A Visit with Cornelius Kyle by Stephen Robertson

There were a lot of things about Sidney Sharpe that Butler Broadhead didn’t like. They sat in a limousine facing each other. Broadhead was in the rear seat and Sidney was perched on the jump seat. They were practically knee to knee and Broadhead wondered why his lawyer wouldn’t move down and get in the other jump seat. At least, there could be some distance between the two men and Broadhead, who was sipping a cognac from a crystal glass, would be more comfortable.
The first thing about Sidney that Broadhead didn’t trust was the fact that he didn’t drink. When he was a young man, he’d been told, if a colleague didn’t imbibe, there was a missing ingredient from his personality. He would never be able to discern the difference between doing business and enjoying oneself. He would always be flat, he would never be able to relax during the time when a deal is put to bed and doesn‘t require any further closure.
The second thing that Broadhead didn’t like about Sidney was that he could not be considered “one of us.” He didn’t dress properly. Broadhead was immaculate in his $3,000 suit, an expensive powder blue silk shirt, and a red silk tie tied in a perfect Windsor knot. His black loafers were polished with such a high sheen he could see his face in them.
Sidney, on the other hand, looked like he got dressed three days ago -- his suit, off the rack at Sears, was as rumpled as it could get. It held no crease. His shirt collar was thread bare and dirty. His tie was a stringy affair, either green or brown, and covered with massive spaghetti stains. His shoes were scuffed after months of use, they’d never been shined and the heels were uneven with ware.
The meeting they were going to attend tonight gave Broadhead the willies. He wondered if Sidney had done his homework properly. They were looking for a lot of money from the city to build a professional basketball stadium. Broadhead thought all they would have to do is go to the mayor to get the job done, if not that, the mayor and key members of the city council. They seemed to control the power buttons in the city. He guessed wrong. Sidney, who was always good at researching matters, found out the real power broker was a labor leader called Cornelius Kyle. The revelation mystified Broadhead, it was impossible for a labor leader to have the kind of power described..
But here they were on the way to see the man, because he commanded it. Kyle had told Sydney that he’d only meet with the top dog, never solely with underlings, yes, even lawyers were unable to get an exclusive audience. Broadhead mused that the man couldn’t be all that bad.
The third member of the party was Broadhead’s black driver, Charlie Parker, he was a marine who’d done time in Vietnam. When he finally got out of the military, he applied for the driver’s job and got hired. He and his boss had been fast friends ever since. Charlie didn’t mind that he had to wear a chauffeur’s uniform to work, he thought he looked good in it and loved the fact that he wore a cap night and day. It gave him a sense of status -- this was a person who had an intimate knowledge of a billionaire on the make and his attempt to acquire all the money he could before he died.
Parker wore an automatic pistol under his coat, he was Broadhead’s protector, he kept him out of trouble. He had a fool-around relationship with his boss -- Broadhead would jokingly call his driver “bird” and ask him if he’d brought his “axe” to work, a gag about his driver’s name, the same as a famous jazz player. Parker could give it back -- he’d call his boss BB King, a play on the wealthy man’s initials. The constant kidding was part of their banter, a never ending repartee. All of it was above Sidney Sharpe’s head or at least it seemed to be
“Tell me about this guy, Kyle,” Broadhead asked his attorney, “who is he and what makes him tick? What does he look like? Will we be able to buy him, if need be?
Is he into money, is he into women? Educate me here.”
“I don’t know much about him,” Sharpe responded. “All I know is he controls the power in this town.”
“Where did you get that information?” Broadhead said, “I’ve never known a labor leader to have that much juice…never.”
“I got it from my meeting with the mayor,” Sharpe said, getting a lot more sheepish. “He said if we wanted to do business here, we’d have to go through Kyle. He controls the politics here.”
“Is the mayor a fucking idiot? He should be the man in charge.”
“Not the way it’s done here,” Sharpe said. “Kyle has got the mayor and two-thirds of the city council in his pocket. We’ve got to meet with him.”
Charlie Parker smiled a sly smile as he watched his boss in the rear view mirror. He knew it wouldn’t be long before Broadhead lost his temper and he’d chew out the wormy, little attorney.
“Give it to me straight, you’ve never met with this guy?“
“I’ve only known about him for a couple of days. As I told you before, when I called him, he told me he’d only talk to you -- not me.”
“This is a load of crap,” Broadhead said, as he called out to his driver, “What‘s an attorney worth, Charlie?”
The response -- “Nothing more than a bucket of warm piss.”
Sharpe considered the remark -- it was always the same insult from Charlie Parker -- it didn’t have the bite that it used to have, especially since it came from a man who still thought OJ was innocent.
“Look, we’re still going to be able to work this one like all of the other deals. It’s just that the cast of characters has changed.”
“For your sake, I hope that’s true,” Broadhead said. “You know I don’t like to waste time -- I’m not being paid by the hour like you are.”
Sharpe began to wonder when the insults would stop. He knew he was in a profession that was often subjected to bad humor and unkind remarks. His thought, was it all worth it, or should he be doing something else.
Charlie Parker pulled the limousine to the cutb and parked.
“We’re here, boss,” he said.
The union headquarters was an unassuming red brick building, but a large rod iron
sign formed a crescent frame for the structure end-to-end. It contained highly polished brass letters spelling out “Industrial Workers of America, IWA Local 336.”
It was under this sign that the three men passed as they entered the building. Broadhead wondered why he, a billionaire, felt dwarfed by the structure. He was entering a world he didn’t know much about.

Assignment # 10

Reiss duPlessis

I offered my hand to Jim Fine, the manager of the Firestone Office. His bulk practically filled the room. He is a giant! His crew-cut hair, squinty green eyes and SS Officer persona would have intimidated anyone, especially one who really wanted this assignment. Fortunately for me, I was not sure I wanted the transfer into his office or a career in the Department any more, so my intimidation was limited. “This,” said Mr. Fine, gesturing to the door behind me, “is Miss Foreman, my assistant manager.” What little space Mr. Fine left in the office was filled by the person who entered, Miss Foreman... Miss Florence Foreman, Assistant Manager. Good Grief, she’s as big as Mr. Fine. Suddenly, I was the incredible shrinking man and I was standing between them. I was intimidated!

“Hello, Miss Foreman, I’m Reiss DuPlessis.”

“What? That not a name. I can’t deal with that, your name is now, Mr. Duppy.”

I managed a weak smile and waited for her smile. There was none! Her large African- American face was carved in stone. She was serious!

She’s got one hell of a nerve! Who needs this? I like my name! It’s mine and a fine name at that! I don’t remember much more of the introductory meeting. I could only think of that woman, that greeting and that I felt like the ninety pound weakling in the Charles Atlas ads standing between the two sand kicking bullies...a new and unexpected feeling for me, a guy who, at 6’ 3” and 180 pounds, had never experienced feeling small.

“Well,” I said to Neal, my soon to be former manager, as we walked back to the parking lot, “I guess that’s that. I think when we close our little office, I’ll leave the Department. I don’t think I can work under that lady.”

“Who, Florence? You’ll love her..everybody does!”

“Humph, not from what I saw.”

“That’s just her. She has a wicked sense of humor.”

“Wicked is putting it nicely. That woman makes me want to run.....as far away as possible”

“Don’t judge her on that meeting, don’t make a rash decision. Give it a chance. I seem to be telling you that a lot lately, but trust me, it’ll be OK.”

“I don’t know.”

Monday morning I was assigned to a first level supervisor in the new office and did not see Miss Florence Foreman. So far, so good! Virginia, my supervisor, was a tall, thin, elegant lady who seemed overjoyed to have me in her unit. At lunch time, she invited me to join a group that played Uno in the lunchroom. That’s kinda nice, I thought, and went into the back room where staff people were playing cards. The group, it seemed, was surrounding Miss Foreman, or was she surrounding them?

“Are you brave enough to play with us?”

How could I ignore that gauntlet? “Sure, I’ll play.”

“OK, Mr Duppy, sit there.”

“My name is Reiss.”

“No it ain’t, it’s Duppy!”

I took a deep breath, hoping to grow 12 inches taller ... and wider, as I maneuvered into the seat next to hers.

The game was fun. I didn’t tell them that I played it regularly and well. Even Miss Foreman was fun and after a few hands, I was, like everyone else, addressing her as Florence.

“Don’t touch me! You don’t know me!”

Oh God! What have I done now? “Ooops, I’m sorry. It’s a bad habit, I am touchy feely and do it automatically.”

“Well, Mister Duppy, don’t ever touch me.”

“OK. Miss Foreman. Uno!”

When I went back to my desk, the winner, I had a surprise visitor... Miss Foreman...”Good Game, Duppy.” And, praise be to the great dealer in the sky ... a smile.

That was the beginning. I had a very successful career in the Department. My greatest supporter, mentor and ally was Florence Foreman, who became a very powerful woman in the Department. I, to people all over the State of California and even into the Congress of the United States, was “Mr. Duppy.” The friendship between Florence and Mr. Duppy was legendary. When I retired, she and I were never out of contact. I became one of her favored confidants and we talked, at least, once a week, every week, visited regularly and shared numerous friends. Indeed, when she died, there was little doubt, I, like the hundreds of people who filled the church from all over the State, had lost one of my best and treasured friends, Florence.

Robert Burns wrote in a pem about a louse on an elebgant lady's bonnet, "Oh would some power the giftie gie us to see us as others see us."
I have gone through many metamorphoses in my life. Infat,child, schoolgirl, teen-ager, adult. Adult has many subheadings. Single, wife, mother of two children, divorcee,wife,caregiver,widow,survivor.
I worked as a salesgirl, governess, typist, medical transcriptionist,nursery school teacher, learned to print catalog for a wholesale grocery company which involved using an offset printer, card punch, graphotype, addressagraph, card punch and what would be by today's standars a very primative computer. I studied stenotype and worked as an executive secretary before I remarried and helped my husband operate a lodge with cafe, bar, liquor store, gas pumps. Here I learned to be a short order cook, bartender, waitress, dishwasher,laundres, chambermaid, and bookkeeper.
I have been daugher, sister, neice,cousin, aunt and survivor.
I am the author of RELUCTANT PIONEER, a memoir of the forty-six years I lived in Alaska and my articles, essays, short stories and peoms have been published in many journals.
I enjoy playing Scraabble at our community, teach it to visually impaired students at the Braille Institute. I also like
a variety of card games.
My hair is white, my face is wrinkled, my hearing is not too good,I'm barely five feet tall, having lost 3 and one-half inches. My teeth are implants.I'm overweight, and tethered to an oxygen tank. My eyes are green, but I've been legally blind for the past seven years. I live alone, ride a candy-apple red scooter to get to medical appointments and to do my shopping. I often go out to lunch or dinner with friends. I enjoy talking to people. Writing for the two writing classes I'm enrolled in, both through the Saddleback College Emeritus Program.
Now, I've given you all this information about me and you tell me.Who am I?

We picked the name Craig because it would be difficult to change it, such as Jimmie for James, Billie for William, Betty for Elizabeth, etc. Why was this important to us? After fifty- seven years, we just don’t remember. After picking “Craig” we thought “Steven” would be a neat name for our child. Why did we then interchange Craig and Steven? This sequence just sounded better.
Betty and I were just short of two years of marriage and one year into my first engineering job when Craig was conceived. He came as a surprise since we were not consciously thinking of a family at the time though our habits would suggest that this might happen. It turns out that he was a breech baby born prematurely with a couple of bumps (hematoma) on his head at exit. These could be interpreted as the starting points of horns. Was this a message to his parents?

Craig came to us in a difficult manner. For two inexperienced parents with no grandparents for support or any continuing help during our crises, we were in a state of panic for quite a few months. True to his beginning, Craig was a handful for us for many years. He was a puny kid but with plenty of spunk. One characteristic that stands out was his perfectionist position. When we would go to a toy section where he would be allowed to pick a toy, he would look at every piece available looking for imperfections before his final selection. What is interesting to note is that this characteristic is still with him today for the most part. He looks for the best in material things. This results in expensive clothes, the most up-to-date computer (continual updating), a super fidelity sound and high resolution CD for T.V. movies, expensive cars, etc.
In the macho world ‘teen period, Craig had a hard time. A puny kid with spunk really took his lumps. Because of his high verbal skills, to his detriment he could rile up the bullies. He fearlessly countered their demeaning comments and made them feel inadequate to respond. He would not back down in a physical encounter that ensued and because of his size he took the beatings.
Even though we lived in the better part of town in Anaheim, Craig had his problems. Junior high was the worst period. In order to break this up we had Craig repeat the ninth grade at another Jr. high.
I remember the joy I had in wearing a uniform and playing in the high school band. So I had Craig playing the trumpet in junior high and he continued in high school with the marching band. He loved being part of a friendly group finally. He woke up early and never missed early morning practices.
In high school he found a buddy who was physically strong. In addition Craig was a year older than most of his peers. For these reasons he was not picked on in high school. Competition of the marching bands in Southern California high schools was exceptional. During Craig’s three years at Loara High School in Anaheim this band of over one hundred bandsmen and about sixty in the drill team advanced to become the top band in Southern California. They finished first in the All Western band competition in Long Beach in his senior year. Their half-time show also was spectacular. They played in the western U.S. half time show competition in San Diego and finished at the top, once, and 2nd, once. To learn to play with the winners... To excel in something... To feel he was part of something good... To be accepted by his peers... He really took pride in the achievement of his band.

Due to his verbal skills I thought he would make an excellent lawyer. So he took pre-law as his curriculum. His freshman grades were mediocre and he switched to Psychology. His grades then took off and he graduated with honors.

During his college years he had jobs of all variety-Santa Claus at Knott’s Berry Farm (who ever heard of a Japanese Santa); a bouncer at a dance hall ( He used verbal skills instead of physical encounters; Craig interest in the dance hall was that he is an excellent dancer winning at Saturday night dance contests); a motel driver, hauling people between the motels and Disneyland (He befriended Duke Ellington’s band and invited them to Sunday dinner without Mother’s prior approval. The neighborhood, however, pitched in and helped. While the Duke himself didn’t show up, the band introduced us to the Duke at Disneyland. Two years later, Craig invited them to another dinner. When the Duke sent his last elaborate Christmas cards in July to his friends the year he died, Craig was one of the recipients.
Craig went on to Chapman College in Orange for his first graduate year in Psychology. During this period, he talked himself into a job with Campus Afloat, a semester at sea traveling around the world, a few days in Japan, many of the countries in Africa, and around the Cape.
In the summer he found a job as a waterbed salesman, when the craze first started. With his verbal and psychological skills he turned out to be an excellent salesman. After a month they made him a manager. We were not surprised that he was able to do this.
For the first time he was earning enough money to satisfy his life of material excellence. I suggested he continue working in the fall and to go to night school for his graduate work.
He did this and soon his boss asked him to take over training of the sales staff in the five stores that he owned. Six months later the store hired a management consultant firm to control the expanding business. Due to Craig’s inexperience in such a high profile job at such a young age, he was ousted in the process by one of the consultant's staff.
Mother talked to Craig. She and I felt that with his sales skills he would be better off in real estate. He agreed and got his license. Instead of selling homes, he decided to work in commercial real estate.
Craig starved for about two years and finally connected with ARCO as Real Estate Acquisition Agent. He worked for them for years and tells his dad that while he did not get his law degree, he has become the premier person in the company that works on gas station site approval by making lawyerly presentations to the property owners, real estate developers, city councilmen, planning boards, and various commissions. When a site approval becomes a problem, he is the person called on to work for approval.
The vagaries of raising Craig into adulthood and the continued changing experiences were alternately joyful and painful for us. As time passed our input became limited by the extent of its acceptance. What is joy and what is pain were assessed by Craig himself and we applauded his choices.

If that’s all there is
Why struggle
To improve
To learn and study
Why?
Why get better with practice and persistence if in the end it all ends the same?
Death.
Yes, that’s how it all ends
In death.
With an acorn it only a temporary death
Until it rises again as an oak
An oak that will one day produce acorns that will in turn die and once again become the
Mighty oak.
Many things live and die in order to give birth and come back as something else
It’s only humans who are born, live, change shape, give birth to another and then die.
But they will not come back as anything else
Although some people believe we can come back again and again in order to better ourselves with each rebirth.
That’s not my belief.
Although we do get a “new birth” each morning
A chance for a “do-over”
To look at life differently today
To see the glass half full
To brighten our eyes with hope and promise.
Love while we have love to give,
Live while we have life to live.