by Paul Watkins
As usual, A.J. has not made any preparations for the meeting. I believe there are two reasons for this type of behavior on his part. One, he has been very busy. And two, he doesn’t like preparing for meetings… preferring instead to wing it. Since the outcome was predictable, I decided to call the managers and take a straw poll regarding what they would like to cover at the meeting. Then I drew up an agenda based upon the input I had gathered from the managers. Now, seated in the limo, I hand the agenda to A.J. for his review.
A.J. quickly scans the document, arches an eyebrow and then turns to me. “Where did you get this list?”
“When you told me about today’s gathering I took the liberty of calling the managers to find out what they expected to discuss. This represents a summary of their concerns. I figured you wouldn’t have time to get to it with your travels and other activities.”
A.J. leans back and we ride in silence for a time. I don’t know what’s coming, but it probably won’t be good. He has made it abundantly clear on several occasions now… he wants no outsider involvement in his business in any substantive way, especially by yours truly. For my part, I have generally ignored the edict, my justification being that I was doing more good than harm. In my view, of course, there wasn’t any harm done, but I’m sure A.J. wouldn’t share my sentiments on the subject. It seems so infantile, if not stupid to be arguing over this matter. We’re both stubborn when it comes to this particular subject, I suppose, but it’s difficult for me to see A.J.’s side of it. He needs help and he simply refuses to accept it… at least, he refuses to accept any help from me. Maybe I should throw in the towel on this one and save my energy. What the hell, it’s his business… he should do whatever he wants with it.
Finally he breaks the silence, “Phil, you seem to know a lot about business. I mean… really, you do. You have a good sense of organization and business systems. You naturally think of ways to go about things when approaching an issue that would never occur to me. When you say it, it makes sense. So now I’m going to ask the big question: Would you mind telling me where you picked up all your experience? Let’s face it, there’s no evidence of any extensive business activity in your background as I recall.”
I was right about one thing… something is eating away at him. While I’ve never taken any pains to hide my familiarity with business issues, few of my actions are consistent with my paper background. I’m afraid my cover is about to be blown.
“I think I told you before,” I begin tentatively, “I used to work with some top executives. You can learn a lot if you listen close.” A little lie… not a big one. Also, it’s true… you do learn more if you listen. I’ve never learned a damn thing when I was talking… except, maybe, that I should have kept my mouth shut.
A.J.’s giving me the fish-eye. “I don’t know, Phil, it’s hard to believe you could pick up so much just hanging around.”
He sits quietly waiting for an answer. Since I can’t think of anything believable, or even helpful for that matter, I stay silent.
“I think you’re holding out, ol’ buddy,” he continues. “You know the old saying about don’t shit a shitter? I think that’s what you’re doing. What I can’t figure out is, why? Why does a guy like you wind up working for someone like me?” He holds up his hands defensively. “Don’t get me wrong… I’m not complaining… it’s just strange, that’s all.”
This is one of the problems with telling a lie… even a small one. Initially, I thought I had a good reason to lie, or I would not have gotten the job. I really believe that. But now I have come to like these people and I find myself in a position of trust under false pretenses. Even though innocent in its intent, the original lie has put me in a spot. I am faced with the choice of telling the truth and probably losing their trust, or continuing to lie. And I’m getting tired of the subterfuge. Perhaps it’s nature’s way of telling me it’s time to come clean, or at least sort of clean. Well… clean for me anyway.
“Look, Mr. Jackson, I haven’t been entirely clear about my past because I didn’t think it would serve any useful purpose.”
A.J. leans back in his seat, a pull-down mask of skepticism painted over his face.
“Let me begin by saying there is nothing negative or unlawful in my background. But I was a businessman for quite a while and then I retired for a time. Once I decided to get involved in something again I wanted to change occupations. I didn’t want to go back and do the same old thing, but I wanted some sort of management position that would fit my skill pattern. This sounded interesting so I applied. Although I didn’t really have the exact experience you were looking for, I knew I could do the job and I knew I could do it well. But I figured if I told you I had retired a few years ago and wanted to change careers, I would never get the position, so I wasn’t entirely forthright about my work background. I have considerable management experience and that’s probably why I keep sticking my nose into the restaurant business, it’s just force of habit. I think all businessmen are drawn to problems… I see a problem and I want to solve it. Bad habit, I guess.”
A.J. slaps his knee. “I knew it! I knew you were a fucking liar the minute I laid eyes on you. Yousonofabitch, you’ve been here all this time living a damn lie.”
A.J. is glaring, nostrils flaring… working himself into a state. What else is new?
“Well, I’m firing your ass, right now!”
It’s his show and I’m getting exactly what a liar deserves. I should have come clean long before this. I certainly had plenty of opportunities. Dammit! This was getting interesting as well as challenging, but I’m in no position to argue. He’s right and I’m wrong. I cannot bring myself to ask for any consideration and I will not. It may not be the best solution in this case, but it’s not a bad one and I have no one to blame but myself. After all, trust is the foundation upon which business relationships are built… as well as friendships. And now it’s time to pay the piper. A.J. puts his hand on my shoulder. Here comes the sympathy speech: Nothing personal, etc., etc.
“Now, I want to hire you as my manager. I mean, seeing as you’re available and everything.”
I turn and look at the biggest shit-eating grin east of the Mississippi. A.J. extends his hand to me.
“Phil, it’s a waste of time for you to continue to run things around the house. Hell, you’ve done a great job and all, but I really need you to get more involved in my business and professional stuff. Shit, I’m going down for the third time and we haven’t seen anything yet. I have plans, big plans… and I need help yesterday, if not sooner. How about it, will you help me out?”
“Mr. Jackson, I’d like to explain…”
“Forget it, there’s nothing to explain. I understand. It’s all history. You’re right, there’s no way you would have gotten the job if you had told me the truth. If you had given me any reason to blow you away that first day, I would have… I would have jumped at the chance. So let’s start over. Do you want the job?”
“Look, I don’t know anything about the entertainment business. I understand contracts and all that, and I suppose I could learn a little about it, but I’m not sure I want to. The restaurants intrigue me. There’s a business I think I could learn, but I’m just not too sure about the other. So far the entertainment business sounds like you’re either on a stage or in a lawyer’s office. I’m not suited for one and I hate the other.”
“I know what you mean,” A.J. says with a laugh. “There really is a lot of bullshit at times, but don’t worry, you can still be a tremendous help. Let’s just work things out as we go. We’ll be partners and split up the duties. You do the work and I’ll play golf.”
I turn and look at A.J. He’s not smiling now. It’s probably the first truthful thing he has said today. He’s worse than I am when it comes to shading, bending, stretching… whatever, to fill in the blank… especially when it comes to doing things to and with the tr
uth.
“There’s something I want to get off my chest.” He leans forward and looks down at the floor of the car. “I’ve never made any secret of the fact that I do not especially like white people.” He looks sideways at me and draws back. “I mean… this is no shit… square biz, I want to come clean here.” He pauses for a momentand then begins once again. “I don’t know why exactly… I guess it’s more a lack of trust than anything else. I come from an environment where that attitude is easy to come by. But I want you to know I honestly never felt that way about you. Even though I may not act like it most of the time, I’ve always felt a certain rapport between us.”
We ride in silence for a time before I speak.
“I don’t think I’m particularly prejudiced in that regard,” I reply, “but I guess I reserve the right to dislike a person, regardless of race, creed or color, without someone calling me a racist or an anti-something or other. Sometimes you just don’t get along with a particular person or they don’t get along with you. It happens. But there’s always some self-appointed expert, waiting in the wings, who has to put a label on it. There are all kinds of people, both good and bad. On the other hand, I suppose we all give in to the stereotypes at times, especially if we don’t like the guy.”
A.J. nods in understanding. “Yeah, I know what you mean. But even you have to agree, I’m sure, that some of those stereotypes are based on fact. For instance, I really don’t think white men can jump worth a shit. Hell, that’s just a natural fact. As far as most of you people are concerned, I don’t think there’s any difference between you jumping and you standing. They even made a movie about it.”
“If they made a movie about it,” I acknowledge, “then it must be true. Based on my personal experience, I can’t disagree… since it sure as hell applies to me. Maybe it has something to do with the law of gravity. It’s accepted that blacks have no regard for the law. Perhaps this is just another case of blatant disregard… not only do you people disregard man’s laws, but nature’s laws as well.”
He gives me a shove with his elbow. “See, that’s just the kind of shit I mean… I say something accurate and true about whites and you trot out some tired old crap about blacks. I think I had you pegged all wrong. You’re just another shiftless, good-for-nothing, lazy piece of white trash that I’m probably going to be stuck with. But what the hell, I suppose it’s better than having you on welfare. Damn!”
At last, someone who understands me. It’s nice to start a new job with a compassionate boss. Someone who can look into a man’s soul and care about what he sees there. A man who can look you inthe eye while he sends you to hell.
***
The meeting was like any one of hundreds of other business meetings I’ve attended. After the introductions we got right down to work. A.J. ran things with only a few wild digressions from the agenda. All in all it was a good time with everyone getting most of what they came for. They hammered out a tight schedule for the January meeting and everyone seemed pleased with the outcome.
Now it’s time for lunch and golf. The meal turned out to be fairly chaotic. Fortunately the club packed usoff and out of the way in a private room in a far corner of the building. Trash talk was the most civil of the conversation I heard. A.J. was correct about bragging rights, only I’m not too sure he is the best there is. I would say this group could pass for a convention of world-class braggarts. But there was more than just bragging going down… every one of them seemed definitely willing to put their money along side their wide-open mouths. A stranger who had no knowledge of golf would think from this cacophony that we were about to engage in mortal combat. Blood would be shed and lives would be lost… and then things would get serious.
Our group is the last one scheduled to tee off. True to form, A.J. has picked the strongest team for our opponents. It’s the boys from Atlanta, Billy Batson and Lionel ‘Train’ Wilson. I had not heard the ‘Train’ sobriquet before, but somehow it fits. They are both about the same age as A.J.; late twenties or early thirties, and both claim to be better golfers than A.J., on any course, on any day.
Batson is a tall, handsome guy who looks like he was a fairly accomplished athlete in his younger days. Lionel is just the opposite. He’s well under six feet and about forty pounds overweight. He claims the weight is not a problem for him, it’s just that he lacks sufficient height to evenly distribute all the fine muscle he has gained over the years. Billy says Lionel is ‘vertically deprived’… that he’d be fairly slender at around eight feet or so.
We will have to wait a few more minutes before we can hit, so A.J. pulls out the long needle and goes to work. It’s apparent he is going to use every weapon in his arsenal and bullshit is certainly one of his bigger guns.
“Okay, Phil, my man,” he starts in, “we have a bet with these burglars. We’re playing three fives… that’s five on the front, five on the back and five on the all day. Press bets, or new bets for the edification of those of you who do not know any better… “ he looks pointedly at our opponents, “can be made at any time… none of this two down shit. Press when pissed!” Suddenly A.J. rips his hat from his head and throws it to the ground in a violent motion, then kicks it towards the tee. “In fact, I’m getting so pissed right now I’d just as soon press their black asses before the next shot!”
“What next shot? Billy exclaims. “Nobody’s hit yet!”
“Now that’s just the kind of crap I’ve been talking about, everybody arguing about every little thing! I just said I was thinking about it. Can’t I think about it? Just because you and your fat friend there never think about anything, Billy, doesn’t mean someone else can’t be thinking. Look at my partner here.”
He points to me with a grand sweeping gesture as though I were some particularly fine specimen he brought along for all to see.
“Now my partner’s thinking all the time. In fact, right now he’s thinking you two peckerheads are probably too scared to stick around for all eighteen. You know what? I think he’s right!” A.J. continues totalk as his frenzy gains momentum. “We ought to make you deadbeats post a bond. That way we won’t be cheated out of our just reward for putting up with your ugly selves all day.”
I watch Billy and Lionel during this tirade, but they are unimpressed. Or, if it has affected them in any way, they have learned to conceal it well.
Billy turns to me and says, “You sure have yourwork cut out this time, Phil. If bullshit weregunpowder they’d have to outlaw smoking in thiswhole damn state ‘cause of him. That motherfuckergot the biggest boombox of a mouth I ever did hear or see.”
“Amen to that,” Lionel chimes in.
All this has an equal effect on A.J. … none.
“Lionel, why don’t you just waddle up to the tee there and see if you can’t roll one in the general direction of the green. Be careful now you don’t split your pants when you bend over… hear? You fat fuck!”
Lionel looks at A.J., flips him the bird and heads for the tee. Bending over he farts in a way that would do a mature bull elephant proud.
“That’s for you, A.J. I’ve got another one, but I’ll save it for your backswing.”
It’s not clear if the explosion was intentional, but he certainly does not seem embarrassed in any way. Of course, maybe that’s just hindsight. Forgive the pun. I guess it’s pretty obvious how easy it is to get into this thought pattern.
A.J. cups the back of his hand to the side of his mouth and directs a stage whisper in my direction, “Jesus, Phil, we’re sunk… they’re going to the zone. We’ll never be able to get to the tee with all that toxic gas up there.” Then back to Lionel, “Take your best shot, Train, or was that it?” A.J. turns back to me and comments further on his friend’s prowess. “I’m tellin’ ya, when it comes to farting, no one can hold a candle to ol’ Lionel… at least they’d better not try if they want to stay in this life. When he was a kid, his main
ambition was to fart the scale. He’d usually crap out around ‘fa’.”
A.J.’s slight smile could have a myriad of meanings. Most anyone who has played golf is used to occasional banter and swordplay, but there is a new level here that promises to exceed anything in my experience.
Seemingly unaffected by the running commentary, Lionel takes a mighty swing at the ball and manages to hit a wild slice that starts out well over the left rough, crosses the entire fairway and drives hard into the right rough, settling out of sight in the long grass. If one had watched Lionel and not the ball, it would be easy to imagine a three hundred yard shot straight down the middle. The man has all the right moves following the swing… which is probably important to some. He poses like a pro.
“The man farts better than he drives, that’s for sure,” A.J. observes to no one in particular, but managing to break the mood. “I think you might have lost all your power, Train. You should time those outbursts better. If you want to go back and change your pants, go ahead… we’ve got time.”
Lionel acknowledges A.J.’s comment by thoughtfully scratching his ass, then raising his leg to rearrange his shorts.
In the meantime, Billy has moved to the tee and placed his ball in position. He glares at A.J. and admonishes, “Quiet on the tee while a true player executes his shot.”
“Executes is a good word for it,” A.J. replies, clearly not affected by Billy’s injunction. “That ball will be so far in the woods it will never see the light of day again. Died and gone to golf ball heaven. Hundred dollars says you don’t hit the fairway… and you have to use a golf club… I hear you’re pretty good at throwin’ it.”
Billy backs away from the shot, turns to A.J. and gives him a cold hard stare. He sniffs haughtily and then turns slowly back into position and, without further comment, once again addresses the ball. Christ, if it keeps going like this, we won’t finish beforedark. This is just the first tee!