Little White Lies Page 2

  High technology, in my previous business, changed so fast it took every waking moment just to stay even. I wanted something with a lower level of involvement. John’s head continued to nod in agreement with every point made and eventually I worked my way around to my plan. I told him about the job and my intention to apply… that I would create a resume describing substantial estate management experience over the last several years. In fact it was sort of true. I didn’t see where the fact that the estate was my own was really relevant. John would be the reference contact and would attest to my many fine skills and attributes. The look on his face slowly changed from mild interest to outright amazement. Predictably, we argued for almost an hour. Point and counter-point, it was an argument John could not win. He was trying to make sense to a man who no longer placed a value on it.

  Finally, John asked pointedly, “Can I tell them I think you’re crazy?”

  “Just tell them the truth,” I replied.

  “It is the truth,” John growled. “You have really lost it this time, Philip, and there is no jury in the country that would not agree with me. You’re certifiable. definitely wacko… off the charts. Jesus, every time I think I’ve heard everything, you manage to test the limits of my imagination.”

  So far, in my view at least, John had not come up with any really solid counter-arguments. While crazy and wacko are not exactly medical terms, he would have no right to use them anyway, since all he has going for him is a law degree. He shook his head and pushed his coffee cup away, his body language signaling his discomfort with the entire matter.

  “Let me know when you’re finished,” I told him. I wanted him to have his say.

  “Almost there,” he continued. “You’re nuts.” John looked up, defiance in his eyes. “Here you are, a man worth millions in your own right, applying for a flunky job as an estate manager. What you should do is take a trip and rest until this blows over. You’re coo-coo bananas.”

  “You already said that, or words to that effect,” I reminded him.

  “Let me take another, more personal tack,” he persisted. “Why bring me into this? I could be disbarred for aiding and abetting a fruitcake.”

  The coffee spoon he had been furiously conducting his arguments with went flying across table, banging into plates and condiment jars as it bounced along.

  “Dammit!” he concluded.

  Obviously, John needed some friendly persuasion.

  “You probably will be disbarred someday,” I replied, attempting to smooth his ruffled feathers, “but not for this. It will more likely have something to do with incompetence, or alcohol, or some equally respectable cause your peers would understand and accept.

  “Look, John,” I reasoned, “all I’m asking you to do is tell a little white lie, or a series of little white lies… not the kind of whoppers they train you to tell in law school.”

  Finally, cool reasoning and high hourly rates prevailed. After all, John would be paid for his role in this and money always soothes any lawyer’s misgivings. As long as John could stick to the smaller white lies, he guessed he could go along with it. But he wouldn’t outright tell a falsehood! No way! No big fat lies. Shade the truth a little, maybe an omission here and there, and that’s it! It’s hard to criticize a man for having high standards.

  We finally agreed… sort of.

  The digital clock on the panel says the time is 10:52. I slip the Porsche into gear and with some lingering hesitancy start down the lane. After all the work I’ve put into this, I certainly don’t want to be late for my interview.

  CHAPTER 2

  The large wrought-iron gates are well suited to the property they guard. Attached to stone pillars standing about ten feet high at the end of a wall constructed of the same material, but about two feet shorter. The walls extend thirty or forty yards in either direction, at which point they disappear into dense hedgerows. The hedgerows appear to be impenetrable and I can’t tell from here if the walls continue on through the dense vegetation or not. The gate and the walls are set back from the road a good twenty yards, with a well kept lawn spanning the distance between the wall and the uneven edge of the country road. Evidently I’ve tripped a photo cell somewhere, for the gates are starting to swing open as I approach, revealing a long curving drive framed by low crab apple trees growing on both sides as it winds its way to the house.

  The trees create a nice effect, which should be even nicer in a couple of months when they will be in full bloom. The surface of the drive is covered with fine, round pebbles that gently pepper the inside of the Porsche’s fenders as I slowly make my way towards the house I see standing on higher ground about three hundred yards distant.

  The lawns are vast, sprinkled with stately trees… mostly mature hardwoods with widespread canopies. This early in the year the trees have not yet started to leaf out, and the sun shining through their wooden skeletons lends its own kind of beauty to the landscape. Closer to the house, the road surface changes to large, flat paving stones that continue under and around a large portico and back to another building that looks like the garage, although I can’t be certain from this distance. I ease the car to the left of the portico and park in an area maintained for that purpose.

  I step out of the car and pause for a moment to have a better look at the house. It’s an English Tudor style home. There are three massive stories of brick and stucco and leaded glass windows. Chimneys sprout everywhere.

  The entryway is composed of large double oak doors framed by sandstone pillars. The roof is covered with gray slate tiles and a high, arched portico protects the doorway. Hanging from the center of the portico is a large verdant colored brass light fixture that may have held candles at one time, but now looks to be electrified with small flame shaped lights. I don’t know who built this place, but whoever it was, they didn’t have a very tight budget. It’s your basic mansion from a time when a little money bought a lot, and a lot of money bought… a mansion, I guess.

  Pushing the doorbell, there’s a brief pause and then a faint chime, which I assume, is a result of my efforts. It could also be from some monastery about twenty miles away. It has that kind of resonance. The whole place has the air of a bank or a stock exchange. Mr. Jackson, whom I am about to meet, probably still wears spats on his shoes.

  I’m about to push the monastery chimes again when the door starts to move. I watch with growing interest as it continues to open slowly until before me stands a very large black man. He’s dressed casually in pleated blue wash pants, a too-short golf shirt that hangs out over his ample belly revealing about three or four inches of dark-skinned gut. Scruffy white basketball sneakers complete the ensemble with the untied laces dangling to the sides. A large gold earring adorns his left ear. We both seem somewhat surprised. If this is the man I’m to meet with, I think I’ll just go back to the car and mosey on home.

  “Is there somethin’ you be needin’… pal?” He asks, emphasizing the last word with a self-satisfied smirk.

  I don’t know why he should be getting such a kick out of managing such a simple question, but there you have it… to each his own. His arms hang out about a foot from either side of his body as he gently rocks from side to side awaiting an answer. I’ll bet he has to pee and doesn’t want to admit it.

  “Yes,” I reply. “My name is Philip Richards. I have an appointment with Mr. Jackson. I believe he’s expecting me.”

  This rather large man does not appear pleased with my answer, but I may be overly sensitive. He holds his position, wrinkling his forehead and narrowing his pig-like eyes, appearing to think about my request for a while before proceeding. Now his nose twitches as if he’s about to sneeze.

  Finally, “What’s the meeting about?”

  Now it’s my turn to think. What the hell is this, twenty questions? I decide to charm him.

  “I’m afraid that’s between Mr. Jackson
and me,” I reply. “If he wishes to tell you, that’s up to him, but since he hasn’t already done so he may have decided it is private for the moment. May I see Mr. Jackson?”

  Our eyes lock momentarily. This is a very quiet house. There is absolutely no sound coming from within. Ah, the look on his face indicates he has an idea. On the other hand, maybe it’s just gas.

  He turns and over his shoulder says, “Wait there!”

  Leaving the door open, he walks across the foyer and turns left into a room at the far end. Moments later he emerges from the room, walks part way back across the foyer and commands, “This way,” accompanied by a wave of his massive hand.

  I enter the house and turn to close the door as quietly as I can. The latch catches with a loud and distinctive ‘snap’ as it falls into place. The black and white marble floor contrasts the click of my leather heels with the squishing sound of the big guy’s sneakers. He stops and gestures towards the door of the room he has just exited. I nod and walk past him. Evidently, he has not been invited to the meeting, and feigning disinterest, he squishes away.

  Walking into the room to face my prospective new boss, I see a man seated behind an elegant writing desk near the window. He does not appear to be having a good morning. I stop and move my hands back and forth, palms up, miming a question… want the door closed? He answers with a dismissive flick ofthe wrist and an almost imperceptible shake of his head… he doesn’t care. If he doesn’t care, then why should I? I turn and leave the door open, walk to the desk, stand before him and introduce myself.

  “Mr. Jackson, my name is Philip Richards,” I say, extending my hand in greeting.

  He grasps my hand, looking up momentarily, but not rising from his chair. Not a good beginning. My comprehension is slow, but eventually making its way to my frontal lobe. Sonofagun… I know this guy. Or, at least, I know who he is. Here sits one of America’s icons of the ‘music’ world. That is, if you can call that stuff they call ‘rap’, music. I shouldn’t criticize it… it’s just not of my generation. His name is Steven Jackson… ‘you can call me, A.J.’. I understand the ‘A’ is for Action, a nickname he picked up at some point in his childhood. But his friends and now his fans call him A.J., to set him apart from all the other Action Jacksons of this world.

  I think that’s the way he starts off his shows. ‘A.J.! A.J.!’ is the chant the audience takes up before each performance. But this guy is not only from another generation, place and culture… from my frame of reference he might as well be from another planet. Although he and his kind of music have never held any particular interest for me, I have absorbed various bits and pieces of biographical data over the past couple of years and they now come back to me with gathering speed.

  I remember reading something about him hitting the big-time right off the street. There was some sort of TV bio where they alluded to the fact that A.J. was a good boy about to go bad when stardom came along and rescued him from the mean streets of New York. The son of hard working parents, they did everything they could to keep him in school so he would have his high school diploma. There was no chance for higher education.

  This man looks like what I would expect a rock star to look like. Wearing a dark gray silk shirt, open at the collar, and quite a bit of gold from what I can see, but all very appropriate in its own way. There’s a paper-thin gold watch on his left wrist; while wrapped around his right wrist is a large linked, finely wrought gold bracelet. A gold chain is partially visible by his collar.

  Hard to tell with him sitting down, but he looks to be about my height, six feet, give or take an inch, but heavier. I’m around 175, I would guess he weighs ten or fifteen pounds more. But it’s not fat. He’s just heavier. He sports the bald look preferred by many of today’s black athletes and movie stars. On him or off him… however you’re supposed to say it, it looks good.

  “Want coffee or something to drink?” he asks with an obvious lack of interest in what my response might be.

  “No thanks,” I reply, “I’m fine, but go ahead if you wish.”

  “No, that’s all right, I would just as soon get this over with, if that’s okay with you.”

  This definitely is not going well. It’s the language of a man who has already made up his mind. But I’ve come this far, so I might as well see it through.

  “Have you had a chance to review my resume?” I ask with a smile I hope conveys more confidence than I feel. “I’m prepared to answer any questions you might have in that regard.”

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. For the first time the complete absurdity of this little lark is hitting me square in the face. John was right. What in the hell do I want to do this for? I don’t need the money and I sure as hell don’t need the aggravation. This guy doesn’t even want me in his house, much less working here. I should exit gracefully and forget the whole thing. God, talk about hare-brained schemes! Right now he appears distracted and I’m not certain he even heard my last question.

  Finally he looks up and says, “Yes, I’ve looked at it, but… “ long pause… then, “Look, I may as well come out with it. I don’t think you’ll fit in here. You know… I’m sorry we made you go to all this trouble… coming all this way to see us. Ah… what I mean to say is that we’ll be happy to compensate you for any expense we may have caused. asking you to come out here. I mean, we have our own way of doing things around here and I’m not sure you would understand… I mean, it’s sort of out of your league, if you get my drift. You understand what I’m saying?”

  And so comes the dawn. I decide to make it easy for him. My day’s shot anyway and the disappointment of somehow dreaming I could find something worthwhile is rapidly filling my head with depressing thoughts. My instincts are at war with my desires. I want to stand and walk out of here, but somehow I’m nailed to the spot. My instincts say, to hell with it; my training tells me to see it through. I do not want to spend all my time on the long return trip wishing I had said this or that. No, I’m here so I might as well have my say.

  “You mean you did not understand the agency was sending you a white applicant. Is that it?”

  There, that feels better.

  He squirms and offers a half-smile. Obviously agitated, he fiddles with a pencil, twirling it at times like a small baton, and then pushing it down on the resume. Point first, spin, now top down. His shoulders are hunched as though he wants to turtle and simply withdraw until I go away.

  “Right,” he offers, then even more quickly, involuntarily reaches to snatch the word out of the air. “I mean, no, that’s not it. I mean… right, I did not understand you were white, but that’s not why I do not want to hire you.”

  The pencil drops, the fingers drum a rapid-fire staccato beat.

  “That is, what I mean to say is… it’s nothing personal. It’s just that I do not think you would fit in. Please try to understand, Mr. Richards, everyone here is black. And you, or the person who would be in this position, that is, ah… would be running the place. And that would mean, ah, that all the staff would be black, and the boss would be white, and… “

  The pencil once again becomes a baton and twirls expertly on the tips of his fingers without conscious effort.

  I watch with interest as A.J. struggles manfully with the task before him. How is he going to get this dumb white guy to understand the problem without appearing to be prejudiced? I decide to help out. It’s just my nature. Say what you will you can’t fault me for being insensitive at tender moments like this.

  “I understand part of what you are saying, but I thought this was a staff position reporting to you and that you would continue to be in charge.”

  “Well, of course, that’s true, but it still means the person who would be in charge most of the time, the person giving the orders, would be y…” Catching himself just in time, he quickly corrects the near-error with, “would be the person who would fill th
is position. Hey, like I said, it’s nothing personal, please try to understand.”

  Nothing personal, huh? How many other white applicants are sitting here in this room? I look around, but fail to see anyone else. Now I know a little more about how some poor black guy must feel when a white boss is dumping a load of horseshit on him about all the reasons he can’t have the job. I’m at a point now where I can let things conclude graciously or I can go doggedly forward. Mama said there’d be days like this.

  “Let’s not beat around the bush, Mr. Jackson,” I say with a smile that is hardly indicative of my feelings at the moment. “If you do not want to hire a white man, just say so, and I will be on my way. In fact, I guess that’s what you are saying. As far as I’m concerned, you are entitled to hire anyone you want. Further, you should be able to make this decision based upon any reason or set of reasons you deem to be important.

  I have only two requests: the first is that you do not waste my time; the second is that you do not bullshit me. I’m white and I cannot change that. I don’t think I would want to in any case. I don’t have the intestinal fortitude to put up with all the stuff black people have to deal with every day of their lives. But if you want the best person for the job and you are going to base your decision on real qualifications and not degree of blackness… then you should hire me. If you’re out to hire the best black man you can find, then I do not qualify. I don’t today and I won’t tomorrow. But if you want to solve your problem, then I should get serious consideration.

  “However, before going that far, I would have to be in a position to accept the job and based upon what I’ve heard so far, I don’t think I would.”