Out of the Madness

by Jerrold Ladd

  We were given a two-bedroom apartment and were assigned to the black manager, who also received a free apartment. Through the manager, our sister, and other residents, we quickly learned that everyone lived in fear. The manager was glad to see us.

  The apartments were some thirty years old, adjacent to each other, and barely occupied. The hundreds of units were filthy and semidemolished. It was a hornet’s nest for drug dealers.

  From our damp, unfurnished apartment unit, my brother and I walked around with our big pump shotguns, facing down dope dealers. We did what amounted to headache work (young black kids in Dallas called the police “headaches”). My brother was trying to work a part-time job also. We took turns working the graveyard shift. I preferred the graveyard shift; my heart was too broken for me to get any sleep.

  Over the months of 1989, when I was nineteen, we stayed there, visiting our sister, working our shifts. I sent my daughter fifty bucks from each check. In spite of everything, my brother and I were still encouraged. And things weren’t so bad. The apartment had air, sometimes. They paid the light bill. And we had food.

  Still, making $5,000 a year was pure slavery. We knew this. But my brother was so tired that he didn’t care, as long as we weren’t homeless. I wasn’t that content. Whatever it took, I wasn’t going to spend my life in that mess. And neither was my daughter.

  Over time, I learned from reading Fahim’s book that since my child was born out of wedlock, I would have to go to court and establish myself as the father. Once completed, I could get visitation rights, powers, duties, and privileges.

  I figured if I wanted to see my daughter, even one day get custody, I had better have a nice place to live and a decent job. I soon began to gradually improve myself, though things went at a snail’s pace. I caught the bus to the downtown community college and told them I wanted to go to school. People who had dropped out were required to take the same tests as high school graduates. While I scored low on the math, I got the second highest score on the reading test—I had become an expert at reading. They were very surprised and said I could enroll in the college at the normal level. I was thrilled!

  Still, when would I go? I worked all night, and the school was an hour’s bus ride to downtown on the pitiful bus system. Only one way: I would have to find another job, a stable job. I needed a car.

  I called Fahim, who referred me to a friend of his, Bob Ray Sanders. He was a well-known black TV journalist who knew a lot of charitable groups. It took me a long time to swallow enough pride to call one. But I did, the Junior League of Dallas, and spoke with Maria*. I was brutally honest, willing to do whatever it took. I told her in brief my situation, about my love for my daughter, and asked her if they could loan me a down payment on a car. Understanding, she said the organization couldn’t, but she would ask her husband. Days later she called my house and asked for directions. He, from his own pocket, would do it. One of my best friendships was about to begin.

  Now, intuitively, I knew not to appear too black around these people. So I put the broken radio on a classical station and practiced sounding white like the black kids at the elementary school. I also knew her husband wouldn’t let his wife visit some black man alone. Sure enough, they both pulled up in a late-model car, and I invited them inside. They were neatly dressed and glowing with business and education. Her husband, Alex*, was tall and gaining thick weight in his middle age. He glanced around the house and then quickly looked at me as if he didn’t want me to see he had noticed the terrible apartment. They took a seat on the small sofa across from me, tried to look comfortable, and asked me about my ambitions.

  “So, Jerrold,” his wife began, “I understand that you have a child you love, and that you want to raise her. But how do you plan to do that?”

  “Well, I plan to find a better job and go to school part-time. My main concern is getting in a position where I can take care of my little girl,” I said. I was trying not to give them much detail. I felt like if they wanted to help me that was fine, and if they didn’t that was fine, too.

  While sitting there, though, I got the impression that Alex was very compassionate, even though he tried to look stern and doubt danced around his face. But I think they quickly became convinced that I was deserving, because they only stayed a few minutes. Before they left, they made sure I knew that $600 they gave me was a onetime gift. I made sure they understood that’s all I wanted.

  On that day, I had not known just how rich and successful Maria’s husband was, or that he was wondering how in the hell I was keeping so motivated. We were from opposite worlds. He was in his forties, a golden boy from an aristocratic family, from fine stock. He had gone to school until he was twenty-nine; and he and Maria both were certified lawyers. But that was not his line of occupation, not Alex. Instead he was the big chief, a big corporate boss, on the board, a CEO of a multinational firm with countless employees and contacts. He was handling the millions.

  Prior to marriage and Dallas, he had swung his genius around at the New York Stock Exchange, earning at his leisure, wielding the power of his spotless, golden upbringing. After his success, it was time for marriage, Maria, and three children.

  Alex called me several days after his first visit. I was surprised to hear from him, as he had established that he had no further interest. That was not the case, though; something was bothering Alex, something he had wondered about all his life and now had the perfect opportunity to determine.

  “Jerrold, listen, how are you?” he said, sounding slightly nervous. “Listen, I was wondering after our meeting the other day, about trying to help you get organized, you know, show you how to put together a résumé, and maybe write some letters for you.”

  I was uninterested in having him poke around in my business but elected to give the man another meeting; hell, he had given me $600. “Sure, no problem,” I said.

  “Listen, that’s great,” he said. “How good do you know downtown? Meet me at the executive health club on Griffin Street.” He hung the phone up sharply, like a man who knew how to handle a call, almost in the middle of my good-bye.

  Alex and I met in this gym’s cafeteria. He had just come from working out. He piled a whole lot of weird food—he called it yuppie food—on his plate and we sat down. I knew right away that he was a probing man, full of all that economic, budget analysis and planning work he did. And he loved it.

  “Do you know what type of work you intend to do?” he asked.

  I told him just work and went on to answer questions about my education, my family background, my religious beliefs—which had been narrowed down to a belief in the Creator, not religion—and my security job and salary. “What!” he said. “That’s all you make!”

  Alex and I met several more times before things went any further. During these meetings, he talked about religion often, about how the black church was the thing that had kept blacks going, the place of all their resources. I never let him know what I thought of that.

  Alex had a hard time believing that one religion was the right one. “Listen, I don’t think all those Muslims around the world are going to hell,” he said, looking perplexed. Moreover, he was surprised to find out I wasn’t deeply religious like most blacks. He and I had that in common.

  After this, Alex invited me to his office, a tall building on the periphery of booming downtown Dallas. His private suite was on the twenty-seventh floor in a far corner. In his office, he had a big desk, golf clubs, and a big world globe. He spoke, smiled, and tossed me several examples of résumés, then jogged to an urgent meeting he was late for.

  His secretary helped me make out the resume, and when Alex came back he got on the phone. “Listen, I have this guy here who wants to work a full work week while going to school part-time. I’ll fax you his resume, and you send it to management.” He did this with about five law firms where he knew people. He instructed me to call one week later for an appointment and reviewed, with me, basic etiquette and interviewing techniques: how to talk, s
mell, dress, and act.

  About a week later, I interviewed with five law firms. The interviews were very routine, as if the decisions already had been made. One law firm in particular was expressing a lot of interest. There, I was interviewed by at least five white women.

  “What do you think is the most important thing being a case clerk?” one of them asked as they sat around me in the crowded office.

  “I think that a case clerk needs to be able to follow instructions, not be afraid to ask if he doesn’t understand … mind his bosses …”

  “That’s very good, Jerrold,” another one said, as if she were talking to a man who had just held up one finger on request—“Yes’m, ma’am, this heh is da one fingu. Gib me ah peanut.”

  I was hoping and praying that one of these law firms would give me a chance. I knew once they saw how hard I worked, I would never be without a job. It would be all I needed to get in shape, to get my daughter.

  In another week, Alex called me. “Hello, big shot! … What did you say to them? We got three job offers!”

  I told him to hold on, while I got off the phone, turned forty-nine flips, soared to the heavens, and jumped over the moon. “Man, I don’t know how to thank you for this,” I said emotionally.

  “Don’t worry about it. Come into my office and we’ll go through everything.”

  I went to Alex’s office once more. “What do you think about making twelve hundred dollars a month? It sure beats walking around that complex.”

  I fumbled the words in my mouth several times. The law firm offering this salary was a prestigious one. They were going to give me $1,200 to work eight hours a day and have a lunch break, an hour lunch break. I was just awed.

  The law firm was one of the largest in the city, with litigation, corporate, tax, and bankruptcy divisions. They had dozens of big bank, city, business, and industry clients.

  “Listen, Jerrold, do you have any dress clothes?” Alex said. “You have to be dressed well in the business world…. We’ll meet this weekend and get you some shoes and attire. You think about what you like and where you want to shop in the meantime. Also, there is something I want to tell you about where you’ll be working. It’s a very large, prestigious firm. Now most of these people probably have not had much contact with black people and couldn’t tell you where south Dallas is. You don’t have any education or office experience. Most of them are highly educated, experienced adults. You’re going to have a lot of odds against you. They think that all black men are dumb, lazy criminals. You’re going to have to go in there and prove yourself.”

  Listening to him really challenged me. These people didn’t know anything about me and already had figured how and what I would be. They were the cream of the crop, the highly educated. And I was just a poor, ignorant, uneducated black boy from south Dallas. I would prove them all wrong.

  I had been scheduled to start work the next month, so I decided to move back with my mother. This meant moving back to a tough part of south Dallas, but it was closer to downtown and on a better bus line. My mother was all excited about her son going to work for a law firm. And I myself had never been happier; persistence had paid off. Back home I went through south Dallas, telling my friends, Jamie, Vernon, his uncles, the old heads, my friends in Prince Hall, and everybody I could find. At home I would just stand in the mirror in my new shirt and jacket, feeling like a million dollars. “Man, you’re lucky,” my friends would say. They all wished they were in my shoes.

  But Vernon felt disturbed about the whole thing. “Don’t trust that white man too much. Don’t get too close to him. He’s one of those white men who realizes how wrong they are. He’s just guilty now. He’ll turn on you when you need him the most. He’ll never be there through thick and thin.”

  I told Vernon I didn’t have time for all that mess. Alex was asking for nothing in return; what could I have given him? What could he possibly want from me? No, I would trust him. He had been straightforward with me. He had been excited for me. I didn’t care if he was white. He had enough compassion to see that there was no lack of talent, ambition, and will, but that I, no one, would ever get anywhere, get anything, without significant resources, some money, a start, some help.

  And where were the black men? The ones who could have helped, the so-called middle class, the educated, the doctors, the professors, the businessmen, the politicians, the teachers, the entertainers, the sports figures? They had left us, got out of the slums and turned into Uncle Toms, puppets, and wanna-bes. Pretending they were so concerned with charity and giving back to the community, up there speculating on what they thought was the problem, refusing to have direct contact with us. Big fakers. I didn’t understand why they couldn’t stick together as a race. Meanwhile everyone was starving, struggling, and trying their damnedest to stay sane.

  “Jerrold, you can think what you want, but I’m telling you, don’t trust him. It won’t last.”

  We just dropped the conversation after that, neither of us wanting to relent our position. Alex was here; and I didn’t care what he, or his people, had done in the past. He had recognized a financial need and had offered to become my corporate mentor. I felt like his help was all I needed.

  16

  REBIRTH

  One night in October 1989, as I lay in bed waiting to fall asleep for work the next morning, I heard a sudden, frantic knock on the front door. My mother, who was sleeping in the living room, and her boyfriend jumped up to see who was knocking. But I rushed past them, just in case some person with revenge on his mind was out there.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “It’s Jonathan.”

  I told my mother to go back to bed, that it was only Vernon’s brother.

  I stood on the porch and shut the door. “What’s the problem, man?” I asked.

  He was frantic. “Aw, man, I tried to tell him to come on, but he just wouldn’t listen.”

  Who was he talking about? I was in Jonathan’s face now. “What the hell is wrong, man?”

  His silent tears were dripping to the ground. “It’s Vernon. He just got shot in the head.”

  Not Vernon, not my friend. He hadn’t had his chance yet. He hadn’t even begun to live. Jonathan was talking rapidly now.

  “It was a dope dealer in Grand Prairie. Vernon whooped him in a fair fistfight. When we got ready to … to leave,” he faltered, “the punk waited till we were far off, and fired his forty-five down at us. Vernon just turned, and looked at him, just stood there. Then he fell to the ground. He had a big hole in his jaw. The blood was gushing out like water. I tried to stop it.”

  Jonathan and I stood there in silence before I could ask him what I needed to know. “Is he dead?”

  Jonathan relaxed. “I don’t know, man. The ambulance took him to the hospital. He didn’t look like he was breathing when they left. They were taking their time, not even attending to him.”

  He continued, “I told one of them to turn him on his back. I told him, ‘Can’t you see he can’t breathe? He’s drowning off his own blood.’ The man looked up at me, then he slowly did it, and Vernon coughed and started back breathing.”

  I told Jonathan to go on home and I would be over later. I went inside and explained everything to my concerned mother. Then I called Vernon’s grandmother. She said Vernon was alive, but in critical condition.

  “He’s going to live. There’s nothing anyone can do right now. Just come by tomorrow, Jerrold,” she said.

  I was back in bed, but I wouldn’t sleep. It was the last news I wanted to hear. I already had enough problems. After the first few months, things weren’t going as well as I thought they would at work.

  Oh, everything had started out fine: I had slid right into the middle of things with my first boss, a paralegal for one of the partners.

  When we first met, she had taken me on a tour of all the different courts downtown, where later I would file papers for the lawyers. Walking back to the office from the tour on the second day I had known thi
s woman, she had told me one of her secrets.

  “My father hates blacks. I don’t know why. He’s been like that since I’ve known him. I mean, I don’t see what’s wrong with y’all or anything,” she had said in her capricious fashion. She, like every person I would meet up there, seemed to have a million assumptions about blacks, things she wanted to explore.

  In the beginning, my supervisor loved my performance. “You’re so intelligent,” she said. “I never imagined that.”

  I had been there for only a few months but had gotten the attention of a lot of people. The offices were all security coded, and on the hire date, management would assign the new employee his code. When I received mine, I looked at the piece of paper once, memorized the four-digit code, and threw it in the waste-basket.

  “You must have a good memory,” the hiring manager said.

  I started off just running errands and copying documents. Yet the way I did that even surprised them. The courts were about three city blocks away. In the beginning someone said I was taking too long on trips, so I began to run full speed down to the court and back.

  “How’d you get back here that fast? You must’ve zoomed down here,” I’d hear.

  Accuracy and speed were essential at the firm, for any small error could disrupt a case. I would work side by side with some of the best paralegals in the firm, scanning documents for witness files, putting documents in date order, and finishing two piles to their one. I wondered how some of them got any work done. They took so many breaks and “lady” conferences—while the clients were charged for hours of gossip.

  If you need an assignment done fast, call Jerrold. If you have sixty boxes of documents and you need someone to skip lunch and work late on them, call Jerrold. “Jerrold, we can see you’re way above average intelligence. The firm needs young, sharp people like yourself,” said one of the supervisors.