David Sedaris - Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim: Essays  

W HEN SHE FELT CERTAIN that she had seen every black-and-white movie ever made, my mother signed up for cable and began watching late-night infomercials in the kitchen. My father would wander up from the basement at about four, and the two of them would spend a pleasant half hour making fun of whatever happened to be on. Give me a break, theyd chuckle. Please!

The only such program they managed to take seriously was hosted by a self-made man who had earned a fortune in real estate and addressed his studio audience as if they were students cramming for a final. The blackboard was in constant use. Charts and graphs were pointed at with a stick, but no matter how many times he explained it, I simply could not understand what the guy was talking about. It seemed that by refinancing his house, he had bought seventeen more, which were then rented out, allowing him to snatch up a shopping center and several putt-putt courses. If you went through his pockets, youd be lucky to find twenty dollars, but on paper he was worth millions. Or so he claimed.

If accumulating property were truly this easy, it seemed that everyone would be following the millionaires advice, but that was the catch: not everyone was awake at four A.M. While the rest of the world was fast sleep, you, the viewer, had chosen to better yourself, and wasnt that half the battle? I was between apartments at the time and saw the program twice before I left my parents house and moved into a place of my own. That was the spring of 1980. A year later my mother and father owned a dozen duplexes on the south side of Raleigh, and were on their way.

We called our parents slumlords, but in fact the duplexes were not bad-looking. Each unit featured a bay window, parquet floors, and a fair-size yard shaded with trees. When first built, they were occupied by white people, but the neighborhood had changed since then, and with the exception of an elderly shut-in, all of the tenants were black. A few had jobs, but most were on public assistance, which meant, for us, that their rent was paid by the government, and usually on time.

The idea had been for my parents to work as a team she would handle the leases, and he would see to any repairs.

I assumed that, like always, my father would take over and do everything himself, but for once he acted according to plan. Deeds were signed, and within a month my mother was fluent in the various acronyms of the state and federal housing departments. Forms arrived, and the duplicates were sorted into stacks, the overflow spilling from the basement den to my former bedroom, which now served as a makeshift office. Should this go under RHA or FHA? my mother would ask. Does B.J. qualify for AFDC or just the SSI? Shed sit at the desk, her elbows smudged with copier fluid, and Id feel sorry for everyone involved.

On a selfish note, The Empire, as we liked to call it, provided me with an occasional job a week of painting or weatherproofing or digging up a yard in search of a pipe. The downside was that Id be doing these things for my father, meaning that the pay was negotiable. Id present a time card, and he would dispute it, whittling my hours to a figure he considered more reasonable. You expect me to believe you were there every day from nine until five? No lunch, no cigarette breaks, no sitting in the closet with your finger up your nose?

The video monitor in my head would show me engaging in these very activities, and he would somehow catch a glimpse of it. I knew it. Ill pay you for thirty hours, and thats just because Im nice.

If wed agreed on a flat rate say, $300 in cash to paint an apartment I might wind up with a check for $220, to be followed at the end of the year by a I099-MISC form. Every job ended in an argument, my empty threats and petty name-calling put on ice and saved for the ride home. The tenants would have loved to watch us screaming at each other, and so we did our best to deny them that pleasure. Alone in the car we were savages, but at The Empire we were ambassadors for our race, acting not like the normal white people wed grown up with but like the exceptional white people we vaguely remembered from random episodes of Masterpiece Theatre. Doors were held open, and great blocks of time were spent encouraging each other to go first.

After you, Father.

On the contrary, son, after you.

Were it not for my mother, we might have stood there all day. Just go into the damned apartment! shed shout. Jesus Christ, you two are like a couple of old ladies.

When it came to The Empire, my parents roles were oddly reversed. My mother was still the more personable one, but if a tenant wanted any kind of a break, he soon learned to go to my father, who displayed a level of compassion we rarely saw at home. His own children couldnt get a dime out of him, but if Chester Kingsley lost his wallet or Regina Potts broke her collarbone, he was more than willing to work something out. When Dora Ward fell behind on her rent, he gave her an extension, then another, and another. On discovering she had moved out in the middle of the night, taking the stove and refrigerator with her, he said only, Oh, well. They needed to be replaced anyway.

The hell they did, my mother said. That stove was only two years old. What kind of a landlord are you?

Id hoped to make money remodeling Doras empty apartment, but the dream died when an interracial couple showed up, introducing themselves as Lance and Belinda Taylor. My parents and I were assessing the empty kitchen when they knocked on the door, asking for a tour and announcing in the same breath that they loved the place just the way it was. All it needed was a stove and refrigerator, and everything else they could take care of on their own. Carpentry and whatnot, thats what I do, Lance said. He offered his hands as proof, and we noted that the palms were thickly calloused.

Now show them the other side, his wife said. Let them see your knuckles and whatever.

My mother suggested that the couple come back in a few months, but my father saw something almost biblical in their situation. A carpenter and his wife in search of shelter: all they lacked was an exhausted donkey. He moaned when told they were living in a motel, and buckled completely when shown a photo of the couples three children. We were going to touch the place up a little, but what can I say? Youve got me.

Lets just think about this, my mother said, but my father had thought enough. Lance paid the deposit in cash, and he and his family moved in the following day.

On seeing his new neighbors, Chester confided that it was the kids he felt sorry for. Them and the husband. I mean, is that white woman ugly, or what?

My father took the high road and tried to talk him out of it. Oh, you dont mean that.

Yes, he does, my mother said.

They did make for an odd-looking couple, not because of their color but because they were physically so mismatched. Lance was handsome and accustomed to being admired, while Belinda was gaunt and, well, my mother said, unfortunate looking. Thats the kindest way to describe her, isnt it.