by Wallace Ford
And the worst part was that the Dark Lord was nowhere to be found. At least at first.
And then, just like that, one night, it seemed like I had fallen asleep. But in the middle of the night, I could see the Dark Lord walk past the sleeping orderlies and nurses, like an assassin slipping past dozing sentries. And then he was at my side. And then he was reminding me of all the good times that we had had together and how I had to get my shit together so that we could go out and have some real fun—get some blow, hook up with some bitches, kick some ass, just like in the old days, which were not that long ago.
“How the fuck am I going to go anywhere? You see all these tubes and wires and shit?”
The Dark Lord didn’t say a word. He just started yanking and pulling—tubes, monitors, catheters, wires—removing all of those biotethers one by one, until I lay there on the bed free for the first time in at least two years. I thought that I was going to die at that very moment, but instead, I felt fine. It was like a miracle.
“That’s great, but how am I going to go anywhere? All I have is this damn diaper and hospital gown. I don’t even have a pair of fucking shoes!”
Up to that moment, I had not noticed that my only friend had a gym-bag-sized black leather satchel in his hand. He put it on the bed, opened it up and started pulling items out. There was a pair of jeans that seemed too big for me, and I am a pretty big guy. There was a checkered flannel shirt, a white T-shirt, some Timberland shoes, an oversized denim jacket, a pair of blue striped boxer shorts, a Los Angeles Lakers baseball cap, a pair of Gucci sunglasses and some gold necklaces and bracelets.
I didn’t have to be told twice. I put on the clothes and checked myself out in the mirror. I would have fit in on just about any street corner in Harlem, South Central LA or the South Side of Chicago, or on just about any rap video playing on BET.
It was already after midnight and I had sense enough to know that I needed to have my ass back in that hospital bed by the time those assholes on the night shift woke up. So I followed the Dark Lord past the sleeping nurses and orderlies and went downstairs to the hospital lobby and out into the street. Nobody seemed to notice us; it almost seemed as if we were invisible to everyone in the hospital.
As we got into the taxicab that magically materialized at the curbside of the circular driveway in front of New York Hospital, the Dark Lord passed me a small piece of foil brimming with cocaine and a small plastic spoon. As I gratefully snorted the first clouds of coke that I had had in what seemed like years, I heard the Dark Lord tell me that during our adventure in the evening, I would be known as G-Perk.
And then our adventure began.
CHAPTER 7
Paul
In My Solitude
As I sat in my admittedly nondescript offices on West 57th Street, in the heart of Manhattan, I was in my normal state of being nearly overwhelmed by work, work and more work. There was the memo that I needed to get to the minister of trade and industry in the West African country of Benin. There was the Broadway actress who wanted to negotiate a new deal with one of the largest talent-management companies in the United States. There were the paperwork and rituals of business related to Dorothy’s By the Sea, even though Sture does most of the heavy lifting. And then there was Morningstar.
During the seven days of the week, a day never goes by that I am not working on some aspect of the investment banking firm that I helped to organize by getting Gordon Perkins, Jerome Hardaway and my then-ex-wife and now-wife, Diedre Douglas, to merge their respective firms. Morningstar Financial Services survived its spectacular betrayal by Gordon, and in the three years since the now-infamous New Orleans Fiasco, Morningstar had become one of the most successful boutique investment banking firms in the United States.
As counsel to Morningstar, I have been involved in the firm’s every deal, every corporate transaction, and every aspect of organization. Morningstar has been involved in deals all over the United States. As time and success ensued, Jerome and Diedre started making noises about using the London base of operations as a jumping-off point to start doing business in Africa, particularly in South Africa.
And, of course, every move that is made by Morningstar means more work for me and the few new associates that I have had to hire to handle all of the paperwork that accompanies this activity. And, given that Morningstar is my best client by far, I am not complaining. But lots of fees mean a lot of work, which means a lot of stress. All the time.
And through it all, I have been trying to reconcile all of the work that I do with all of the work that Diedre has to do in her position as co-chair of Morningstar, as well as with the work both of us have to do for our marriage and our son. Trying to do all of these things simultaneously brings to mind the image of a clown juggling roaring chainsaws while riding a unicycle across the Grand Canyon on a rapidly fraying filament of a tightrope.
When my fiancée Samantha Gideon died in the middle of the Morningstar merger negotiations, Diedre and I suddenly moved from being friends, business colleagues and reasonably adjusted ex-spouses to passionate lovers and then husband and wife. And then we became father and mother to our wonderful son, Paul Jr. And it all made sense at the time.
And, at the time, all of our friends and colleagues thought that our story was kind of a modern-day fairy tale, where love prevails over everything. And for a while, fantasy and reality accommodated each other quite nicely. But at some point, dawn arrives.
When Samantha died, Diedre was caring and compassionate and loving. When I needed someone to be on my side, she was there for me. And I can never forget how kind and wonderful she can be. Which makes the current state of affairs more puzzling and perplexing.
You might think that by working together on Morningstar every day that we could grow closer. The opposite has been the case, however. Diedre is so very busy. I am so very busy.
It seems that rarely a week goes by that one of us is not out of town for at least two or three days. Whatever time we do spend together is involved with raising our son and trying to find the right schools, arranging playdates and his attendance at birthday parties, and doing all of the things that go with trying to raise one of the last heirs of the Baby Boom in New York City.
Somehow, amazingly, perversely, all the things that we have shared and that we do together seem to have drawn us apart. Romance is barely a memory, and the passion that used to flow between us like some lavalike river of emotion became a memory that was more and more difficult to revive.
I had not given up hope, however, and I continued to believe that the love that we had between us would revive the most important part of our relationship. I became afraid that our friendship was at risk. In the meantime, while hoping, I absolutely welcomed the chance to assume the loving duties of fatherhood every day. The loving duties of being a husband—became something of a challenge.
There was also the bittersweet story of Jerome and his loss of Charmaine. Jerome and I always had a friendly relationship, although I would not describe us as bosom buddies. Ours was more of a relationship based on respect and affinity and appreciation. Our work together was always professionally enjoyable, although we both are sufficiently committed to our work that we have had very little time for anything but business during these early years of Morningstar Financial Services. And then Charmaine died.
When Charmaine died, Jerome joined the sad secret society of those who have been nearly devastated by the loss of a truly loved and treasured someone. I had been thrice initiated into this remorseless tribe—by the sudden and unexpected deaths of my father and brother and by the expected but nevertheless sudden death of Samantha. And now, Jerome had joined the club.
A word about this unwanted membership that he and I share. It is a part of the human condition to experience death, and billions of us through the history of this planet have learned to deal with death through the rituals of funerals and eulogies and wakes and memorials and burials and cremations.
But it is one thing to lose
an elderly parent who has lived a full life and seen his or her children grow to adulthood and pursue their own lives and adventures. It is one thing to lose one of your work colleagues or fraternity brothers or college classmates that you might have known and loved.
It is quite another thing to lose that someone (and there are never that many special people in anyone’s life) who was a part of the foundation of your every day and your life experience. It is quite another thing to start the day or the week or the year expecting that this person would continue to be a part of your life just like your arm or your heart. And it is quite another thing when, through disease or accident or just pure capricious, random and ferocious fate, that person is suddenly gone one day. Never to return.
That is how I felt when my father died. That is how I felt when my brother died. That is how I felt when Samantha died. And I know that is how Jerome has felt ever since Charmaine died over a year ago.
He has told me how he has to stop himself from calling her a dozen times every day. And I know, I still think that when the phone rings, I will find Samantha or my father or brother on the line.
Jerome has talked about hearing her voice calling his name as he walked through a crowd in Grand Central Station or in the American Airlines lounge for first-class passengers at Kennedy Airport. I know, I have seen my brother’s face through the window of a subway car leaving the station a hundred times.
And, Jerome has told me about the ultimate phase of initiation, an experience that he and I also share. About three months after she died, Charmaine appeared in a dream. She was healthy, radiant, no longer in a wheelchair. Her multiple sclerosis had been banished and she was no longer ravaged by cancer and chemotherapy—these were all in her past life.
Jerome said that she smiled and laughed and teased and comforted him. She told him that she was fine and that she would always be there for the boys and him; they just had to look for her.
His encounter with Charmaine was so real, so vivid, that he said he leaped out of bed and searched the house looking for her, swearing that she was alive and that the real, live Charmaine had been in the bedroom with him. And then he knew. He knew that she was gone. And he knew that she would always be with him.
And it is that sadness and that priceless nugget of happiness that all members of the sad secret society carry for the rest of their lives.
CHAPTER 8
Jerome
Blame It on My Youth
During the past two years, surviving the loss of Charmaine has been a daily battle. Work has helped—being busy kind of takes my mind off things for a few seconds every now and then. Raising the boys is the remaining treasure of my life, and everything that I do with them keeps her memory alive for all of us.
I will be eternally grateful for Paul’s special friendship during these darkest of days. I know he understands that expressions of commiseration, while well intentioned, cannot begin to find someone trapped in the quicksand of grief and pain and loss. Nevertheless, knowing that someone has been there for me has meant a lot.
Diedre, Paul and I have been working like beasts over these past few years getting Morningstar in a position to recover from Gordon’s New Orleans Fiasco. Since then, there has also been the matter of building the firm that resulted from the merger of our three operations, and trying to make that new firm successful. And, just as Paul had predicted at the luncheon at the Water Club, what seems like a million years ago, our combined forces have created a formidable synergy that was starting to make some real progress in the world of finance known as Wall Street.
And then one afternoon, it occurred to me that the sadness and the manic nature of business and the constant themes of grief and loss needed to be put in their proper places. It was a Wednesday in September, the afternoons were getting darker earlier, and I had a couple of business meetings in Los Angeles on Thursday and Friday.
On the spur of the moment, I called Paul. He didn’t know it when he picked up the phone, but we were going to California. I didn’t think that Paul would offer too much resistance.
“Paul, it’s Jerome. Are you trying to work your way into a mental institution as usual?”
“Jerome, you would have to be about the last person to lecture someone on being crazy about their work. I figure that they have already fitted you for a three-piece, pinstriped straitjacket ... although I do think the asylum attendants will have some problem buckling it once they get a look at your face.”
“Paul, I am so glad that you are a lawyer.”
“And why is that, my brother?”
“Because if you were a comedian, you would be starving to death and begging me and everybody else for money.”
“If that was a compliment, Jerome, it was a very subtle one. And, you know, subtlety was never your strong suit.”
“Well, let me get right to the point, intergalactic soul brother. We are going to Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon and coming back on Sunday. And before you start yammering on and on about your precious schedule and all the eight million appointments that you have and cannot possibly reschedule, a couple of points.
“First, it’s on Morningstar business, and that has got to trump just about anything else that you have to do. Second, since it is on Morningstar business, Diedre is not going to give you too much static about going. Third, since you are going with me, she probably will trust your sorry ass not to get into too much trouble. And finally, I have already had my assistant, Berta, make the arrangements. We have two seats reserved on an American Express corporate jet that a buddy of mine was kind enough to offer when I mentioned that you and I were going to LA.”
“Well, I am glad that you were kind enough to let my sorry ass know where I was going to be for the next few days.”
“Paul, on the flight back to New York, you will be thanking me.”
“Where have I heard that before?”
“Don’t play hard to get, Paul. You and I both need a break. So just let Diedre know that you have to go to LA with me for a few days. Or should I get permission for you?”
“Jerome, I think between the two of us, you might be the comedian.”
“I don’t hear you laughing, Paul.”
“And you don’t hear me saying no either. When you are right, you are right. Let’s go to the left coast!”
“I knew there was a reason why I thought you were a smart guy. Berta will call you later today to let you know what time we have to get to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey to get on the Amex jet. We can ride together, and we will be in Hollywierd by tomorrow night.”
“Jerome, I have never thought of you as a particularly spontaneous brother ... but this is a great idea. Count me in!”
“Count yourself in, Paul. I will call you later tonight about our Friday meetings, but you can give me some thoughts as to how we can spend Friday night and Saturday.”
“I’ll see what I can come up with, Jerome.”
“See you tomorrow.”
When I hung up from my conversation with Paul, I thought about how my bright idea to road-trip with Paul had started. There actually were several very important meetings that I had to attend regarding some entertainment and technology deals that were on the Morningstar radar screen. Having our esteemed counsel in the room would certainly up the ante in terms of expressing how serious we were about trying to get a deal done.
And then there were the thoughts that were born out of my solitude, out of my prison of loneliness. I knew I could not keep my sanity without finding some relief from this awful misery, as King Pleasure might have said many years ago.
But how did a trip to California come to mind? Interestingly enough, I was having a drink—by myself—at Dorothy’s By the Sea when I happened to run into the Unholy Trio, Trini Satterfield, Ralph Watson and Jerry James. Trini, Ralph and Jerry were fixtures at Dorothy’s, and while they each were a story in their own right, together they were something of a cross between a carnival and an asylum.
Trini was a somewhat legendary adv
ertising executive and world-class jokester. I guess you could call him one of the original members of The Pride. Trini knew just about everyone worth knowing and to hear him tell it, he also knew just about everything.
And there was Ralph Watson. He was a third-generation Harlem undertaker with an MBA from Stanford. Ralph fancied himself as the quintessential bon vivant who, because of his family wealth, led a life of pleasure, luxury, ease and indulgence.
And then there was Jerry James. Jerry, who was a convicted felon as a teenager on a direct road to nowhere, somehow found his way to getting a high school diploma and college degree as a prison inmate. After being released from prison and obtaining his Master’s of Public Administration from Columbia University’s School of International and Public Affairs, he worked in senior positions for New York State governors Carey and Cuomo, as well as for New York City mayors Beame, Koch and Dinkins. He was now a management executive for a new foundation founded by one of the new dot-com billionaires that seemed to bloom by the dozens in the last decade of the twentieth century.
Jerry was loud, profane and amazingly hilarious. His propensity for drugs and alcohol was legendary. His sexual adventures were the stuff of myths and legends that would be told around campfires deep into the future.
But on this particular night last week, as I was enjoying my second (or was it my third?) Myer’s Rum and tonic (with a wedge of lime), I heard Trini pontificating about California. For some unknown, godforsaken reason, the conversation intrigued me and I listened. And I learned.
CHAPTER 9
Jerome
Tracks of My Tears
