Maybe You Never Cry Again

by Bernie Mac

  Rhonda looked at me and smiled. Her mama was in total control.

  So Rhonda came to my graduation. Sat there with my grandparents, Lorraine and Thurman, and my aunt Evelyn. Everyone beamin’. Little spooky juice up there; boy made it.

  I wished my mother had been sitting there with them, and for a moment, I felt I might cry. But I held strong and the moment passed.

  When they called my name, I got up and strutted across the stage like a tough guy, big smile on my face, always the clown. But the truth is, I felt mighty good inside.

  Principal looked me in the eye, handed me my diploma, said, “You ought to be proud of yourself, Bernard.”

  And I said, “I am, sir.” I was, too. Real proud.

  Rhonda wore a real pretty yellow gown to the prom, and I wore a tux with a yellow shirt to match the gown.

  When we walked through the door, guess who’s the first person we saw? That’s right: Geri. And boy, was she pissed. “Bernie Mac,” she said. “I knew all along you had your eye on Rhonda!”

  “You’re wrong,” I said.

  But she wouldn’t hear it. She was furious. And that guy she was with didn’t look like no cousin I ever met!

  Then I’m thinking, Wait a minute. Why do I feel bad? I haven’t done anything wrong here. So I began to relax with Rhonda. And I had the best time ever. And she looked so pretty. She had her hair pulled back, tapered, sitting high on her head.

  I took that girl by the arm and led her out onto the dance floor, and brother—we danced. I was the best dancer out there. I ain’t lyin’. You should have seen me. The Bump. The Funky Chicken. The Four Corners. Me and Rhonda, we tore the place up. We tore it up so bad they’re still rebuilding.

  Later, during a break, I said to her, “Maybe I didn’t pay attention to you before, Rhonda, but I should’ve paid attention.” She was so sweet and pretty, but I hadn’t seen it because I was with someone else and I hadn’t allowed myself to see it.

  After the prom, I took Rhonda to White Castle for burgers. And after that, we went and parked by the lake and watched the sun come up. I had never felt so comfortable with anyone in my life. It seemed like we’d been close forever.

  But when I got back to her house, there was hell to pay. Her father, Freddie, cussed me out somethin’ fierce: “You better not let daylight catch you with my daughter again, Bernard Mac, or you’ll be catching a bullet!”

  Even Aunt Evelyn was waitin’ up for me at home. “Where have you been all night, Bernie? You in trouble. You got that poor Rhonda in trouble, too.”

  I thought it was a little late for her to be playing guardian, but I didn’t say so. I just said I was sorry, told her nothing had happened, then went to bed and thought about Rhonda and what a fine time I’d had.

  Next few times I took Rhonda out, I acted all silly and goofy. I think I was nervous. I liked her too much and I was trying too hard. But Rhonda set me at ease; made me relax. She was a year younger than me, but she was already thinking seriously about the future. She was going to Dawson’s Nursing School after she graduated. I felt like a big kid next to her. I couldn’t see beyond the next day, when I’d be stocking shelves at Hillman’s.

  Rhonda didn’t seem to mind, though. We went everywhere together: to parties and movies; for walks along the lake; shopping at the mall; for burgers or chicken. Sometimes we’d double-date with Big Nigger and his girl, Deborah. It worked out good. I was beginning to think that maybe girls were on the same level as sports.

  I was also thinking that it would sure be nice to have a car when one day, clear out of the blue, I got a call from some insurance company. They told me I was the beneficiary on my brother’s policy. I couldn’t believe it. I went out and bought a 1975 Malibu Classic. It cost me $4,795, plus another thousand in liability insurance, but what can I tell you? I was still a kid. I wanted that car.

  Before the summer ended, I landed a job with General Iron, a scrap yard on Magnolia and Division. Helluva job, too. It was assembly-line work. The crane would dump huge piles of scrap on a big-ass conveyor belt, and me and the guys would level it with rakes and pick out the steel before it went into the cruncher. Cruncher only handled iron; steel messed up the works. So you had to move fast.

  Some mornings Rhonda and I would drive over to the scrap yard together, and she’d drop me there and take my car to school. (Man’s got to be crazy about a woman to let her drive his car!) Then she’d come back for lunch, with sandwiches and cold sodas, and we’d sit in my car, listening to the radio and grinning at each other. You know how it is when you’re in love: Every song is a love song; every song was written for just the two of you.

  On cold days, at work, the sweat would freeze on my body, and when my shift ended I’d hurry home and take a hot shower and watch the red dust swirl along the porcelain and down the drain. I’d see that and think, Stuff can’t be good for me; imagine what’s in my lungs. It stained the tub; left a red film there. My grandma made me scour it down.

  When I was done showering, I’d splash myself with cologne and get dressed and leave the house, smellin’ sweet for my girl.

  Fridays we’d go to parties. I was always the funny man. Saturdays we’d have dinner with Rhonda’s family, and play cards or something. And we never missed Saturday Night Live. I was practically living at Rhonda’s place. I spent all my free time with her. I’d only go home to sleep.

  “You sure are serenading that girl,” my grandma said.

  “You’re the one who set me up with her,” I said.

  My grandma laughed. It was sweet, hearing her laughter. She was getting old. Her eyes were worse than ever and her legs were starting to get awful weak.

  “You turned out pretty good, Bean,” she said, and shuffled off, still chortling, mumbling to herself.

  Fact is, I was serenading Rhonda. Bernie Mac was in love.

  I’d leap out of bed in the morning, thinking of her. I’d call her first thing. I’d call her from work if she wasn’t coming by at lunch. I’d call her the moment I got home to tell her I was gonna hop in the shower and get dressed and be on my way real soon.

  No, sir. I couldn’t get enough of Rhonda.

  By this time, Big Nigger had joined the navy and A.V. was off in college, and Billy Staples had become my main man. I loved Billy, and sometimes it hurt me to see the mess he was making of his life. He had a child with this girl from high school, and he said he wanted to be a good father. But he didn’t want to marry the girl, and he started going over less and less. He said he was too busy—he was studying to be a carpenter—and I didn’t know what to say about that. I had pretty strong opinions on the subject of fatherhood, but he wasn’t asking for them.

  In the fall, I signed up for a couple of classes at Kennedy King Community College, over on Olive and Harvey. My mother had urged me to try to get into social services. She felt I had the personality for it. But I wasn’t so sure. It seemed so glum. Just talking about it weighed me down. I thought a comedian would for sure bring a lot more joy into people’s lives than any damn social worker, but I felt I owed it to her—and to myself—to give this college thing a try.

  One evening, though, heading back from class on the El, I looked around and saw all these tired, miserable faces, and I decided to lighten things up. I picked out the most tired-looking guy and I said, “My friend, women are going to be the death of you.” He looked up at me, confused. Other people were listening. “You look like you’re gettin’ too much.”

  He laughed—what man’s not gonna laugh when you’re tellin’ the world he’s gettin’ more than his share of booty?—and other people laughed right along with him. I told a few more jokes but kept it clean on account of the children on the train, and pretty soon I had them roaring.

  As we came up on my stop, an old lady shuffled over, slow as my grandma, and handed me a five-dollar bill. I just took it. Not even thinking, really. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said, and I waved and left the train.

  “Five dollars?” Rhonda said later, cuddling
on the couch. “For telling jokes?”

  “Go figure,” I said.

  Next time I got on the El, I did it again. I brightened up all those sorrowful faces. And the time after that, I gave them more. Pretty soon, it was like they were waiting for me on the train. “There he is! That’s the funny guy I told you about!”

  And suddenly I’m thinking, “Man, this comedy stuff is sweet.” But other times someone’d be handing me a crumpled dollar bill—“Here, boy”—and I felt like a panhandler.

  It wasn’t a good feeling. I wanted to be legitimized.

  I began to think, This nigger needs a stage.

  “I don’t know about this community college stuff anymore,” I told Rhonda one night.

  “Give it time, Bern.”

  “I think I’m more of a funny person,” I said. “Billy Staples says I’m a born comedian.”

  “You are funny, Bern. But you’re also smart. Real smart. Working and school and everything. I got myself a smart smart man here.”

  “Why you repeatin’ everything four times?” I said. “Sound like Grandpa Thurman.”

  She laughed. She knew I was just messing with her. We’d cuddle up harder. Life was good. I had a fine woman, and she had a man with a job, a car, and academic aspirations. Didn’t get any better than that, right?

  We were watching TV one night when Cosby came on. I told her about the time I walked into my house, five years old, and saw my mother sitting in front of the tube, crying. Told her how Cosby had made my mama laugh to bust a gut. Told her what I’d said: “That’s what I want to be, Mama. A comedian. Make you laugh like that, maybe you never cry again.”

  Rhonda thought it was a nice story, and she smiled at me. But it was one of those worried smiles. Maybe she was hoping I wouldn’t do anything crazy, like quitting college or something. I didn’t say anything, but the only part of college I enjoyed was the trip there and back, when I got to do my standup on the El.

  When Rhonda graduated from high school, she was up near the top of her class. I went to the graduation with her family. I was grinning so hard my jaw ached.

  There was a party after, but Rhonda didn’t want to go. She said she’d rather be alone with me. So I took her to a nice place for dinner, just the two of us. We had a good table in the corner, and I felt very romantic. I was thinking I might be the luckiest sumbitch in the world.

  I felt so lucky that the next week I quit school.

  “You did what?” Rhonda asked me.

  “It’s not my thing, girl. After a full day at the scrap yard, that classroom is the last place I want to be.”

  She didn’t crank. But I could see she was a little worried. And I got a feeling something had changed.

  One Friday, not long after, I walked into her house, feeling good. I was fresh-showered and smellin’ fine. “Let’s party,” I said. “Billy knows a guy who’s having this thing at his house.”

  Rhonda looked at me. “All you want to do is be the funny guy at the party,” she said. “Think you a comedian or something?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I said. “I am a comedian.”

  “There’s more to life than parties and laughter,” she said.

  “You don’t have to tell me that, woman. I work hard every got-damn day.”

  “Gotta think about the future, Bern,” she said.

  But I wasn’t thinking about the future. Not often, anyway. And not right then for sure. What I was thinking was that Rhonda was beginning to sound a lot like Geri: Bernie not ambitious enough. Bernie not doing anything with his life. Bernie going to end up working a bullshit job till he dead.

  I guess I must have had some of those fears myself, because it just set me off. And while I’m not a man who loses his temper easy, when I do—watch the hell out.

  “You are a pain in my ass,” I told her.

  She got up off the couch, her hands on her hips, steamed, and looked dead at me. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Bernard Mac,” she said.

  “I’ll talk to you any damn way I please,” I said. And I stood up and pushed her down on the couch—pushed her hard—and stormed the fuck out of the house.

  I went to Billy’s friend’s party. Had a few beers. Made everyone laugh. Billy put his arm around me, hugged me. “You are a funny sumbitch, Bernie Mac. You the funniest sumbitch I know. You ought to be out in Hollywood, brother.”

  Felt good. I needed that.

  The next day, when I got out of bed, I felt lousy about Rhonda. I’d never raised my hand to a woman in my life. That’s not the way I’d been taught. And I loved Rhonda. Then I got to thinking about what she’d said, and I realized that maybe I was worried about the future. But not in the same way. Rhonda wanted me to stay focused; to concentrate on my job; to get promoted and build something and take it seriously. It’s not as if she spelled it out for me, but I got the sense that she was thinking it. And me? To me, working a regular job was just temporary. She was right about there being more to life than parties, but she was wrong about the other thing: There wasn’t more to life than making people laugh. That’s what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a comedian. I wanted to make people laugh.

  Like I said, it was a calling.

  I decided I needed to explain to Rhonda just how serious I was about my comedy, so I called her house. Her mother, Mary, answered. I said, “How you doin’, ma’am. It’s Bernard. Can I speak to Rhonda?”

  “Rhonda’s not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Went away this morning.”

  “Went away? What do you mean, went away?”

  “Went away, Bernard. I can’t talk right now.” And she hung up.

  So I went over to Rhonda’s house, to find out what the hell was going on. “Where Rhonda at?” I said.

  Mary didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up the phone and dialed, and I could see her dialing long distance.

  “Hello?” It was Rhonda’s voice, small and far away.

  “Bernard’s here,” Mary said. “He wants to talk to you.” And she handed me the phone.

  “Rhonda, where you at, girl?”

  “Cleveland.”

  “Cleveland! What you doin’ in Cleveland?”

  “I got a job here.”

  “What do you mean, you got a job there?” I was getting pretty worked up.

  “Good job, too.”

  “Where you stayin’, then?”

  “With my aunt Sweet.”

  Her aunt Sweet? What the hell kind of name was that? “What about us?” I said.

  “It’s over, Bernard.”

  “Over! Don’t say that, girl. I’m calling to apologize.”

  “I’m sorry, Bernard.”

  “No, Rhonda, listen to me. What I did was wrong. I had a couple of beers in me—I know that’s no excuse. But you know me: two beers and I’m flying…” It was true. More than two beers, I’m giving you a lap dance. “Rhonda? You there?”

  “I don’t want to talk anymore, Bernard. It’s over.”

  “Rhonda, please listen to me. I’m really sorry, girl. I never should have pushed you. I never should have lost my temper.”

  But she hung up on me. Just like that. Hung the hell up.

  After that, I called her every day, sometimes three or four times a day, racking up the bills. She was working at a grocery store with Aunt Sweet, doing the cash register, and I even called her there.

  “Don’t call me here no more, Bernard. I’m going to lose my job.”

  I was scared inside. I didn’t want to lose Rhonda.

  “Your job? I’m callin’ because I don’t want to lose you, woman!”

  “I can’t talk now. I got customers.”

  I got off the phone and saw how my aunt Evelyn’s giving me one of those looks that run in the McCullough family. “What’d you do to make that girl so mad?” she asked me.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  But I did know. I’d been abusive toward her. And Rhonda had
her self-respect: She wasn’t going to take that from anyone, least of all a man who said he loved her.

  I called again. Apologized again. But Rhonda held firm. For six weeks she held firm. Finally I told Aunt Evelyn I was going to drive to Cleveland. “Be cheaper than these phone bills, anyway—and probably more effective.”

  “You stop moping around, boy,” she said. “You leave that girl alone. Let her live her life. If it’s going to be, it’s going to be. If not, not.”

  I didn’t think that was very good advice. “It’s meant to be if I make it happen,” I said.

  “Boy,” she said. “You bullheaded.”

  I kept calling. Nothing. Rhonda was bullheaded, too. I got a bad feeling that there was more to this than Rhonda was letting on.

  One night I got a call from her mother. “Bernard,” she said, “I need you to come over here.”

  I went. “What’s up?” I said.

  “Rhonda’s pregnant,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Who’s the father?”

  “Who do you think, fool? Askin’ that—it’s an insult to Rhonda.”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “Wow,” I said. “I don’t know what to say.” And I really didn’t know what to say. I was nineteen years old, a kid. I wish I could tell you my head was full of intelligent thoughts, but it wasn’t. It was empty. I was a kid with a kid on the way.

  “Don’t you know nothin’, boy? Why do you think Rhonda left?”

  “I thought it was on account of the fight.”

  “Well, of course it was. That was part of it. But that’s not why she left. She left because she didn’t know if you was ready to have a child. Rhonda didn’t want to trap you into nothin’. She’s not like that.”

  My head was spinnin’. “I gotta talk to her,” I said. “Let me call her from here.”

  “No,” her mama said. “She’s coming home tomorrow.”

  I drove down to the Greyhound terminal the next day, waited for Rhonda’s bus. She got off the bus and I looked at her belly. Sure enough, she was already showing a little. She had seen me looking, and she started crying.