Man

WARNING: THIS POST USES STRONG LANGUAGE NOT NORMALLY FOUND IN MY WRITINGS. BE FOREWARNED

There’s something about old Black men.

I don’t mean middle aged. I mean old.

Especially tradesmen. Usually born in the South.

The kind of men who look at you funny if you call them “Brother” (“I ain’t yo’ fuckin brother” can be uttered without contempt, I learned) and who, like Rhett Butler, believe their only cause is themselves.

They drive the car they want. They do what they want. They smoke. They drink. They gamble. The only acceptable addiction, however, is women. They are responsible. “Character” is less about doing the right thing and more about keeping their word, paying their bills, and brooking no disrespect. These are the kind of men, who, if you ask them, will tell you Ike Turner got a bad rap. There’s no debate. That’s just what is, in their book. Unless they know a politician that has done favors for them, they stay out of politics and believe all pols, especially those in their families, are weasels.

I believe Robert B. Parker based his Hawk character on these men. They are the living embodiment of Richard Wright’s Tyree Tucker. They provided as best as they could for their children, many who don’t like them. All of their kids respect, and fear them, however. They keep weapons in their cars, regardless of their status with the state, and they fear little. They say “Thank You”, but I never heard one even twist his mouth to say, “Please.” They are almost all thin but you never hear the fat ones mention the word diet, and they get indignant if you serve them portions not in proportion to their size. They have excellent credit but almost always pay for things with cash, of which they keep surprising amounts on their person. They live, without having ever read it, by the philosophies of Epictetus’ “The Stoics.”

I saw one of these men in a liquor store once. He was buying a half pint of Crown and when a young buck in baggy sweatshirt and sagging dirty jeans asked him for some change so he could buy his beer. There was no conversation, no explanation. No understanding smile. There damn sure was not any fear.

What there was, plain, and clear, was, “No.”
AS the man grabbed his brown paper bag and moved his way to the door, the young man blocked his way. Holding the waist of his jeans with one hand, he wildly gesticulated with the other, threatening to do all types of bodily harm to this man old enough to be his grandfather.

I was tired. I wanted to get my own half pint and go after putting in 12 hours at the office, working the front desk and bawling out staff who thought they should get paid on time but did not understand that meant. I looked at my shoes in disgust, saw the boy’s Nike’s get an inch closer to the old man’s Stacy Addams, and then I heard it.

Click.

Everyone in the store heard it.

The boy not only heard it. The next thing we heard was a sound like a stream of water rushing onto cotton.

AS a rule, I think old Black men do not do automatics. In fact, there are two types of Old Black Man guns: large barreled revolvers, and snub nosed Saturday night specials. They are never called “guns.” They are referred to in manners like, “Gladys! Bring me my pistol!”

The latter was pointed at this boy’s chest. I realized why I heard a click. The hammer was back.

The man looked at the boy like he was eyeing a bird that had shit on the roof of his freshly washed Lincoln. There was another click, the little weapon disappeared, and the man strode calmly to his car, where his lady friend could be seen adjusting her wig in the front seat.

The boy fled the store. After the old man had pulled off and was safely blocks away.

I didn’t drink that night.

I got to know another of these men well. I participated in the grand opening of a hotel just off the highway. The place had been, in its last incarnation, a brothel and drug house. After the place went into foreclosure and the owners skipped town, story had it, the managers took turns working the desk, and what they charged guests during their shifts, they pocketed. This was payroll. The hotel faced an industrial park, and word was the girls would do stripteases in the windows that faced the factories on the first and the fifteenth.

The Indian who bought the place gutted it, rehabbed it, twisted the arms of the village for tax breaks, and opened for business with a strict no cash policy. A staple around the property was Old Man Beckett. Sixty seven, tall, dark and lean, clean shaven and bespectacled, Beckett was the owner, John’s, right hand man. An engineer by trade, Beckett was the guy who supervised the crews when John bought a new property to rehab. Before beginning work on this particular project, Beckett called his nephew, Big Tim, and gave him simple instructions.

“Go to each room Monday morning, and inform them the place under new management and closin’. They ain’t welcome. Give them sumbitches ‘til Tuesday…naw, Wednesday, some a them girls got kids…to get out. I want that building empty by 5 o clock Wednesday night.”

I heard Big Tim, four of his cousins, their pistols and Rottweilers made the rounds and were kind enough to carry able bodied but reluctant women and addicted men to the front door, where they deposited them oh so gently on the concrete in front of the hotel before locking the doors. The police showed up at 4:55pm, arresting folk for vagrancy and arguing with former tenants there was no way a group of angry young men with guns and dogs could have left them outside of the building, as the hotel was obviously empty.

Becket showed up the next morning and hung around shooting the shit with the mostly Caucasian crew of contractors who had been telephoned to meet the foreman at the hotel for work. After laughing about bosses being late and basically full of it, Beckett smiled, stretched, and said, “Now here this: some of you got problems taking orders from a Black man. I ain’t a Black man. I am the Head Nigger in Charge. I am the only boss you have. If you intend to get paid, you will follow this nigger’s orders and get them right the first time. Otherwise, you lazy ass crackas can go back home to screwing your cousins and I’ll get some spics in here who wanna work. Any questions?”

The hotel got rehabbed in record time. Beckett said everything was as smooth as glass.

I didn’t like Beckett. He didn’t like me. I thought he was crass. He thought I was an uppity sort that couldn’t follow orders.

We respected each other, though.

Becket had a problem with Matt, the assistant general manager who was working between two properties, bucking for the top spot at the newly opened one. Matt was white trash who learned that with a good suit, hard work and a condescending demeanor, people not in the know would think him their superior. The staff hated him. His boss knew from experience Matt was a backstabbing fink. Even John, the owner, wasn’t crazy about him, but John had a theory that white male managers were good for business.

Matt came in one day and immediately lit into a desk agent who had taken several rooms off market. The agent held her ground. Who gave her tha authority, Matt screamed, to pull that room off market when we were at capacity and could have benefitted from the extra revenue?

“Mr. Beckett said those rooms weren’t up to his standards,” cane the stern reply.

“This isn’t Beckett’s goddamn hotel!” Matt raved. “When he gets here, I want to see him at once!” Matt was a screamer.

Beckett strolled in just then, having parked his shiny pick up at the back of the lot, still reeking of the Kool he’d extinguished on his way in.

“Beckett!” Matt raged, in the empty lobby, and lit into him. He walked up one side of Beckett and down the other. Old man Beckett didn’t bat an eye. He smiled and said, “Hey, Baby,” to the desk clerk, who smiled at him, even knowing that at thirty something she was too old for anything other than his polite interest.

“I’m talking to you!” Matt bellowed. He grabbed Beckett’s arm, and time stood still.

Beckett looked at me. “Hey, Mac,” he said affably, “You a good looking guy. I’m telling you now get that weight up offa you.it won’t look as good at 40 as it does now, and your doctor will be your best friend.”

“Stop smoking, Mr. Beckett,” I laughed. “But I’ll follow your advice.”

“Don’t do none a that stupid diet shit,” he continued. “Just get out and walk around the block more.”

I promised I would. Matt was red. I felt for him. He was still holding Beckett’s arm.

Beckett looked at matt like he was a mosquito he forgot to crush an hour ago, and had been bitten in return for the favor.

“Get your hands off of me,” he said calmly.

The desk agent, Barbara, and I were looking for fallout shelters. Matt started screaming again. I noticed, however, he’d let the old man go.

Beckett took a pack of Kools out of his work shirt pocket, shook one out, and put it behind his ear.

“I’m talking to you, dammit!” Matt howled.

Forget what they say in the movies about people’s eyes. Beckett’s eyes were calm. His voice was steel.

“You not gonna raise your voice at me again, punk,” Beckett grated. A guest walked by. Beckett flashed a smile. When the guest was out of earshot, Beckett continued.

“Maybe you mistaken. This is my motherfucking hotel. I built this bitch. I will shut this entire motherfucker down, on Saturday night, with people waiting in line, outside, on a Saturday night, if I say so. Furthermore, if you raise your voice at me again, you faggot motherfucker, I will beat your ass."

It was not a threat. It was good advice.

Matt stood stock still, then I noticed his face was getting shiny. Beckett pulled his square from behind his ear, waved at me and Barbara, and strode outside, his Zippo flaring before he hit the door.

Matt stormed out. The back way. Opposite of the way Beckett left. His car was parked around front. We watched matt walk the long way, around the building, get in his car, and pull off.

The next afternoon, John came in with Beckett, laughing like they always did. I wondered if they’d been drinking. Matt walked up to them both, an imperious look on his face. Beckett gave him a hale fellow well met greeting.

“Matt! Hey!”

John greeted Matt, asked about business, and only stopped talking when Beckett grinned and said, “Yeah. You know what, John?”

“What’s that?”

“I had to explain to Matt, here,” Beckett said pleasantly, “that he needs to keep out of my way, or I will have to kick the grippers out of his ass and tell his mama why I did it. Probably be a good idea for you to go over his health plan with him, because if he challenges my decision again, I’ll beat his ass here in the lobby.”
“You hear that, Matt?” John laughed, but there was an edge in his voice. “I’d just do things the way Beckett wants them done, I was you.”

That night, a young man came in and requested a suite. He asked for Beckett.

“He’s gone for the day,” I explained.

“I’m sorry I missed him.”

“Are you a relative?” I asked.

“He’s like a father to me,” the man explained, declining my offer for the Friends and Family discount, saying, “I make good money, and I was taught not to take advantage. I just wanted to say ‘hi’ if he was here.”

The next time I saw Beckett, I told him about the young man. His face broke into a wide smile.

“I was involved with his mother off and on for what? Twenty years? Man, that woman loved me. Her husband had to leave because of me. He couldn’t stay knowing what she was doing with me, how she felt about me, and he wouldn’t stay knowing what I was doing to her. Whew,” Beckett grinned, “I had a ball with her.” Then his face grew dark. “We hit a rough spot, though. Her old man left and she wanted me to leave my wife. I told her all along, ‘I ain’t leavin’ my wife and my two daughters. This ain’t that.’ But I had to raise her boy. How couldn’t I? I was the reason his daddy was gone. I saw him through school, had him apprentice with me, got him in the union, made sure nobody messed with his money. His momma got sick. Lost her job at County, so I took on extra side work for a year and paid off her house. What else could I do? I mean, that was her old man’s job, but I was the reason her old man wasn’t there. A man really ain’t got no time for love, Mac, but he gotta be responsible for those that love him. When she got better, I had John put her on the payroll here. She works breakfast in the mornings, but I make up the other half of her wages so she gets paid for 8 hours even though she only work three.”

Old Man Beckett lit a Kool and smiled. “You got what it take to be in charge, man. You got promise me something, though.”

“Yessir?”

“Do what you think is right. Don’t let no woman get in the way of your business, but take care of the women whose lives you affect.”

“OK.”

“And lose some weight, man. I see too many young men dealing with health issues over that shit. You too smart for that.”

“OK Mr. Beckett.”

“And remember: what makes a man ain’t what he say, or what people think, but what he do. You ain’t got nothing’ but what you buy and what you take, and nobody give you nothin’. People give to women. They don’t give to no man. You cain’t please e’rybody and you ain’t gonna be right to most nobody, but you gotta know you doin’ what you think is good for you, and everything else will fall in line.”

People will call him intolerant, rude and probably ignorant. This is a world where fathers leave their children to be raised by the schools and prison system. This is an America where too many Black men fail to demand and take the respect they deserve, smiling when things aren’t funny and faking it to get that promotion while losing their dignity. This is the Chicagoland area. We leave it up to grandmothers to choose between being hit with bricks or shoot twelve year olds. Forget the niceties. We need more of what these old Black men brought to the table.