Maybe You Never Cry Again

by Bernie Mac

  And I still found time for comedy.

  I was hitting all the usual clubs and plenty of new ones. Dingbats, Crystal Palace, High Chaparral (where I’d made my unofficial debut years earlier). They’d all jumped on the Amateur Night bandwagon, and it was pretty much the same at every club: You had five minutes to make an impression. If you did well, they let you keep going, and at the end of the night they might pat you on the back and give you ten or twenty dollars. But for me it wasn’t about the money. Or the pat on the back. For me, it was about the laughter. It was about the lady in front busting a gut as she fell out of her seat. Laughter like that—it told me I had a future.

  I’m not sure Rhonda felt the same way, and I can’t say I blame her. Comedy—who made a living at comedy? Stars, that’s who. And we were just regular people, trying to pay the rent.

  She never said anything to dissuade me, though. Never put me down. Never questioned me. Still, I could sense her worry. I knew she would’ve been happier if I’d been made permanent either at UPS or on my janitorial gig. Sometimes I got the feeling she hoped I’d go back to college. You know what I’m saying: She wanted me serious serious. But she didn’t nag. If I wanted to pursue comedy, she wasn’t going to stand in my way.

  The thing is, it was my dream, not hers. She’d been brought up like most people: Get a job, get a house, get a dog, buy insurance. And there was nothing wrong with that. It’s just I wanted something else. And I realized: If you have a dream, well, it’s your business. You don’t have to make other people understand it, and you probably shouldn’t even try. All you have to do is make it happen.

  My friends were pursuing dreams of their own.

  Big Nigger was working at Presbyterian Hospital, running an X-ray machine, but he’d applied for work at the post office. A.V. was selling real estate. Morris Allen had been hired as a broker at Merrill Lynch. Kevin Carter was still over at Dock’s Fish Fry. And Billy Staples—my main man Billy—he was still pimping women and scheming his get-rich-quick schemes.

  They used to come to the clubs and watch me. If I was good, no one laughed louder than them. But if I was bad, they let me know.

  “Nigger, you was off tonight.”

  “No, nigger—you stank.”

  But they said it nice. They were my friends.

  And I didn’t listen anyway. If I stank, I knew I stank. A thousand people could tell me I killed, but in that place deep inside me I knew otherwise. I’ve never been much good at lying to myself, and if I were, I still wouldn’t do it. Can’t see the point.

  I started doing more private parties. Someone would see me at one of the clubs and ask for my number, and a few weeks later they’d call and offer me a little work. Two hours of joking would net me forty, fifty bucks. And I was happy to do it. I was getting paid to do something I loved, getting money to hone my craft.

  I did children’s parties, too. I went as a clown called Smoothie. Rolled my eyes and made the kids laugh. Most of them, anyway. Sometimes they’d take one look at me and run away cryin’. Some of the adults ran away, too.

  Also did discos from time to time. Met a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who owned a disco. Had me come by one Saturday to work the crowd; said to get out on the floor when the DJ took a break, do my thing.

  I’ll tell you, those were tough crowds. They were there to dance, not to hear some clown tell jokes. They were determined not to crack a smile.

  I was back to doing my thing on the El train, too. And weekends, summertime, I’d try my luck downtown. At the parks. The museums. Competing with street musicians and mimes. My hat on the sidewalk in front of me. Not because it was about money—it was never about money—but because that’s how it was. If you didn’t put your hat down, people didn’t understand why you were there.

  But the stage was where I belonged. It’s where I wanted to be. Don’t get me wrong, the rest of it was fine. Parties, kids, discos, the El, whatever. Comedy was comedy. Funny was funny.

  But the stage was a different league.

  When that curtain goes up, you’re in a special place. The spotlight’s on you. When you’re riding the El or out in the parks or at the discos, you have to win them over, draw them in. But at the clubs, people are there to be entertained—and you’re the entertainment. It’s as simple as that. They’re expecting something from you—Make me laugh, motherfucker—and the pressure is on.

  It’s a challenge, and a challenge generally brings out the best in me.

  For example, if I saw a guy in the front row slouched in his seat, not laughing—I’d work twice as hard. I needed to see that man laugh. Not to make him happy, but to make me happy.

  Every time I was on a stage, I evolved. I learned something new. And my comedy was getting stronger. But the truth is, it was far from good. I was still a joke teller. A clown. I was looking for the easy laugh. My comedy came from the outside, from the world around me. I wasn’t looking within. I wasn’t going down inside me, to where it counted.

  But I kept at it.

  Some nights I’d be out till all hours, and come morning I couldn’t get my sorry ass out of bed.

  “Bernard, it’s seven-fifteen,” Rhonda would say, ridin’ me.

  I had to be at UPS by eight. “Tell them I’m sick,” I said.

  “You been sick three times this month already.”

  She was right. I’d sit up. My bare feet would touch the floor. Cold motherfuckin’ floor. I’d get back under the covers.

  “Bernard McCullough! Are you going to work or not?”

  Je’Niece would start hollerin’ in the other room. “Bring me my baby,” I’d say. “Bring her here to cuddle with her daddy.”

  “Her daddy’s going to lose his job pretty soon.”

  Shit. It’s when you least feel like doing something that you most got to do it. I tried to remember that, but I didn’t always succeed.

  It was a day like that, with me putting my best foot forward, that I got to UPS and was told to turn in my uniform. Me and about a dozen other guys. It was all over. They weren’t going to put us on the permanent payroll. Seems like, with all the benefits and everything, it was more profitable to just keep hiring new guys, training them all over again.

  I went home and told Rhonda the bad news, but I wasn’t worried. I’d been hearing a rumor that the university was going to put me on the janitorial staff full-time. On my way to work that night, I told myself I was gonna shine those floors till they hurt my got-damn eyes. But when I got to work, everyone was standing around in a daze.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Lady named Henrietta spoke up. “Mac,” she said. “This is our last night.”

  “Last night? That’s crazy. Can’t be. I don’t believe you.”

  Lose both jobs on the same damn day? That was impossible. I really honestly didn’t believe her. I went up to the fourth floor, my floor, and I worked that buffer like never before.

  Break time, supervisor showed up. “I guess you’ve heard the bad news,” he said. “But I don’t want you to worry.” He was full of mess. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of this.” He was waving his fist like a preacher. “You’re good workers, all of you. I’m not gonna let them do this to you!”

  I packed up and left, and for several days I still hoped they might call. But I never heard from them again.

  “TIMES LIKE THAT, I KNOW SOMEONE’S WATCHING OVER ME.

  THAT’S RIGHT, BROTHER. I BELIEVE.

  I BELIEVE IN GOD WITH ALL MY HEART, BUT I STOPPED GOING TO CHURCH A LONG TIME AGO. I DON’T NEED A CHURCH. I CARRY MY CHURCH WITH ME AT ALL TIMES, INSIDE MY OWN SELF.”

  10

  THAT DARK PLACE IS WHERE MY PRAYERS GET ANSWERED

  Every day I’d get Boops ready for school, and walk over with her. And when I dropped her I’d feel lonely inside. Lonely and useless. I’d go by the coffee shop and get me a coffee and look through the newspaper. You could see other guys had been into the newspaper already; classifieds all greasy. Maybe they were getting to
the jobs before me. I figured I might have to start earlier.

  But near the bottom I saw that Loomis Armored Car was hiring. The money wasn’t much, but they had benefits—and with a wife and child those benefits meant the world to me.

  So I went down to see them. I sat through an interview and aced the written test. They seemed to like me. They liked the fact that I’d already driven a truck for Sears and had my operator’s license. They said it looked good. All they needed now was the background check, and then I could come back for the polygraph. “We’re going to be training you in the use of firearms,” they explained.

  I went home happy. Went back two days later. Background had checked out fine; now it was time to hook me up.

  The man that ran the polygraph got all the wires in place and began asking questions. “What’s your favorite color?” “Is your name Bernard McCullough?” “You like cheeseburgers?”

  Then we got into it deeper—drugs and liquor and whatnot.

  And right quick, it was over. He told me to go wait in the other room. Someone would be with me shortly. I went off and waited. Ten minutes later, they took me back to the office. There was a look on the man’s face.

  “What’s up?” I asked. I could see something was wrong.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” the man said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “You didn’t do so hot on the polygraph, Mr. McCullough.”

  “Oh?”

  “In fact, you failed.”

  “Failed? How’s that possible?”

  Man showed me where the needle jumped. “See that. That’s the part where they asked you about drugs. You lied about your drug use.”

  “No, sir,” I said. “I don’t do drugs. Must be a mistake. I’m known for not doing drugs. You can ask anyone. Call any of my references. A beer-and-a-half and I’m light-headed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe I can take the test again,” I said. “I really need this job. I know I’d be good at it.”

  Man looked at me. “I’m sorry, Mr. McCullough,” he said. “The position’s been filled.”

  “Okay,” I said. I got to my feet and stayed cool. “Thanks for the opportunity.”

  Two days later I was driving a school bus for the handicapped, and I did that for a couple of months. But it only paid a hundred bucks a week and I needed more than that to make ends meet.

  I called my buddy Kevin Carter, at Dock’s Fish Fry, and asked if he had anything. He’d been working there since high school, when Dock’s only had one store. Now they had about twenty of them, and he was managing one of them.

  Kevin said the Fourth of July was coming up, and they always got crazy busy on the Fourth. He said he might be able to put me downtown as a cook, and I told him I would take anything he had.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Kevin. I’m pretty desperate.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  Within the hour, he called back and gave me the particulars, and the next morning I made my way downtown.

  Guy there taught me how to cook. It was just fish, fish and shrimp and fries, but fish mostly, and there was an art to it. You had to pat the fish dry, throw it in the flour, flip it over, do it again, and lay it into the deep fryer real smooth. The fish had to come out nice and flat, not all curled in on itself.

  Man, it was hot in that place. I was making three twenty-five an hour and I was on my feet fourteen hours straight and I was sweating like a stuck pig. I was there all weekend. It was so bad I almost wept from the heat. I must have lost ten pounds. My feet were killing me.

  By the time my last shift finally ended, at the close of the holiday weekend, I could barely walk. But I didn’t know anybody there to ask for a ride, so I said good-bye and made my way over to the El. The streets were still crowded with people, must’ve been a million of them, and it seemed like all of them were on their way home at the same time. It was a good thing the train was crowded, though: Only thing propping me up was the bodies around me.

  The following week, Kevin called. “They like you,” he said. “They want to hire you full-time.”

  It was humiliating. I’d gone from making seventeen dollars an hour at General Motors to eight dollars as a janitor to a lousy three twenty-five as a fry cook, maybe the hardest work I’d ever done. And all I could think to say was, “Thanks a lot, Kevin. I really appreciate it.” And I did appreciate it. Honest to God.

  The next day, I reported for work at the Dock’s on 35th and Wabash. All day long, people screaming: Large shrimp! Gimme another bucket! Twenty piece! Fish and chip—three times! Sliding the filet into the oil real smooth, come out flat.

  It was regular work. Things were going along at home. They was tight, but we were managing. I was in charge of the groceries and the phone and the electric bills. Rhonda took care of the rent—she was making more than me. She also made sure there was always a cold beer waiting for me when I got home.

  Some nights I’d stumble through that door, dog-tired, and reach for my ice-cold beer and drop onto that Alien couch of ours. Beer went down good. I’d drink it and go look in on Boops after. Baby’s sleeping. Left a little note for me. “Daddy, they having the hot lunch tomorrow at school. I need two dollars.” I would reach into my pocket and lay the money on the dresser, even if it was all the money I had left.

  Sure enough, there’d be days I got to work with twenty-three cents in my pocket—not even enough to get home. But I wouldn’t worry. I would do my job. I had fourteen hours of work ahead of me. I’d worry later.

  One night, near about closing time, I was beginning to worry. I hated to borrow money, but I needed a dollar for the train. Just then, I heard a woman calling: “Sir! Sir!” I looked over. It was this lady I’d seen in there lots of times before, a regular.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I said.

  “This is for you,” she said, and she slid a five-dollar bill toward me.

  “For me, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You always so nice to me. You always smile so pleasant. I wanted to show my appreciation in some small way.”

  Little things like that happened to me all the time.

  Another time, one Saturday, I was home going through the bills, and I realized I needed $150 by Monday. The phone rang. Man said he saw me at Dingbats a few weeks back and wanted to know would I do a party for him.

  “Would a hundred and fifty dollars cover it?” he asked.

  Times like that, I know someone’s watching over me.

  That’s right, brother. I believe. I believe in God with all my heart, but I stopped going to church a long time ago. I don’t need a church. I carry my church with me at all times, inside my own self.

  When I think of prayer, you know what I think of? I think of my mother telling me to go down into the darkness to be alone with my thoughts. That dark place is where my prayers get answered.

  God helps those who help themselves.

  If God had told me to put up my microphone and follow Him down a different road, I’d have done it, brother. That’s how deeply I believe. I wouldn’t even have thought about it. But God wasn’t telling me any such thing. God was telling me to make people laugh.

  And that’s what I was going to do.

  I was a cook at Dock’s Fish Fry, and I was working sixty-hour weeks. But I was also a comedian. I believed that with all my heart. And I kept at it. I was going to keep my promise to Rhonda. One day, I was going to own the town.

  Everything was clicking. Ding ding ding.

  Meanwhile, I had some fish to fry.

  “HEY, WHAT CAN I SAY? I WASN’T ALWAYS A SAINT.”

  11

  YOU SUCK! GET OFF THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ STAGE, MOTHERFUCKER. GET YOUR UGLY ASS OUT OF HERE.

  Rhonda used to come to the clubs to watch me from time to time, but she was doing late shifts at the hospital. Most of my friends had jobs, too. Morris was at Merrill Lynch and A.V. was building up his Realtor business and Big
Nigger was putting in long hours at the post office. Still, they came when they could.

  The one who seldom missed a show, though, was my man Billy. Of course, it was easy for him: He was always between jobs.

  I loved having him there. He was fun to be with, he was smart, and he was a bit of a comedian himself. Some of the stuff I did onstage, it came from him. I ain’t lyin’. The man’d be scribbling jokes on paper napkins till it was time for me to go up.

  “My wife, she know how to take care of herself. Her hair, her nails—she always just right. I get home, and she look hot, and I want me some of that. But I’m hungry; a man needs fuel. I ask her what’s for dinner and she don’t even get up from in front of the TV; says for me to look in the fridge. I look. I find one egg in there, cracked. Some old potted meat, all black and hard. I go back and tell her, ‘Woman, you want to get laid—I need some food in me!’ She still lookin’ at the TV. She don’t even turn to look at me. ‘Who says I want to get laid?’ she axe.”

  That was Billy Staples’s humor. The women in his humor always kind of mean. But that’s the kind of women he picked. He wasn’t smart about women. He could have been something, that Billy, but he didn’t believe in himself. He had no self-faith. So he’d find women who’d take care of him. That was the “pimp” side of him.

  Billy was seeing a girl at the time; I’ll call her Shawna. They’d been together for about a year, and Billy thought she was it—a real class act. She had her own hair salon and drove a Mercedes-Benz and usually popped for dinner. Took care of him, like his women always did. But there was a big downside to Shawna, which is that she was very jealous. Pathologically jealous. Billy couldn’t go anywhere without her knowing where he was going or why, and how long he’d be away.