The Pride

by Wallace Ford

  “I met Fred Morrow when I started working at Citibank. He had recently retired from Bank of America as an assistant vice president if you can believe that! Here is a man who worked in the White House, for the President of the United States and he winds up as an AVP at Bank of America.

  “We were talking at an Urban Bankers Coalition dinner when he told this story about his White House years and how even President Eisenhower himself had difficulty helping him find a job when he left government.

  “There were no pickets, protests, sit-ins or boycotts to protest this injustice. Even the people who he had helped, and they were legion, stayed quiet. But you know what? I can truly say that Mr. Morrow was not a bitter man. He was not angry. He felt that he was part of history, a process of change that was inexorable.”

  Paul was now absorbing and enjoying this. I think that I was telling him something that he really needed to know.

  “And do you know what this man told me before we left the luncheon that day? He said that while he could never truly forgive the white people who ruined his career, his final victory was the progress that all the young black people had made since he had come along.”

  “Now we both know that Ray Beard is a Blue Ribbon asshole. But he and thousands of other young brothers and sisters wouldn’t even be within shouting distance of Wall Street if it wasn’t for you and me and Gordon and Jerome and a lot of people who were at Winner’s memorial this morning.”

  “I certainly agree with the ‘asshole’ part.”

  “Sure. But we can’t expect that every young brother and sister that comes along is going to be perfect. Sly Stone wasn’t right. Everyone is not a star. Ray just needs more guidance than he is getting from Jerome. I am sure that life will teach him all that he needs to know. And from the looks of things, I am betting that he is going to get some extra schooling real soon.”

  “I still should have kicked his ass,” I heard Paul mutter.

  “My, my! I must have dialed Mike Tyson’s number by mistake. What has brought on this bodacious attitude? Oh wait … I know. Samantha must be out of town.”

  I have always known where to put the needle into Paul especially when it came to his relationships with women. I could immediately tell that I had scored once again.

  “You should get yourself a crystal ball and really make some money.”

  “I just know when you are on edge, Paul. You know I know you too well. I am sure Ray Beard will be glad when Samantha is back. Perhaps then it will be safe for him to walk the streets again.”

  We both had to laugh at this point. It was great having a chance to just talk with him. He had always been one of the smartest people I ever knew. And I always considered myself lucky to know him, all of our differences notwithstanding. This little conversation of ours was a wonderful break in the day.

  “Paul, I have to go. But we should talk again. Soon. I would really like that.” I tried to speak without the New York Pride attitude, or sarcasm, or wit. It was just words from someplace inside that I needed to say.

  “I would like that too, Diedre.” I could have sworn that I picked up some ever so slight hint of sadness or longing or something. It was like a small cloud that hides the sun for a moment or two during a summer picnic and then moves away.

  CHAPTER 48

  Paul

  Remembering Bobby Coles

  As we hung up I picked up the scent of Ivoire de Balmain, the scent that Diedre always wore. I don’t know how that could have happened. Magic would be my best guess.

  And then it was time to go back to work. And the scent of perfume dissipated and freed me from the reverie that it created. As I hung up the phone there was literally another call coming in.

  It was from the vice president of a machine parts manufacturing company that wanted to work out a deal with the economic development officials of the Atlanta city government. I took the call and worked out the preliminary details of how I would get the information that I needed before I flew down to Atlanta for the first round of meetings. I was already sure that I could work something out.

  The next call was from the managing director of an investment banking firm whose client was looking for a joint venture with a client in Detroit that I represented . Again it was manufacturing. This time the deal concerned machine parts. It was nothing glamorous. But it kept the lights on and the bills paid.

  Right after that, one of my law school classmates who had been in Congress for the past twelve years was calling me for some career guidance. I tried to let him know that the grass was always greener on the other side, but he was determined to make the jump. I really couldn’t say that I blamed him.

  Public service, especially elected public service could be real hard on a person. My classmate was getting to the point that the aggravation, hassles and loss of a personal life was outweighing fame, the semblance of power and an ability to help a few people.

  The next call was from the vice president for development for a major Hollywood studio. The studio was interested in the dramatic rights to a novel written by one of my clients.

  I had to smile at the thought that suddenly black writers and stories about black people were deemed “interesting” to mainstream media. It was even more amazing when these books were found “interesting” even when no one got killed and the word “motherfucker” was not in the title of the work. I still keep hoping that maybe times really do change.

  And then there was a break in the action and I started to sort through the mail and memos and bills that are all a part of the business of practicing law. And that’s when it happened. A memory, like a wraith, made an uninvited appearance in my consciousness with no warning and no introduction. I thought of the name of one of my good friends from college about whom I had not thought in years … Bobby Coles.

  Bobby had this madcap idea that he could major in English literature at Dartmouth College during the week and work on the weekends as a professional actor with the Harlem-based New Heritage Repertory Company, directed by Roger Furman. At the time there were two major black drama companies in New York City, New Heritage and the Negro Ensemble Company. For whatever reason, Bobby thought that his best opportunity was with New Heritage.

  In any event, when it came time to graduate, Bobby saw his career choices as going to graduate school to get a doctorate and teach English literature at some university, or acting professionally on stage, in New York City. At least that’s what Bobby perceived as his options. Life is rarely that simple, however, and it wasn’t that simple for Bobby.

  In the early seventies almost the only roles that were available for black actors and actresses involved singing and dancing—the all-black versions of “Hello Dolly” and “Guys and Dolls” come to mind. And, with all of his talents, skills and abilities, Bobby could not sing or dance his way out of a wet paper bag.

  And as far as the movies were concerned, most of the roles that were available to black actors in those days were in such timeless classics as “I Shot My Mama, Part I,” “I Shot My Mama, Part II,” and “Touch Me Again and I’ll Kill You.” Television offered opportunities to be a part of such cultural classics like “I Can Dig It, Can You Dig It?” and the universally acclaimed series “I Shot My Mama.”

  As it turned out, Robert DeNiro, Dustin Hoffman, Robert Redford, Al Pacino, all contemporaries of my friend Bobby Coles, had one less competitor to worry about. Bobby was a dreamer, an artist, a madcap brother with a heart full of hope, but he was not stupid. He did not see an opportunity to do anything but starve, so he shelved his dreams and went to graduate school and became an English professor at Oberlin College in Ohio.

  And then I remembered the rest of the story. After we graduated, Bobby and I did not see that much of each other. Every now and then some conference would bring him to New York City and we would get together for drinks or dinner.

  And then one morning I read in the New York Times that one Robert Coles, a distinguished professor of English at Oberlin College, was found in his c
ar, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. It was a presumed suicide.

  I knew at once that it was a suicide. No question in my mind. I knew that every real dream that Bobby had was stomped to pieces and thrown in the gutter called procrastination. He simply had never found happiness in his life or in what he had to do for a living.

  He went through all the motions. He got that PhD and became a professor. He had a wife, children, house, car, professional organization memberships, and vacations in faraway places. He simply never had any of his dreams come true in his life or in what he did for a living.

  And then, one day, he just got into his car and didn’t bother to open the garage door. He started the engine and waited for his last dream to come true. I learned from his wife that the “Pieces of a Man” album by Gil Scott-Heron was on the CD player in the car when they found him. Somehow that struck me as the perfect note to end the symphony of his life.

  Thinking about Bobby, I thought about so many of our friends and colleagues and classmates of that era. When we were in school, discovering our blackness, our manhood, womanhood, personhood—we believed that all of our dreams could come true and that all things were possible. And we were absolutely right at the time.

  It was only later that we found out that this is never true forever. And black, white, Hispanic or Asian—growing up is about learning how to practice the art of the possible. But there is a certain cruelty in learning that some things were impossible, just because … just because you were born black, just because no one black had ever done it before—just because you were born a little too early to ride the wave of monumental change that was now rolling across the country, from coast to coast.

  Everyone I know has a way of dealing with these kinds of frustrations. Some people just buy their way through life. I know too many people with too many shoes, suits, homes, boats, cars and jewelry. Some people drink, some smoke marijuana and some snort cocaine. Some do all of those things and more. And many just live their lives and keep their heartbreak and frustration in a place so secret that they can’t even find it if they tried. And then some people turn on the car with the garage door closed, and listen to Gil Scott-Heron forever.

  Thinking of Bobby Coles got me to thinking about myself. I know that I used to have a lot more hopes and dreams than I do these days. In fact, it’s getting harder to remember exactly what those hopes and dreams were.

  I guess that at this point in life people would say that I was successful, completing college and law school. I now have my own law practice with work that takes me all over the country and all over the world. I work in the greatest city in the world and walk with the rich and the powerful without question or pause.

  So what could be the problem? It’s just that I wish I could remember a few of those hopes and dreams. What the hell were they? And I remember those almost dreamlike yesterdays when Diedre and I were together, a million years ago, a billion billion dreams ago. I certainly couldn’t ask her about those dreams anymore. It was just not possible.

  My melancholy reverie was mercifully interrupted by more phone calls. I also recalled an appointment for which I would be late if I didn’t snap out of it and get back to work.

  But I couldn’t get Bobby Coles out of my mind. And I couldn’t get those hopes and dreams back into my mind.

  And I just hoped that Bobby had found out where his hopes and dreams had gone and that he was finally enjoying them coming true.

  CHAPTER 49

  Paul

  Welcome to my world

  “The mind is a terrible thing to waste.” It’s also a terrible thing to lose your mind. I am reminded of both of these sayings as I take another sip of port wine and listen to Andy and the Bey Sisters to their vocal version of “Round Midnight.” My little boy is dreaming in Baby Land which is exactly where he should be, and his dreams make my life real.

  Why is everything about those times a few years ago so clear in my mind? I have no idea. But the more of this story I tell, the more I remember. I can’t remember what I had for lunch on a given day last week, but I can remember some of the days during that time as if they happened just moments ago.

  After that enlightening conversation with Diedre and my reminiscing about Bobby Coles I finished up my calls, correspondence, memos, all that. Since my offices were on West 57th Street, it was a pretty simple matter to just take the A train up to 145th Street rather than wait for a car service to come and pick me up. During the ride up to my town house on Hamilton Terrace in the Sugar Hill area of Harlem, I started thinking about how I wound up living there in the first place.

  A few years ago the New York Times called my neighborhood “one of the finest residential streets in New York City.” Every Saturday and Sunday, no matter the season, no matter the weather, dozens of buses disgorge hundreds upon hundreds of tourists into the neighborhood, looking at my home and that of my neighbors. They come from France, Holland, Italy, Japan, Mexico and sometimes Greenwich Village.

  They come to see this legendary Harlem neighborhood of which they have heard so much but never seen. They come to see the architecture of homes built over one hundred years ago, when this part of Manhattan was actually a suburban community. It lost its suburban status, however, when the subway came into this area in the first part of the twentieth century.

  I guess I will never cease to be amazed and amused by the flow of sightseers. Of course, some of them come by their curiosity naturally, coming to Harlem much in the same way that they would tour the Left Bank in Paris, the Ginza in Tokyo, Trastevere in Rome or the Wilhelmstrasse in Berlin.

  I am sure that for others, the real attraction was going into a “black” neighborhood and leaving safe and sound and intact. Huddled together, hoping for safety in numbers, these “explorers” are always hilarious and entertaining. The only thing missing are the pith helmets.

  I am sure, however, that they regale their sheltered friends back home with the tales of their brave expeditions into the heart of darkness in Harlem. These visitors seem to walk through the neighborhood with well-remembered instructions not to speak to or feed the natives under any circumstances. They are herded along the street by guides who clearly got their training from Border Collie school.

  On a particularly perverse day, I might pass one of these tour groups and suddenly shout out “Buon Giorno” or “Konichi Wa” with a perfect accent to really give them something to talk about when they returned home. This kind of greeting would usually leave these neo-explorers stunned and wondering what they had really heard.

  The distance between Columbus Circle, where I boarded the A train and 125th Street, the next stop, is the longest distance between two stations in the entire New York City subway system. The train moves faster than anywhere else in the city, but it still gives you time to think. And I started thinking about my introduction to home ownership in Harlem.

  CHAPTER 50

  Paul

  This old house of mine

  At the time of this story, I had been living in the town house for over ten years. Diedre and I had just decided to call it quits for real, and while living in a furnished apartment I read in the Amsterdam News, Harlem’s newspaper of record, about a vacant dilapidated brownstone that was located on Hamilton Terrace. I was representing a general contractor by the name of Cecil Roberson back then, and I asked him to come and take a look at this bricked-up, boarded-up wreck of a former Pleasure Palace.

  It was a four-story limestone town house built over one hundred years ago. As soon as I saw the corrugated iron braced against the remainders of windows, and the chain over the steel plate where there should have been a door, I was ready to go.

  “This house is beautiful,” I thought I heard Cecil say. His words rudely interrupted my planning where I was going to get a Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic. The house was already headed to the delete file in my mind.

  “Cecil, all I can say is that your sense of beauty is more than a little different from mine. You can be sure that there is no w
ay that I am spending any more time looking at this train wreck of a house.”

  “Oh man! I thought you had vision.”

  “Vision? You’re damn right I have vision, 20/20 with these glasses on. That’s why I can see that there is no way in hell that I need to be spending any more time messing around with these … these ruins.

  “Brother, I am gone. Blink and you won’t see me.”

  Needless to say, Cecil talked me into “taking a look.” It was another one of those days that changed my life. Again, I had no way of knowing it at the time. I was simply annoyed and starting to get more than a little pissed off with Cecil as I continued behind him for this impromptu tour of modern urban dilapidation. Cecil continued to run his mouth, and in retrospect, I am thankful that he did.

  “Paul, you need to take a look at this place. I am telling you, if you can just allow your imagination to get control of that tight-ass lawyer brain of yours for a few minutes, you could see a palace.”

  “Palace? Man, all I see is a beat to shit shell of a house that does not need to be introduced to my hard-earned money. This house is a problem looking to be adopted.”

  We moved forward and I remember that after we unlocked the padlock and pulled back the alleged “door,” the one that was made of a steel plate, the vision that greeted me was a combination of the basement of the house in the movie Psycho and some miscellaneous scene from an Indiana Jones movie.

  When we walked into what might have been a parlor we saw … well, we saw enough to make a sane person turn on their heel and walk right out. There were dead animals representing several species. There were all kinds of garbage of indeterminate origin. And, in a particularly bizarre and kinky twist, there was a wheelchair lying on its side, one wheel idly spinning, keeping track of endless time, I suppose.

  Experiencing a minor epiphany, I realized that I was out of my mind to be standing there with Cecil. I also realized that there was no way that this used-to-be, never-going-to-be-again house was going to see a nickel of my hard earned money.