Maybe You Never Cry Again (18 page)

My mother knew that. She didn't have much to give me in the way of worldly goods, but she taught me to believe in myself—and that turned out to be the greatest gift of all.

I figured, if I could be half the parent my mother was, Je'Niece would turn out pretty good. And she turned out great. My daughter is a lovely woman, and that's not just me talking; everyone who meets her thinks so.

And no, I'm not saying I was Father of the Year. I wasn't. I came up short lots of times. I know it and she knows it and Rhonda knows it. But I worked hard. I did the best job I could. And when the best wasn't good enough, I tried harder.

Thinking on it now, on this business of parenting, there's one thing about the job that strikes me as the ultimate irony, and it's this: Being a parent is really about working yourself out of a job. That's right. You're taking this little creature, this creature you love more than you can even begin to describe, and you're preparing her to go out into the world—preparing her to leave you. That's heartbreaking, friend, but that
is
your job. So do it, and do it right.

In 1993 HBO flew me out to Los Angeles for a special,
Rosie Perez Presents Society's Ride.
It was a little like Def Jam, but it didn't catch on. And I felt bad for Rosie. I thought Rosie was
it.
People were talking about J.Lo, but J.Lo was nothing next to Rosie. That Rosie was a gem.

Before I flew home, I took advantage of being out there and tried out for other roles. I had a manager back in Chicago, and she kept sending me out on these things, and I gave it my all. And at the end of every audition I always heard the same thing: “You were great, man. They loved you.” But people in Hollywood always tell you they love you. They tell you you're wonderful; that you ought to have your own show; that big things are in store for Mr. Bernie Mac. There was so much got-damn love in those rooms it was a wonder we didn't tear each other's clothes off and fuck.

 

One night, between auditions, I went back to the Comedy Act Theater to catch a little standup, and I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Half the acts were doing
me.
I ain't lyin'. Seemed like Def Jam had spawned a whole mess of Bernie Mac imitators, and every last one of them was bad. No, they were
beyond
bad; they were terrible. There was no heart in any of the acts. Plus it'd been done. Only these guys didn't understand that. They'd go out there and try for an easy laugh, and they might get one, too. But it was hollow. There was no honesty there. And honesty takes work.

Most people don't want to do the hard work, though. They're looking for the free ride. They want something for nothing. What do they think? That Michael Jordan was out boozing at night? Hell no! He was on that got-damn court all day, every day, trying to make himself a better player. And when he was the best there was, he went out and practiced harder.

That's the thing, see. If you want to be the best, you have to fight for it. And you have to fight for it
straight;
you have to be who you are. Why you trying to be somebody else? You looking inside yourself and not liking what you see?

Man, that was one thing I've always hated hearing: “Bernard, you remind me of Redd Foxx.” Or, “You're the next Richard Pryor.” Or worse, “Clean up the act a little and you could be as big as Cosby.”

I don't want to be anybody but Bernie Mac. Bernie Mac
enough
for me, brother. And every day Bernie's expanding his horizons.

And I'm not just talking about work, either. When you're struggling, all you ever seem to do is work. But a little success sure enough brings its rewards.

I'm a golfer now. I love a sport where you can walk around with a cigar in your mouth. I like horses, too.
Bernie Mac, equestrian.
And I got me a boat. You should see me out there, in my rubber-soled Top-Siders, that little cap perched on my head at a jaunty angle:
Skipper Bern.
Rhonda thought I was crazy when I bought me that boat, but now she looks forward to those evenin' cruises. Life, brother. I'm standing behind the wheel of my forty-footer, the wind in my hair, my lovely woman at my side, and I'm thinking, Spooky juice, just look at you now!

 

I still had my regular Tuesday gig at Milt Trenier's, of course, and the rest of the week I was on the road. Work work work. Thursday to Monday, I was on eight planes a week, and I was doing this forty-three weeks a year. I went from small clubs to thousand-seat auditoriums, and it was a rare night that I didn't sell out.

No, I ain't bragging. I'm telling it like it is. I was in the trenches, and I was building an audience. Hollywood didn't give me my career.
I
gave me my career. I was out there every night, night
after night, trying to knock it out of the park. I wanted to turn every last person in the audience into a Bernie Mac fan, even if that was impossible.

And of course it
is
impossible. Not everyone's gonna be a fan. But you're not going to change human nature. You start hearing it again. This you-ain't-funny business; this you-think-you-hot? business.

Everyone's a critic. Everyone has an opinion.

Bernie too raw.

Bernie not raw enough.

Bernie gone white on us.

Bernie soft—where Bernie's politics?

Politics? I didn't know I was running for Congress, motherfucker. You want to talk foreign policy, go ahead—get up there and talk. Me, I'm an entertainer. I was put on God's green earth to make people laugh. Sometimes, on account of this here journey I've been on, you'll find some lessons in the laughter. And that's fine with me, brother. I embrace it. But don't tell me what to say or how to say it.

And worse, everybody's hitting you up now. Friends you didn't know you had, long-lost relatives. Neighbors, local businesses, charitable organizations. “Don't you want to help the community, Mr. Mac? Don't you care about your black brothers and sisters?”

Care?
Don't tell me what to do with my money. I'm not telling you what to do with yours.

But it didn't stop. It got worse. Every time I turned around, something or someone was coming at me, giving me advice on who to help and how much was needed and all the wonderful things I could do for my community.

“This shit wearing me down, Rhonda,” I told my wife one day. “What do they want from me? I'm supposed to buy uniforms for these kids? Build a library? These people making me crazy.”

“I can see that, honey. It ain't like you to let them get to you.”

She was right. I was never one to pay much mind to other people. I have a handful of close friends, and those are the people I listen to. Them and my best friend of all: Rhonda. Plus my mama had taught me to listen to my own self.

So I got strong:
Make all the noise you want, motherfucker. I ain't listenin'.

I got refocused. Husband, father, comedian. I played hard and I worked hard. I kept racking up those frequent flyer miles. And the phone never stopped ringin'.

“Who was that, honey?” Rhonda asked me.

“Some little club in Des Moines,” I told her, sighing a big sigh. “I don't know if I can accommodate them. All this scheduling and rescheduling! I need help!”

“'Bout time you admitted it!” she said.

“No,” I said. “I'm serious. I'm going to call Geri.” That would be Geri Bleavings, who worked over at the Cotton Club. We went back a number of years.

“Geri,” I said, “it's Bernie Mac. I need someone to help me run my business. I'm looking for someone with style, personality, high ethics, and lots of smarts—and since I can't find no one like that, I called you.”

Geri laughed and said, “When do I start?”

The Mac Man was getting streamlined.

Mac Man likes order. He likes his schedule. The Mac Man is in total control.

 

One day, in the middle of all this, what do you know? I got a call from Hollywood. This fellow Ted Demme was about to direct a little movie called
Who's the Man?
Ed Lover and Doctor Dre were in it, playing a couple of inept barbers, and the casting people thought I'd make a fine barber myself.

I flew out to Los Angeles and met Ted Demme, and we liked each other right off. He told me I was hired, and they sent me home with a script. My barber was called G-George. I read the script and thought about G-George until it was time to go back and face the cameras. I showed up that first day and Ted Demme asked me how I was going to play the character. I said I wasn't sure; that we'd both see it when the cameras rolled. Ted laughed and said that that was good enough for him, and I was so naïve—so new to the business—that I had no idea what a great gift he was giving me.

When the cameras rolled, Ted Demme wasn't the only one laughing. Seemed like I'd nailed G-George good. And I thought:
This making-movies shit, it ain't a bad gig.

Next in line was
House Party 3,
followed by
Above the Rim,
with Tupac Shakur. They were small roles, but they meant a lot to me. Every moment in front of the cameras was a chance to learn something new. And that's what I was doing: I was keeping my eyes and ears open and learning.

In 1995 HBO flew me back to Los Angeles. All that talk we'd done was finally paying off. They were giving me my own comedy show, a variety show. I called it
Midnight Mac,
and I had high hopes for it.

We set it on a Chicago stage that was designed to look like a nightclub. I hired Reginald T. McCants and the Mac Men for the music, and rounded up the Mac-A-Roni Dancers. It was a half-hour show, late-night, made up of comedy sketches and musical numbers, with me as the emcee, of course.

I had this one routine where I'd bring a couple from the audience up onstage and test them to see how well they knew each other. It was called “Do You Know Me,” and it always brought down the house. It showed that married people only
think
they know each other; they don't know each other for shit.

I had fun with Big Tony, too, my midget bouncer. He wasn't much more than three feet tall. One night I'm up there telling the audience that I've been studying ventriloquism, and then these two guys bring a big trunk up onstage. I keep chatting up the audience, talking about the
art
of ventriloquism, how much hard work it takes and such, and finally I pop that trunk open and reach inside and set that dummy on my lap. Only it ain't no dummy; it's Big Tony. And we get started, with me doing the talking for both of us—my lips flapping so hard I'm vying for the Worst Ventriloquist Ever award. But then Big Tony can't contain himself. He's angry. “You said I wouldn't be locked up in that trunk for more than a few minutes!” he shouts at me. And before you know it, I'm up there arguing with my own dummy…All part of the routine, of course.

They killed my show. One brief season and they let it die. They didn't give us a chance to find our way. I know it wasn't there yet, but we were moving in the right direction. Sure, it could've been funnier. Maybe I spent too much time clowning with the audience and acting like a game-show host. And maybe there wasn't enough of me and my routines. But hell, not everything's a hit out of the gate.

That really hurt, getting canceled. I ain't lying. That was my baby. That show went back to who I'd been in the beginning: that kid on the front porch, entertaining the neighbors; doing standup in church; the guy on the El train; the comic on the street corner, his hat laid out for handouts.

It got a Cable Ace Award, but it didn't fly. Politics killed us. They didn't have time to watch me polish my act. It was over. They let me go down in flames.

I was hurting and I was angry. I ain't lyin'. And I was looking for someone to blame. But then I remembered something my mama had told me over and over again: “If you mess something up, Bernie, remember who got you there. Don't be pointing fingers, even if finger-pointing is called for. Only one you got to blame is your own self.”

She was right. I'd given Hollywood the power to take my show from me, and they'd exercised their power.

If nothing else, I was a little wiser. Hurtin', but wiser.

 

More movies followed. In 1995 I got a small part in
The Walking Dead.
It was set in Vietnam, in 1972. Some marines were sent in to rescue a number of POW officers. I got a chance to show off my serious side.

Next in line,
Friday.
I played a preacher who doesn't know much about the Good Book. It was a fun group. Ice Cube, Chris Tucker, Nia Long, Tiny Lister Jr. If you haven't seen the movie, rent it.

When the movies finally come out, you start getting seen, and your fans always ask you the same questions. Want to know what Ice Cube's like. Is he funny? Mean? Nia Long—is she married, or is she looking for a handsome older brother?

“I don't know nothing about Ice Cube,” I'd say. “I didn't hang with Ice Cube. I'd go out, hit my mark, and go home when I was told to go home.”

That was the truth. I was an actor, doing my job. If I'd been younger, maybe it would have been different. But I was forty years old, not a kid anymore. I wasn't thinking about women and drinking and partying. I was focused on my career. I had a wife and daughter at home. I had a life back in Chicago. My real friends were in Chicago.

It made me see how people who get success too fast and too early in life can get messed up real good. They don't have the smarts to handle it. So listen up: Don't be in such a got-damn hurry, brother. Slow and steady wins the race.

 

Life, man—it can throw some curves at you. I'm back in Chicago and the phone rings early one evening—rings
loud
—and Rhonda's sixteen-year-old niece, Toya, is on the line. Seems she
and her mother aren't getting along so good, and she's wondering if maybe she can come stay with us for a while, she and her two-year-old both.

So suddenly I'm a father all over again. And worse: I'm a got-damn grandfather.

 

I thought these two were a handful, but they were nothing like what was going on with some friends of ours. They had a sister who had a serious drug problem, and they ended up with her three kids.

I went over one day and I was shocked. The kids were talking back, cranking and moaning, and sassing everyone. The little one—he was messed up bad. You could see his mama'd been taking drugs when he was in the womb. Two years old, he was, and he'd be snarling at you like a junkyard dog. “Puck you!” he'd say. “Puck you, motherpucker.”

I couldn't believe it! Little tyke, knee-high to a grasshopper, with that angry-ass look on his face and those sharp little cat teeth. I asked him where he learned to talk like that, and he turned to face me and put up his little fists. “Come on, motherpucker! Come
on
!”