Maybe You Never Cry Again (16 page)

Funny thing about people. They're not too comfortable with success.

For about ten seconds, I owned Chicago. It was in the newspapers. On the radio. On black TV. The same motherfuckers who wouldn't give me the time of day a week earlier were calling to congratulate me and ask me to perform at their clubs. They'd come by with a bottle of champagne and one of those big, lopsided grins. “Bernie! My nigger! Always knew you were going to make it big! Number One Fan here from the start!”

Like they say,
Success has many parents. Failure is an orphan.

And family—don't even get me started. Suddenly you got family you never knew existed. And they got problems.
Serious
problems. But they never come at you straight, see. They look all broken-faced and sigh their big sighs and you gotta ask them what's wrong; you got to pull it the fuck out of them.

“What is it, George?”

“Bernie, it don't make no sense, brother. I'm going to be living in a trailer soon.”

Then there's the other kind: Once they get started, they don't stop. “They laid me off, man. I was sick a few times, and the sons of bitches laid my sorry ass off. I don't know what all I'm gonna do, Bern. Your niece—you remember your niece? Chiquita? She gotta have an operation. I ain't told nobody yet because she don't want me to tell, but it's gonna run eight thousand dollars. I know you want her to be well, Bernard. We family, right? At the end of the day, only thing we got is each other, brother. I'm gonna pay you back. I swear to God! I'll pay you back if I have to sell my arm to do it! Give you my left nut if you want it. Hell,
both
if you really need 'em. That's how much I love you, Bern. That's how much you mean to me.”

After they're done hitting you up, and they see that you ain't rich—see that you're still frying fish at Dock's—they change their tune.

We put you up there, motherfucker, and we're going to bring your ass down.

What is
that
about? Why you want to wish ill on a man that never did you any harm? I don't get it. How does my small success have any bearing on you or anyone else? I don't look at Chris Rock and think, Well, I guess there's only room for six funny niggers in this cold world of ours. I'm shit out of luck.

And at work, that was the worst. It wasn't just the people coming in, doing double takes: “Hey! You that funny guy! I saw you at Dingbats last weekend!” It was the guys I worked with. We were back to that same old bullshit, only twice as strong. “You a comedian! You famous! This here's Bernie Mac, winner of the Miller Lite Comedy Search. Look at the way the brother fries that fish. Them fish go in the fryer laughing.”

Got home one day and told Rhonda I'd had enough. One of my cousins worked for Wonder Bread. I called over and asked if he knew whether they had anything. He said they were looking for drivers.

I went down the next day and filled out an application. I brought some references and my entire work history and told them how I'd already driven a truck for UPS. They hired me on the spot. They gave me the worst route they had—the meanest, roughest neighborhoods—but I didn't care. I loved it. I loved sitting there in my Wonder Bread truck, driving along, alone with my thoughts. I passed an electronics store and went in and bought myself a little tape recorder. If I saw something of interest, I'd pick up my tape recorder and make a little note to myself: mean dogs; large women with tight pants; pimps and big hats; couple on the street arguing about who's paying what bills when…Everything was fodder. The good stuff would find its way into my comedy routines.

I'm up at Just for Laughs one night, talking about those got-damn bills: “Creditor calls, says, ‘Can I speak to Bernie Mac?' ‘Uh,
Bernie ain't here right now.' ‘When he comin' back?' ‘He ain't: Motherfucker died this mornin'.”

Black people can relate. All black people running from their bills.

Another time, at Dingbats, Rhonda was in the audience—and she was getting embarrassed:

“People say you get older, you get better. Well, I ain't gonna lie to you, I'm old. I can't fuck like I used to. I'm not in shape. Sex is nothing but hard got-damn work—physical labor. Pumping away like that? What the fuck you trying to prove, motherfucker? My chest hurt, my back hurt, my lips are turning white, I can't breathe, and she's going, ‘Oh yeah, baby. Right there—ooh!' What the fuck is ‘right there'? Bust a nut so we can go to sleep already.”

People laughing like crazy. They know it's true.

“Nowadays, when my wife wants it, I think of some excuse. ‘I gotta wash the car, baby.' And she turns to look at me and says, ‘Bernard, you don't have a car.'”

That's the thing, see: I'm digging into my own life, and I'm spinning it every which way, and then I'm reaching out with it. I'm being true to myself and the small insights I've had. And that's what connects me to my audience:
honesty.

You dig deep, brother, you'll find we have a lot in common. People are more alike than they know.

 

We were on our way home from the Cotton Club late one night, Rhonda and I, and she said, “Why you telling that stuff? People are going to think it's true.”

“I'm just playing, baby. They know it ain't true.”

“
Some
of it is!”

“Well, I'm not telling which part,” I said, “and I hope you're not, neither.”

 

The thing you have to understand is that onstage, I'm in character. I'm still Bernie Mac, sure, and I'm tapping into my own life,
but I'm running with it. And
running
is the right word. When I'm hot, I feel like I'm channeling a force inside me. It's as if I'm possessed. Scares Rhonda sometimes—the way my voice wavers; the way my eyes roll up into my head. I don't know where that force comes from, but it sure taps into some deep shit. It pushes me to tell it like it is, and that's what gives comedy its power: the truth, and the fact that people
recognize
it as the truth.

I might say something you've been thinking all your life, and suddenly you get it.
Amen to that, brother!
That's where the connection is.

And the best part is, I can say anything I want. About wives, girlfriends, brothers, and cousins once removed.

“I'm gonna pay you back, Bernie—I swear to God! I'll pay you back if I have to sell my arm to do it!”

People get it. They've been there. I tell jokes, too—because that's part of it, and everyone likes a good joke. But I'm more than a joke teller now. And it feels great.

 

Suddenly I'm getting calls from Atlanta, Pittsburgh, Mississippi. And I ain't gonna turn anyone down. Monday through Friday, I'm the Wonder Bread man. But weekends are my own.

Then Hollywood calls. The Wayans brothers have a show on Fox,
In Living Color.
Why don't I stop in for a meeting?

I take the red-eye to Los Angeles, on my own dime. I already know Damon—he was the Miller Lite emcee—and now I get to meet his brothers. Lots of energy in the room. Everybody's up. Good things are gonna happen.

After that meeting, I'm off to meet everyone else in town. Plenty of meetings;
endless
meetings. And I'm thinking it's a miracle anyone gets anything done in L.A., what with all the got-damn meetings back-to-back.

Studio executive is sitting there, wearing a Christian Science smile, telling you he's a big fan of your work—and you know the
man hasn't got a clue; maybe never even heard of you till he saw you on his list that morning. But it don't matter. You smile right back, and you try to look mighty Christian yourself.

Now they're walking you to the door, telling you how much they love you, how you're a got-damn genius, how their people are going to be in touch with your people.

But nothing ever comes of it. You never hear from them again. You have to get
bigger
to get them interested.
Much
bigger. And I'm not big.

I'm so not big I have to rush back to Chicago and get out of bed at three in the morning so I can be in my Wonder Bread truck by four-thirty.

One morning, WHAM! Tore the roof right off that truck. I was tired. I admit it. I had taken a shortcut and misjudged the underpass and suddenly I'm sitting in a convertible, loaves of bread up to my knees.

I went back to the office and 'fessed up. I swore it wouldn't happen again. They weren't happy with me, but I'd never so much as missed a day or a delivery, and we're talking fourteen-hour days on the meanest streets in town.

“It better not happen again, Bernard.”

“No, sir. It won't. I'm really sorry, sir.”

I took the El home. And all the way home I was asking myself,
When are you going to make up your mind, McCullough? When are you going to make the leap? Are you or are you not a comedian?

 

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I was at All Jokes Aside, a club on Wabash Avenue, and I got three standing ovations.

“White people. Bungee jumping? What is that shit? Why you want to jump off a cliff and
almost
hit the ground? You're one got-damn inch from busting your head wide open and all you got to say for yourself is, ‘Whooo! Awesome, dude!'

“White people. I hear they have hurricane parties in Miami. ‘We might get swept out to sea! We might die! Yippeee!'

“Not me, brother. I like simple things. I like swimming in shallow water. I like to swim where I can stand up when I get tired.

“Even skiing is too dangerous for me. The only black people that ski are the ones who went to Harvard. The rest of us ain't educated enough to like cold and pain.”

I was on fire, brother. I was looking down at those laughing faces, and I could see it. They were telling me I was a comedian. Seems like everyone knew it, everyone but me.

I couldn't get to sleep that night. And just as I began to close my eyes, that got-damn alarm clock went off.

By four-thirty I was behind the wheel of my Wonder Bread truck. And in no mood. It was a big run—the Thanksgiving run, November 1991—biggest run of the year. I had thirty-two hundred dollars' worth of bread in that truck. And it was freezin' out: Radio said the wind-chill factor was making it forty below. You know what that's like? That's like a big dog taking a bite out of your ass every time you step outside.

Tired as I was, I got through it. I hopped in and out of the truck, braving the elements, delivering my loaves, and all the time I couldn't stop thinking of the night before. That laughter. Those faces. The way the crowd got to its feet and stomped and roared.

Finally, end of the day, in darkness already, I made my last delivery and pulled the truck over by a phone booth under the El. I jumped out and called the office.

“It's Bernard,” I said.

“What's up?”

“I'm quitting.”

“What?” My boss could hardly hear me. The wind was whistling so hard I thought it was going to pick that phone booth right up, and me with it.

“I quit!” I shouted. “I'm
done.
”

“Where the hell you at, Bernard? Where's my truck?”

I told him to come get his truck—I didn't have the energy to drive back to the office—and I hung up. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help myself.

I made sure the truck was locked up good and got on the El and went home. I didn't say anything to Rhonda. I had something to eat and watched a little TV, and Rhonda went back into the kitchen to make pies for Thanksgiving night. We were going to celebrate with her family.

I went to bed in a good mood. Rhonda enjoyed it. But she knew something was up. “What's going on, Bernard?”

“Nothing. I don't know what you mean. Didn't you just have a good time?”

“I had a fine time. But I know something's going on.”

“Can't a man be in a good mood? There a law against that? Can't a man love his wife a little?”

“Bernard McCullough,” she said. “You crazy.”

 

The next day we got into our little Ford Escort and drove to her family's house for Thanksgiving. I was the life of the party. I was horsing around with all the in-laws and clowning with that litter of kids.

Rhonda wouldn't stop looking at me. We'd been together more than a dozen years now, and I could never put anything past that woman. Still can't.

“Bernard,” she said. “You gonna tell me what's going on?”

“
Nothin',
woman. You the one that's crazy.”

We got home. Put Boops to bed. Went to our room. The apartment was cold and the windows were all frosty, and I had eaten too much. But I felt good.

“Rhonda,” I said. “I have something to tell you.”

“I knew it!” she said.

“You want to hear it or not?” I said.

And she smiled at me. “Yeah,” she said.

“I quit my job.”

She lost the smile. “What?”

“You heard me, woman. I quit my job.”

“Bernie Mac—”

“I'm not a Wonder Bread man, Rhonda. I'm not a fry cook. I'm not a janitor. This time my mind's made up. It's not open to discussion. We're not negotiating here. I'm a comedian. And like I told you before, if I can't be a comedian, I'm gonna
die.
”

For the longest time Rhonda didn't say a word. Then I saw the tears in her eyes. She was crying, but she was smiling, too. She came close and hugged me.

“Do I have your blessing, Rhonda?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “You have my blessing. I'm with you all the way.”

We held on to each other.

And that was it. I was done with regular jobs.

Bernie Mac was a comedian.