sitting at my desk. I had to smile to myself at the thought of what my reaction would have been.

  CHAPTER 44

  Jerome

 
; Something about Raymond …

  “Good afternoon, Ray.”

  “I sure as hell don’t know what’s good about it.”

  As I headed toward my desk, I could see Ray was standing near one of the picture windows that surrounded my office. I could have sworn that he was actually pouting. At the time I just couldn’t believe it. Later, I realized that it was true.

  “I’m just not following you, Ray. What seems to be your problem?”

  “Jerome, do I have to spell it out for you? Do I have to paint a picture? You saw what happened at the Water Club this afternoon.”

  “I was there, Jerome …”

  “Then you know.”

  “Ray, obviously you are agitated. We are both tired. We are both busy. I sure as hell have better things to do than play Twenty Questions with you tonight. And I would hope that you have better things to do on my time than to tell me something that we both already know.

  “I’ll tell you what I know. I didn’t see or hear any problems for you, me or the firm this afternoon. So I’m giving you a few more minutes so that you can tell me about your problem and then we can both get back to work.”

  I knew for a fact that Raymond Russell Beard III was a thoroughbred. He came from excellent stock as the saying goes. He was trained at Morehouse and Harvard to prepare him for The Big Time. But at that moment in time he was just another angry thirty-year-old who was dangerously approaching that perilous province called Out of Control, nostrils flared, lip poked out, eyes blazing. He was a poster boy for the Angry Young Brother Syndrome.

  On that particular evening I was simply determined not to get caught up in Ray’s attitude or antics. I had a lot on my mind, and Ray’s attitude did not make the Top Ten. On the other hand, Ray had become important to the firm and me, and so it made sense to at least pay attention to Ray for another few minutes. His allotted time was running out, however.

  “Jerome, you saw what happened!”

  “Ray, now you are repeating yourself. And you are getting much too loud.” The last part of my comment was delivered with a look that even an enraged Ray Beard was smart enough to decode immediately. I could tell in the immediate change in his attitude and tone that he realized that he had come as close to the line between complaint and confrontation as it was wise for him to do. He was angry. But he was no fool. At least he was not a complete fool.

  “I apologize, Jerome … it’s just that for two hours, Paul, Gordon, Diedre, even you … ignored me! Treated me like I was just part of the furniture. It was humiliating. I felt like a fool.”

  “Ray, I am going to ask you once again to calm yourself down and think about it … just for a minute. You were there because I invited you and I wanted you there. Gordon, Diedre, and Paul went along with my request. It’s just that simple.

  “If you were going to be ignored, believe me, I could have let you spend your entire time at the Water Club talking to that TV reporter. I wanted you at the table. I didn’t think that you required an engraved invitation to realize that.”

  While I was not in danger of losing my temper, I suddenly got the feeling that I needed to tell Ray a little bit more about the facts of life and at least have him contemplate the fact that I might lose my temper with him. I looked him right in the eye as I continued to speak.

  “To tell you the truth, Ray, I first asked that you come along to lunch as a courtesy. But as Paul spoke this afternoon, it was clear to me that if this deal was ever to come through, I would need your help in making it work. You were there because I thought that you were ready to be a prime-time player.

  “Now, if I need to hold your hand and pat you on the back all the time to let you know that everything is O.K., just tell me. But I will tell you Ray, I need people who can help me. I am not looking for anyone that I have to help. Just remember that.”

  I could tell that Ray was totally taken aback—rocked on his heels, as it were. I am sure that he thought that he was taking the offensive by waiting for me in my office.

  But whatever tactical advantage he thought he might have must have evanesced for him once I started to tell him about his place in the real world, at least his place in my real world. To Ray’s credit, he did have the presence of mind to know that he had gone just about far enough on his excellent adventure into Temper Land. And I had come about as close as I cared to on that January evening. It was time to lighten the tone.

  “Ray, if you have something to add about today—Paul’s idea, Gordon’s suggestion, what the agenda should be at Diedre’s next month, just tell me. Of course. If you just want to vent, knock yourself out.

  “But I will tell you, Raymond Russell Beard the Third, your best bet would be to use that phone number you got from that TV reporter before it gets too late in the day.

  “I know that if I were in your shoes, I would be on the phone right now instead of doing a flamenco dance on my desk. As I recall, she does the eleven o’clock news so I am sure that she has time for dinner beforehand. It’s your move, Ray.”

  Ray now had a look on his face as if I had been reading his mind. Particularly with respect to the comment regarding the TV reporter. A dopey, sheepish grin began to stroll its way across his grim visage. I never would have believed his resentment continued to burn, probably deeper even more than he realized.

  “You are definitely right, Jerome. What can I say? I guess I should listen to my big brother and make that call. I guess I just read the whole thing all wrong today. All wrong. I don’t know what I could have been thinking. Thanks for setting me straight.”

  “Listen Ray, if you never venture into foolish territory, you will never know what smart is all about. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just move on. O.K.?”

  “That’s fine with me, Jerome. I am going to take your advice and make that call now. See you in the morning.”

  “Enjoy your dinner. I have a feeling that you will. Monique Jefferson seems like a lovely young lady. I am guessing that it will be a good way for you to spend your evening. Try not to be too late tomorrow morning.” That last comment was followed by a wink and an exchange of smiles that felt sincere at the time. I remember that at that point we embraced spontaneously. That was very interesting in that neither of us were the hug-your-brother type. I thought that I had allayed Ray’s concern. As it turned out, he had simply decided that it wasn’t time for him to show his true heart.

  He would do that later. He would do that much too soon. In any event, time would prove that it was all meant to be.

  CHAPTER 45

  Sture

  Meanwhile, some things never change

  Running a popular bar and restaurant that also serves as a hangout for very special people in New York City is just a magnificent experience. There are so many stories that I have from working at Dorothy’s that I almost don’t know where to begin. I do know that I am often reminded that I am a long, long way from Bergen.

  I remember noticing that after Winner Tomlinson’s memorial service Paul Taylor, Gordon Perkins, Diedre Douglas, Jerome Hardaway, and Ray Beard started meeting for lunch and drinks more frequently than I had noticed in the past. Not all five together, just in different combinations—Ray with Jerome, Diedre and Paul, Gordon and Ray. This was not particularly noteworthy since they were all friends and colleagues. But they were clearly meeting on purpose and not just bumping into each other.

  One of the reasons why I really enjoy working at Dorothy’s is that there is a never-ending stream of fascinating, delightful people who come through there. Sometimes it’s the superstars of The Pride, people like Mayor Dinkins, Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith, Wesley Snipes, Ken Chennault, Jesse Jackson, Oprah Winfrey, Gordon Perkins, Denzel Washington, Edwin Tomlinson, Robert Johnson, and others of the same type of personage.

  And then, there are the personas that are not the centerpiece of The Pride, but they are charter members nonetheless. They might be lawyers, advertising executives, consultants, community organizers, investment bankers. The one thing that they ha
ve in common is that they are fascinating.

  I remember running into a few of that crowd at the bar of Dorothy’s early in the evening after Winner’s memorial service. There was Trinidad “Trini” Satterfield, five feet two inches of absolute foolishness and simultaneous genius. Trini was a practical joker of mythic proportions and also one of the most brilliant advertising executives in New York City. Although he was nearing sixty, Trini had the temperament and energy of someone thirty years his junior.

  To hear Trini tell the story, he was born in Trinidad (where else?) and came to the U.S. with his parents as a child during World War II. His father was one of the first West Indian politicians in New York City, having been a close associate of the inestimable, historic and legendary Silver Fox, J. Raymond Jones. Trini grew up a privileged child and was one of the few West Indians to attend Morehouse College in the early 1950s.

  An improbable fullback on the college football team, Trini was an excellent student who also honed his social skills for all time. One of his close friends was a spoiled, indolent black prince from one of Atlanta’s leading black families, Martin King Jr.

  The stories that he told about Martin Luther King Jr.’s college days would have resulted in the possible recall of the Nobel Peace Prize if they were ever made known to the general public. The women, the parties, the liquor was almost too much to believe. And I’m from Norway.

  Then there was Ralph Watson. Ralph was a third-generation undertaker. His family had been running one of the leading funeral homes in Harlem since Adam Clayton Powell Senior moved the world-famous Abyssinian Baptist Church from 42nd Street to its current home in Harlem.

  While the family business paid for his yacht and home in Sag Harbor, along with his home in Pelham Manor and his condo in Atlantic City and his teenage mistress in the East Village, he seemed to spend more time at the bar in Dorothy’s than consoling bereaved families. Of course, this is just my observation. In any event, it’s really none of my business.