Power & Beauty

by Ritz, David

  There was change in the air, and I couldn’t tell which way the wind was blowing. Then, out of nowhere, I spotted Beauty. At least I thought it was her. When I saw her walk into the big store on Michigan Avenue, I felt my heart hammering. I’d dreamed of her just the night before. In the dream she was looking for me on some lonely beach. Well, here in real life she had found me. I ran into the mall and by the time I went through the revolving door, she was out of sight. The mall was crawling with people. There was a giant atrium and four floors of stores and restaurants. I looked in every direction but she wasn’t there. I started on the ground floor and raced in and out of every dress shop and shoe salon in sight. Then I went to the next level. I looked in the jewelry stores, the stationery stores, everywhere. I ran through Macy’s like a track star, and when I had covered the entire department store, I retraced my steps and started all over again. She had to be there. I had to find her. She was looking for me just like she had been looking for me in last night’s dream.

  After a while, I knew I had to pace myself or I’d use up all my energy. I stopped running and started walking. But I was looking just as hard. From behind, every tall, dark-haired, fashionably dressed female was Beauty. When I caught up and saw her face, though, my heart sank. The disappointment only made me more determined. I stalked the mall like a madman. Finally, after two hours, I had to admit defeat. I had to tell myself that maybe it wasn’t Beauty after all. In chasing after her, I’d convinced myself that she was in Chicago because she knew I was there. She was looking for me. But that was more like one of my dreams than real life. I had to call Wanda for a reality check.

  “Wanda,” I said on the phone, “am I dreaming or did I see Beauty here in Chicago walking through a mall today? Is she in Chicago?”

  “Honey,” said Wanda, “that child is living her own life. I have no idea where she is and where she isn’t. How’s Hair Is Where It’s At? They making money?”

  “All reports are good.”

  “And when you coming home, Power? Slim’s missing you like crazy.”

  “Oh, come on . . .”

  “For real.”

  “Your friend Anita Ward must say something to you about Beauty,” I said.

  “She says she’s doing just fine. She’s in school.”

  “Which school? What’s it called?”

  “I got no details, baby. I got nothing for you but love, Power. You’re one story, and Beauty’s another. I wouldn’t wait for her to come back.”

  “Come back where? To Atlanta? To Chicago?”

  “I don’t know if she’s in Chicago, sugar. I told you that.”

  “But I saw her, Wanda. I saw the girl with my own eyes.”

  “How’s the white girl with the cute figure? Judy—isn’t that her name? She was a doll, and, from what I saw, she had her eye on you.”

  “She’s crazy.”

  “What woman isn’t? But at least this one is crazy rich.”

  “If Beauty calls looking for me, please give her this number.”

  “Of course, baby.”

  Just before my nineteenth birthday in August, I was worried enough about Irv to call Slim.

  “He’s forgetting stuff,” I told Slim. “Yesterday he forgot my name.”

  “Old age does that to motherfuckers,” said Slim. “I can see my own memory starting to slip.”

  “I’m used to him telling me the same stories three or four times, but now he’s telling those stories four times in the same hour. I think it’s time to get out of here. I think he’s losing it.”

  “I’ll call him. If you can’t be useful to him anymore, you right. Time to get out of Dodge.”

  Next day Slim called back.

  “Irv says he needs you more than ever,” said Slim.

  “Needs me for what?” I asked.

  “You comfort him. Irv’s a nigga lover and you his nigga.”

  “There’s not much for me to do.”

  “Whatever it is, do it. If he needs you to hold his dick when he takes a piss, you hold it. I owe him. He’ll let you know when he doesn’t need you anymore.”

  I usually got to the office of Wasserman Enterprises at around nine. Irv normally showed up at ten. But on the first Monday of October, it was eleven A.M. and the boss wasn’t there. John Mackey and I were sitting in Mackey’s little office. I was reading about the World Series on my MacBook Pro. Mackey was looking over spreadsheets on his desktop Dell.

  “You hear from Irv?” I asked.

  “He’s not feeling well,” said Mackey, staying focused on the numbers dancing across his computer screen.

  “Anything serious?”

  “With Irv everything is serious.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant. But because John Mackey was not a man who invited conversation—or even a single simple question—it didn’t feel right to ask him anything else. So I went back to reading about baseball. Once in a while I’d look up and sneak a peek at Mackey. I didn’t know anything about him except that Irv said he was a genius. I didn’t know if he was Jewish or Irish. He had an Irish name but a Jewish nose. His nose was too wide for his thin face. He wore a coat and tie every day. I saw that he picked out his outfits carefully. If he wore a brown sports coat and slacks, he’d have on brown shoes. His ties always contrasted nicely with his shirts. His clothes weren’t cheap. Because of his slight frame, his clothes looked too big on him, but they had a nice drape. He picked out expensive fabrics. His only piece of jewelry was a thin Cartier watch from back in the day. It had to be an antique and was probably worth a fortune. His rimless eyeglass frames were slightly tinted so I couldn’t tell the color of his eyes. After a half hour or so he said to me, “It’s getting on noon. I better call him again.”

  He picked up his phone, dialed, and waited a long while.

  “He’s not picking up,” he said. “That’s not good.”

  “Have you noticed how he’s repeating things?” I asked.

  “He’s been doing that for some time,” he said.

  “But lately it’s gotten worse.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Mackey agreed. “He’s under a lot of pressure. This business with Le Beef and his daughter is madness.”

  “But isn’t there always pressure?” I asked.

  “There’s pressure and there’s pressure,” said Mackey. “At his age the pressure is harder to take.”

  “Do you think he has some disease?”

  “What kind of disease?”

  “Alzheimer’s.”

  “My older brother has Alzheimer’s.”

  “Is he acting like Irv?” I asked.

  “You have to understand, no one acts like Irv. Irv is not your normal man and he does not have normal sicknesses. Sometimes he acts sick to put you off guard. While you think he’s not looking, he’s looking closer than ever. Don’t take anything for granted with Irv. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that you know him.”

  For the all the time I had been coming to the office, this was the most serious thing that Mackey had ever said to me. I wasn’t sure why he had started talking this way. Maybe he was really worried about his boss and the worry got him to jabbering.

  “Do you know how I met Irv?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I went to law school. You knew I was a lawyer, didn’t you?”

  “I guessed you were.”

  “You guessed right. I was editor of the law review at Yale. After graduation, I was recruited by the most prestigious firm in Chicago. My father was also a lawyer but unsuccessful. He was a brilliant man who died a pauper.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Gambling. My father was a degenerate gambler. He couldn’t leave the casino until he was completely wiped out. He brought shame to our family. When he was forty, he shot himself. My mother raised five sons alone.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just waited for Mackey to continue. I could see he was just getting warmed up.

  “My dad wanted me to take it further than he had—but I
set my sights even higher. I was going to be a lawyer’s lawyer. I saw myself on the Supreme Court. Corporate law was merely the jumping-off point. From there I’d win a political appointment, I’d advance my way through the system, I’d become a judge, I’d climb to the top of Mount Everest. But early on I ran into some problems at the firm. One of the partners disliked me. To this day I don’t know why. I suspect he was a closeted homosexual who desired me, but I can’t say that for sure.”

  I couldn’t see John Mackey being the object of anyone’s desire. But naturally I didn’t say a word.

  “In any event, the man had it out for me. He resented my intelligence and conspired to make me look bad. This went on for years. I pleaded my case with the other partners, but they were loyal to my nemesis, who was also the controlling partner. There was little I could do. Wasserman Enterprises happened to be one of our clients and, in a junior capacity, I was asked to do some work for Irv. At a time in my professional life when I was being maligned, Irv saw my potential. He kept saying, ‘Mackey, you’re the smartest fuckin’ lawyer over there. You should be running that place.’ After a year of watching me, he proposed that I leave the firm and work for him. Wasserman Enterprises was growing by leaps and bounds. He needed an in-house lawyer. I became that lawyer. And given his spreading operation, I soon became much more. I worked fourteen, sixteen hours a day. There was nothing I would not do for this man whose business savvy was exceeded only by his generosity.”

  “When did you go to work for him?”

  “Twenty-five years ago.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “A very long time.”

  “And you know him better than anyone in the world.”

  “I know him very well indeed.”

  “So do you think he’s really sick or what?” I asked.

  “I’m worried. He’s missing appointments. He’s making careless mistakes with associates. He’s telling me to write checks to people who shouldn’t be getting checks.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “What can I do? I’ll do all I can to protect him. I owe the man my professional life. I owe him everything.”

  “Do you think he knows that he isn’t right?”

  “Irv never discusses his health. At least he never has. He keeps his personal life personal. He doesn’t even talk about his daughter with me the way he does with you.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  “His daughter is poison,” said Mackey. “She’s the reason he’s struggling right now. She has him tied around her little finger. I suspect you’ve seen that for yourself.”

  I still kept quiet.

  Mackey went on. “He needs to be rid of her. He needs to give her one last big check and tell her to get lost.”

  “Do you have kids of your own?” I asked.

  “No wife, no kids. When I started working here the first advice Irv gave me was not to have a family. He said that a family would be the bane of my existence. He said this even before he got married, before Judy was born. Then he met that woman and he went against his own wisdom. He has obviously paid a terrible price.”

  Mackey’s face turned slightly red. He had really worked himself up into a state.

  “I’m going over to his place,” he said. “You may want to come with me.”

  The black woman who worked for Irv was named Dottie. She had been there for years and liked to boss him around. He didn’t mind. She was a big lady who didn’t take shit from anyone. She scolded him when he was late for dinner and when he didn’t eat his vegetables. She cooked his meals, laundered his clothes, and cleaned his house. She was older than him but had the energy of someone twenty years younger. Dottie was a tornado.

  When we got to Irv’s Lake Shore Drive apartment, Dottie was crying. Her chubby cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Something’s wrong, Mr. Mackey, something’s real wrong. When I went in this morning to wake him up, he didn’t know who I was.”

  “Dear God,” said Mackey.

  “Then he asked when his mother was coming from the cemetery. How was I supposed to answer that, Mr. Mackey? What was I supposed to say?”

  “There’s nothing to say, Dottie. You’re doing the best you can.”

  “You two go on in there,” she said. “I pray he snaps out of it. I pray that Mr. Wasserman knows who you are.”

  The apartment was huge. Long hallways and lots of bedrooms. Wood walls and heavy carpets. Old furniture. Paintings of flowers and fruits on the wall. His bedroom was at the end of the longest hallway. Mackey knocked.

  “You don’t have to knock!” Irv shouted behind closed doors. “Come on in!”

  Mackey opened the door. He went in first.

  “Did you bring me the meat?” Irv asked. Wearing a pair of black silk pajamas, he was sitting up in bed.

  “What meat?” Mackey asked.

  “The butcher doesn’t know what meat? What good is the butcher if he can’t bring the best cut of meat?”

  Mackey’s eyes were shot through with concern. I could feel him suffering. This shit was so sad.

  “Is this your son?” he said, looking at me. “Is this the butcher’s son I’ve heard so much about? I can’t tell you what I’ve heard, but I know it wasn’t good. He’s supposed to be a good boy, but he’s not. You can’t trust this boy—not for a fuckin’ minute. Come over, kid. Come right over here.”

  I went to stand by Irv’s side.

  “Lean your head this way,” he said.

  He took my head in his hands and whispered in my ear. “Go home. Get the fuck out of here and go home. It’s time for you to go home.”

  I kept quiet. So did Mackey. A few seconds later, Irv closed his eyes and began to snore. We waited awhile before quietly walking out of the room. When we got to the foyer, Dottie was waiting for us.

  “Judy’s mother just called,” she said. “Judy went out again. She went out on the wild. She’s back in the hospital. Her mama doesn’t know what to do. I told her that Mr. Wasserman wasn’t no good to hear any of this. She said I had to tell him. But how can I tell him?”

  “You can’t,” said Mackey. “Just leave it all to me.”

  “How do you lose your mind?” asked Dottie. “How do you have your mind one day and lose it the next?”

  Mackey mentioned his brother. He told Dottie that he had seen this happen before. He told Dottie that, no matter what, she would be taken care of. Everyone would be taken care of.

  “And what do you think I should do?” I asked.

  “What did he tell you when he was whispering in your ear?” asked Mackey.

  “He said to go home.”

  “Then go home. That’s probably the last sensible thing he’ll ever say.”

  “Premature Ejaculation”

  I saw the words written on a medical report that Slim had put in the garbage. I was looking for a receipt that I thought I had thrown away by mistake when I noticed “premature ejaculation” on a piece of paper. Don’t ask me why, but it jumped out at me. The report was from a Dr. Tavis Harrison. I googled “premature ejaculation” and it didn’t take long to learn that’s what they call it when a dude cums too soon. “For some men,” I read, “the very sight of a naked woman can excite them to the point of orgasm.” Another posting said, “There are serious psychological consequences for men whose inability to sustain sexual intercourse results in a perpetual inability to satisfy their partners. The result is often frustration, shame, and even violent rage.”

  I went back to the report and saw that Slim’s real name—Charles Simmons—was typed out as the patient. And underneath was all this stuff about premature ejaculation—how “the patient has complained of this disorder,” how “this disorder has apparently plagued the patient for much of his life,” how “repeated psychopharmacological medicines had yielded no positive results,” and how “the patient has refused clinical psychiatric remedies.”

  After reading it four or five times, I tore up the re
port in tiny pieces and took it out to the trash. I felt like it was something I shouldn’t have read, something I shouldn’t know. I did read it and now I knew. Slim couldn’t fuck right. It was like Slim couldn’t fuck at all. I didn’t want to, but I had to think about my mother. I’d done a good job all this time since her death of not thinking about her at all, but this was different. I knew she had been Slim’s girlfriend. Or at least I figured she had. Why else would he be treating me like I was his son? Maybe sex wasn’t important to my mother. Maybe sex wasn’t important to Slim. But if it wasn’t important, he sure did act like it was. Ever since I got back from Chicago, it seemed like Slim was showing off his women. Every night he had a different one at the house. He liked them big and busty. He liked them ten or fifteen or twenty years younger than him. He liked them all made up with lots of blue eye shadow and long eyelashes and ruby-red lipstick. He liked dark black women and pale white women and sometimes women from Mexico. There was a Chinese woman he brought home who couldn’t speak English.

  The morning after, if he saw me in the kitchen eating a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast or a cheese sandwich for lunch, he liked to say, “See that bitch who ran through here last night?”

  “I saw her.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “She was pretty,” I’d always say.

  “Man, that heifer couldn’t get enough. It’s one thing to bone a bitch twice in a night. I’m used to that. But three or four times, I mean, give a brotha a break. I ain’t complaining, though, boy. You do what you gotta do. Besides, fucking overtime keeps me young. No, sir, ain’t complaining at all. Matter of fact, got another one coming over tonight who’s fine enough to make you wanna slap your mama.”