Who's the Boss?

by Mona Shaw

Mike and I became friends in 2007, when I lived in Des Moines. He was a regular in a soup kitchen where I volunteered. The first time we met, he lumbered into my personal space, but it felt loving not intrusive. He looked me dead in the eye and demanded an answer to his question.

“Who’s the boss?”

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Who’s the boss around here?” he repeated.

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

“I am!” he chortled. “I’m the boss around here!” He laughed and thumped his own chest.

“Glad to meet you, Boss.” I grinned and shook his hand.

I was an immediate fan. No one knew how old Mike was. Mike didn’t know. He looked to be in his 40s. He was a little less than six-feet-tall, average build. He frequently needed a shower. He was African American as are many in any soup kitchen. The legacy of racism affects people of color in poverty disproportionately to the rest of the population.

Mike had an intellectual disability. I never knew what exactly. He had the vocabulary and mental capacity of an average four-year-old.

Looking back on it, I’m not surprised we became fast friends. Our broken wings matched. We both shared the frustration of the inability to communicate to others what we wanted them to know. Yet, we understood each other and had meaningful conversations that were looks and eye-rolls and gestures as much as they were words.

When Mike hugged me, which he did often, I always felt safe and loved.  There is something extraordinary about a hug that is just for the hug’s sake.

He was clever. The first time I gave him a ride home, we drove around for a good hour, while he gestured for me to take one turn, then the next. I was close to giving up, when he pointed to the entrance of a subsidized housing complex only about ten blocks from my place

“Here!” he announced.

As he left the passenger seat, he turned and grinned.

“Good ride!”

He loved going to church, and he attended several. He loved congregational singing. He didn’t know a single word of any hymn, but he would vocalize loudly and with great joy until the singing ended. This annoyed or left more than a few people feeling awkward, but it always charmed off my socks. It was just so happy.

We hung out almost every day. I would be writing at my computer, and he would just walk into my place and sit on the couch.

“Hi, Baby.”

“Hi, Mike.”

He knew I liked quiet while I was writing. So, he would watch PBS kids with the volume low. Out of the corner of my eye, I would notice him watching me out of the corner of his.

At some point, when I write, I reach a point where the juices dry up. In that moment, I put my hands over my face and take a deep breath.  When, this happened, Mike would come to me and drop my car keys or purse on my keyboard.

“Play now,” he would say.

Sometimes we’d go to the park. He loved the carousel; so, I loved it too.  Sometimes we’d go to lunch. He always wanted whatever I was having. Except, when we went to a buffet, then he’d load up on donuts and desserts. He would try to hide the vegetables I would sneak onto his plate under a napkin next to him in the booth.

I know I’m likely going to Hell for this, but one day while we were riding in the car, he smiled at me and said.

“You beautiful, Baby.”

“Yeah,” I agreed sardonically. “I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”

This became a routine for us in greeting each other.

“Who’s the boss?”

“You are! Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“You are!”

After that he’d introduce me as his girlfriend. I didn’t correct him because I could never think of a good reason to do that. The ascription came with no extra expectations from me at all. He never made any romantic, let alone sexual, gesture. It was more that he wanted people to know we were special to each other.

We had so many routines, like when he needed a shower.

“Mike, you need a shower.”

Mike would pull his t-shirt up to his nose.

“Stank! Ewweee.”

Going places with Mike was like walking next to Jesus when he rode into Jerusalem. It was a rare person who did not know him and didn’t greet him. Down every aisle of every store, throughout every shopping mall, any restaurant, or on the street, Mike was hailed.

“Hi, Mike!”

“Hi, Buddy.”

“Hi, Mike!”

“Hi, Buddy!”

“Hi, Mike!”

“Hi, Buddy!”

He was a true Des Moines celebrity. One day in the soup kitchen, another volunteer questioned why I was cooking something a certain way.  I was feeling impish.

“The Boss is my boyfriend, so I can do things however I want.”

“That’s right!” said Mike as he put his arm around my shoulders.

One day I was in a contentious discussion with another volunteer, Jim, about wealth.

I was insisting that wealth was inherently evil.

Jim believed I was letting jealousy influence my thinking. He believed in a meritocracy that rewarded people for ingenuity and hard work. The system may not be perfect, but there would be no progress without it.

People always look at me as if I’ve lost my mind, when I insist that intelligence is a privilege and shouldn’t be rewarded with material wealth any more than race or sex.

So, we did point, counterpoint for the better part of the afternoon. We were fixated on a popular television show in 2009, called “The Apprentice.”  I saw the show as an icon for how we foster a culture of greed and class supremacy.  Jim insisted it was a healthy example of rewarding ingenuity.

Jim was a kind guy, and he delighted in Mike almost as much as I did. He also knew how much Mike loved Hershey bars and Pepsi. In mid-sentence, he remembered he’d brought both for Mike.  He stopped, reached in his backpack and handed them over.

“Thanks, Buddy!” Mike was over the moon with joy.

Mike laughed. Jim laughed. I laughed. We all reflected joy in one another’s eyes. And then we laughed again.

After hugs all around, I just had to ask.

“Give me one GOOD reason Donald Trump should have a better standard of living than Mike?”

Silence.

“I can’t,” Jim finally said.

Mike passed away a few years after I moved from Des Moines. They don’t do autopsies on men from Mike’s side of the tracks, so we’ll never really know why he died.  I know I miss him and think about every day.

Mike’s life mattered. He was a walking, shimmering beacon of love and joy.  When I think of him, I always wonder why love isn’t our meritocracy.  What if love was the measure?

What if rather than spending every morning pleading with God in prayer to make me more effective in convincing others to care about the least of these, what if we lived in a world where that was our focus of attention?

What if instead of bickering about elections and political theory and describing the relative merits of candidates or philosophers and defending our fealty to them or other flavors of celebrities, we were talking about our plans to end human suffering?

What if the main news story was about efforts to end poverty and war for profit? What if we decided it was unacceptable to allow anyone to die or suffer pain because they couldn’t afford the medical care they need for any amount of time or for any reason?  What if we were hanging banners on turnpike overpasses demanding any end to racism, sexism, ableism, classism, heterosexism and transphobia?

What if we were advocates of unabashedly loving our neighbor as ourselves?

Mike’s life was a masterclass in that.