But when he finally reached the telephone, the most bizarre thing would happen: He would magically transform himself into his alter ego, Sir Max, who was a refined gentleman with impeccable manners and an accent reeking of British aristocracy. It was rather odd, I’d thought, considering my father was born and raised on the grimy streets of the South Bronx and had never been to England.
Nevertheless, Sir Max would say into the telephone, “Hello? How may I help you?” And he would keep his lips puckered and his cheeks slightly compressed, which really brought out that aristocratic accent of his. “Oh, okay, then; that will be quite fine! Righty-o, then!” With that, Sir Max would hang up the phone and revert back to Mad Max. “That-motherfucking-cocksucking-piece-of-fucking-shit-friend-of-fucking-mine-who-has-the-motherfucking-goddamn-gall-to-call-this-motherfucking-house…”
Yet with all the insanity, it was Mad Max who was the smiling coach of all my Little League teams, and it was Mad Max who was the first father to wake up on Sunday mornings and go downstairs and throw a ball around with his kids. He was the one who held the back of my bicycle seat and pushed me down the cement walk in front of our apartment building and then ran behind me, and he was the one who came into my bedroom at night and lay with me—running his fingers through my hair as I suffered with night terrors. He was the one who never missed a school play or a parent–teacher conference or music recital or anything else, for that matter, where he could relish his children and show us that we were loved.
He was a complicated man, my father; a man of great mental capacity who was driven to succeed yet humbled into mediocrity by his own emotional limitations. After all, how could a man like this function in the corporate world? Would such behavior be tolerated? How many jobs had he lost because of it? How many promotions had passed him by? And how many windows of opportunity had been slammed shut as a result of the Mad Max persona?
But all that changed with Stratton Oakmont, a place where Mad Max could unleash his fiery wrath with complete impunity. In fact, what better way for a Strattonite to prove his loyalty than to get berated by Mad Max and suck it up for the greater good, meaning: to live the Life. So a baseball bat to your car window or a public tongue-lashing was considered a rite of passage for a young Strattonite, to be worn like a badge of honor.
So there was Mad Max and Sir Max, and the idea was to figure out a way to bring out Sir Max. My first trial balloon was the one-on-one approach. I looked at Kenny and Danny and said, “Why don’t you guys give me a few minutes to talk to my father alone, okay?”
No arguments there! The two of them left with such alacrity that my father and I had barely made it to the couch, only ten feet away, when the door slammed shut behind them. My father sat down and lit up another cigarette and took one of his enormous pulls. I plopped myself down to his right, leaned back, and put my feet up on a glass coffee table in front of us.
I smiled sadly and said, “I swear to God, Dad, my back is fucking killing me. You have no idea. The pain’s going right down the back of my left leg. It’s enough to drive a person insane.”
My father’s face immediately softened. Apparently, trial balloon number one was off to a flying start. “Well, what do the doctors say?”
Hmmmmm…I hadn’t detected any hint of a British accent in those last few words; nonetheless, my back really was killing me and I was definitely making progress with him. “Doctors? What the fuck do they know? The last surgery made it even worse. And all they do is give me pills that upset my stomach and don’t do shit for the pain.” I shook my head some more. “Whatever, Dad. I don’t wanna worry you. I’m just venting.” I took my feet off the coffee table, leaned back, and spread my arms out on either side of the couch. “Listen,” I said softly, “I know it’s hard for you to make sense of all this craziness around here, but trust me, there’s a method to my madness, especially when it comes to the spending. It’s important to keep these guys chasing the dream. And it’s even more important to keep them broke.” I gestured over to the plate glass. “Look at them; as much money as they make, every last one of them is broke! They spend every dime they have, trying to keep up with my lifestyle. But they can’t, because they don’t make enough. So they end up living paycheck to paycheck on a million bucks a year. It’s hard to imagine, considering how you grew up, but, nevertheless, it is what it is.
“Anyway, keeping them broke makes them easier to control. Think about it: Virtually every last one of them is leveraged to the hilt, with cars and homes and boats and all the rest of that crap, and if they miss even one paycheck they’re up shit’s creek. It’s like having golden handcuffs on them. I mean, the truth is I could afford to pay them more than I do. But then they wouldn’t need me as much. But if I paid them too little, then they would hate me. So I pay them just enough so they love me but still need me. And as long as they need me they’ll always fear me.”
My father was staring at me intently, hanging on every word. “One day”—I gestured with my chin toward the plate glass—“all that will be gone, and so will all that so-called loyalty. And when that day comes, I don’t want you to have any knowledge of some of the things that went on here. That’s why I’m evasive with you sometimes. It’s not that I don’t trust you or that I don’t respect you—or that I don’t value your opinion. It’s the opposite, Dad. I keep things from you because I love you, and because I admire you, and because I want to protect you from the fallout when all this starts to unwind.”
Sir Max, in a concerned tone: “Why are you talking like this? Why does all this have to unwind? The companies you’re taking public are all legitimate, aren’t they?”
“Yes. It has nothing to do with the companies. And the truth is, we’re not doing anything different than anybody else out there. We’re just doing it bigger and better, which makes us a target. Anyway, don’t worry about it. I’m just having a morbid moment. Everything will work out fine, Dad.”
Just then Janet’s voice came through the intercom: “I’m sorry for interrupting, but you have a conference call with Ike Sorkin and the rest of the lawyers. They’re on the line right now and they have their billing clocks ticking. Do you want them to hold or should I reschedule it?”
Conference call? I didn’t have any conference call! And then it hit me: Janet was bailing me out! I looked at my father and shrugged, as if to say, “What can I do? I gotta take this call.”
We quickly exchanged hugs and apologies, and then I made a pledge to try to spend less in the future, which both of us knew was complete bullshit. Nevertheless, my father had come in like a lion and gone out like a lamb. And just as the door closed behind him, I made a mental note to give Janet a little something extra for Christmas, in spite of all the crap she’d given me this morning. She was a good egg—a damn good egg.
CHAPTER 8
THE COBBLER
About an hour later, Steve Madden was making his way to the front of the boardroom with a confident gait. It was the sort of gait, I thought, of a man in complete control, a man who had every intention of giving a first-class dog-and-pony show. But when he reached the front of the boardroom—that look on his face! Sheer terror!
And the way he was dressed!It was ridiculous. He looked like a broken-down driving-range pro who’d traded in his golf clubs for two pints of malt liquor and a one-way ticket to Skid Row. It was ironic that Steve’s business was fashion, considering he was one of the least fashionable dressers on the planet. He was the wacky-designer type, an over-the-top artsy-fartsy guy, who walked around town holding a horrendous-looking platform shoe in his hand as he offered unsolicited explanations as to why this shoe would be what every teenage girl would be dying to wear next season.