You Ain't Never Lied

Hayward Stockton was born in 1947 on a bus ride south of San Francisco when he was 23 years old. Prior to that moment, Lingyun Zhou had occupied his place in time. 

Zhou had just returned from another fruitless trip along the California coast searching for any employment in his chosen field of agricultural management, an area of study that had landed him a full scholarship at Stanford University where he graduated Magna Cum Laude. 

Even with such outstanding credentials, and service in the 3rd Armored Division during World War 2, he found no success in finding employment after graduation. He found no success in even obtaining a job interview. Of the hundreds of cover letters and resumes he sent out, he received only a handful of rejection letters, most form letters, thanking him for his interest but dismissing his application for need or lack of qualification or over-qualification. 

Lingyun Zhou knew better. 

He was dismissed for the same reason other friends in his community were. His name. Or specifically his ethnicity. 

Though of Chinese descent, post-war America still maintained a decidedly untrustworthy view of Asians, regardless of ethnicity. Lingyun was determined to find a way through that on the bus ride. Watching the countryside roll by, he found his way, marked by an exit sign towards two California towns.

Hayward and Stockton. 

“Now there’s an American name,” he thought. 

The next day, he hired an attorney, a man named Lowell Hebron, the palest white man he could find, to begin the legal process of changing his name. He resented the idea but instinctively knew that any Asian attorney would have a much harder time accomplishing what he was after.

Lowell Hebron next helped him change his name on his Stanford transcripts, an expensive process as Stanford was initially reluctant at making such a change. Three months later, Hayward Stockton began receiving interviews that Lingyun Zhou would never have. Some initial eyebrows raised at first sight, but Hayward’s confidence and resume quickly had most of those misgivings dismissed. Multiple job offers followed and Hayward Stockton rose through the ranks of some of the west coast’s leading agri-business ventures. And Lingyun Zhou ceased to exist. Even in Hayward’s mind. 

* * *

In 1999, Sykes Eastridge was the longest tenured employee at Glycine, Inc. He’d been there since 1972. Six months after finishing his second tour in Vietnam. A friend from the service had recommended him for the job. It was the first job he could find. Lawrence Lowell, Head of Personnel, hired him on the spot as part of the company initiative to hire veterans and minorities.

Sykes had just finished buffing the tile hallway of the engineering wing, the original structure of the now vast Glycine campus, it’s architecture, tan glazed bricks and terrazzo floor, a time capsule, reminiscent of late 1950s school buildings and fallout shelters.

“Eastridge,” Hayward Stockton said as he pushed by double time as was his custom, even at the age of 75. Off to another meeting, the nature and details of which Sykes knew nothing of and didn’t care to know.

“Morning Mr. Stockton,” Sykes said. “Careful on the floor there. I just polished her.”

Hayward waved and adjusted his stride but not his speed. His foot slipped twice before he reached his destination. The second time, he nearly went down, saving himself only with the help of the water fountain anchored nearby. 

“Fine,” Sykes mumbled to himself, Hayward disappearing around the corner. “Don’t pay no attention to what I say.”

“You know not to take it personally by now,” Tracy Stockton said from behind him. So absorbed watching Hayward, Sykes hadn’t even noticed Tracy’s approach. “He still doesn’t pay attention to anyone but himself. Least of all, me.”

“Good morning, Miss Stockton,” Sykes said, “Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mr. Eastridge,” Tracy said.

“What brings you here today?” Sykes asked.

“My father. He’s still determined to lure me over to the dark side,”she said.

* * *

“Social work?” Hayward roared. “Social work?”

“Yes, social work,” Tracy said, accustomed to her father’s self-righteous and self-serving outbursts. Refusing to be baited into an argument, she dropped two ice cubes in a glass off her father’s bar in his study, and looked around at the gathered offerings.

“Still no vodka?” she asked.

“None of that communist swill in this house while I’m in charge.” Hayward dismissed with a wave of his hand.

Tracy settled on some Gordon’s gin, poured in a generous amount and calmly sat in one of his wing back red leather chairs. Crossing her legs, she took a sip and waited.

“No tonic? Not even a lime?”

“It’s fine like this,” she said, suppressing a wince. There was no way she would give her father the satisfaction.

“Riddle me this,” Hayward continued. “What do you get when you combine a social worker with a major conglomerate?”

“This should be good,” Tracy said.

“A conglomerate with a new secretary,” Hayward said, rather proud of himself, adding with his usual theatrical skyward point, “A new secretary without the typing skills.”

“You wish the Civil War had ended differently, don’t you?” Tracy asked, forcing herself to take another sip.

Hayward took the bait. “Don’t you start with that racist malarky again, young lady,” his volume dialing up two notches.

“What do you have against me trying to make people’s lives a little better who need a little help?” Tracy asked, sitting forward in the chair.

“Help. Help.” Another dismissive wave. “Everyone always looking for help, looking for a handout. No personal responsibility. No pulling up by their own bootstraps. No gumption!”

“Yes, that’s it exactly, daddy,” the sarcasm dripped off her words. She stood up and marched for the door. “No gumption. Of course. How silly of me. Why didn’t I think of that? That’s all it will take to make up for centuries of oppression and systemic racism.”

“Systemic racism. What sort of hogwash…”

“Just a little gumption and the poverty would all melt away. Thank you for the insight, daddy!” Tracy downed the rest of her gin in one gulp to punctuate her speech. It hit her stomach a little hard.

She retched forward.

“Blaargh!” 

Mercifully only the sound came out and nothing else.

It froze both father and daughter. Whatever points they were about to make evaporated.

Tracy recovered as quickly and with as much decorum as she could. She pulled at the bottom of her blouse, wiped a finger across her lips, and marched out of the study. 

    * * *

Sykes first met Tracy Stockton at the employee company picnic in the summer of 1983. He had been with Glycine eleven years at that point. Tracy was born the year prior.

“Hello,” Tracy said, extending her hand. “My name is Tracy Stockton. What’s yours?”

“Hello,” Sykes returned, amused and impressed by the girl’s demeanor almost immediately, shaking her hand. “My name is Sykes Eastridge.”

“Please to meet you, Mr. Eastridge,” Tracy said. “You’re the assistant maintenance supervisor, correct?”

That was a surprise. Sykes wasn’t even sure Tracy’s father Hayward knew who he was or what he did, let alone his young daughter. “Yes, miss. Yes, I am.”

Tracy nodded, taking a sip of her lemonade, looking out upon the throng of people gathered at the picnic, hundreds of employees and their families, gathered at tables, eating, laughing, talking, listening to a small band playing on a makeshift stage.

“It’s a beautiful day for a picnic,” she said.

“Yes, miss, it is,” Sykes agreed. He would have usually felt uneasy talking with a young child. Especially a young girl. At least not without the child’s parents present. It would never have been done when he was younger, where he grew up. When he grew up.

But everyone at the company knew Tracy and knew what she was like. She was everywhere. Always. She struck up conversations with almost everyone at the company at any given time. Asking questions about their lives, inquiring as to their well-being, children, pets, favorite color. Whatever crossed her mind.

“I’m not bothering you, am I?” Tracy asked.

“You ain’t bothering me any,” Sykes said.

“Good,” Tracy said. “I think I bother a lot of the adults.”

Sykes laughed. “Why you think that?”

“People start fidgeting after awhile. That’s what my father calls it. If people fidget they aren’t interested in what you’re saying. That’s what he says.”

“Hmm,” Sykes said, pausing to look out at the crowd but really just thinking about what the little girl said. He couldn’t disagree.

“He’s probably right,” she said. “I know I fidget a lot when he lectures me.”

Sykes laughed out loud. “Not a child on this planet doesn’t fidget when their parents trying to tell them what to do.”

“Can I tell my father that next time he tells me not to fidget?”

“Long as you don’t tell him you got that notion from me.”

“Deal,” Tracy said. She extended her hand again, Sykes shaking it again. “You’re a good listener, Mr. Eastridge.”

“Well, I never found out much listening to myself,” he said. 

“Everyone should learn to be good listeners,” Tracy said.

“You ain’t never lied.”

* * *

You ain’t never lied.

After just a few years at Glycine, it had become Sykes’ trademark expression. His unique way of agreeing with someone. People came to expect it in conversations with him and were often disappointed when it didn’t occur. Many would go out of their way to make statements just to elicit the response.

“Beautiful weather we’re having.”

“You ain’t never lied.”

“Gas prices have gotten outrageous.”

“You ain’t never lied.”

“Be nice if we all got a Christmas bonus this year.”

“You ain’t never lied.”

He made the mistake of saying it to Hayward one day in the mid-80’s. Hayward didn’t appreciate it the way most people did.

“Of course, I don’t lie,” he said, his expression couldn’t have conveyed more indignation if he had been accused of stealing from a church collection plate. “Why would you insinuate that I lie.”

Sykes did his best to explain what he meant, but Hayward was having none of it. “The air conditioning compressor above my office is leaking through the roof. See to it immediately,” he dismissed, stalking off down the hall.

It was months before Hayward even recognized Sykes existence when passing him in the halls at Glycine. Four years passed before he spoke to him at length again. This conversation went even worse.

“What kind of ideas are you putting in my daughter’s head?” Hayward nearly shouted, cornering Sykes in the maintenance locker room one day in late 1989.

* * *

Sykes liked to take his lunch break on a bench just outside the employee cafeteria. At least in the warmer weather. Winters were another matter. It was peaceful. Time to himself mostly. He’d eat and look out over the seemingly endless fields of corn that were the lifeblood of Glycine Industries. An ocean of green in the summer, that when the wind blew created its own sound, similar to distant waves washing on shore.

On a late spring day in 1989, Sykes was surprised to find Tracy sitting there.

“How are you today, Miss Stockton?” Sykes asked, seeing full well Tracy wasn’t having a good day. It hung on her face, a heavy gloom where there was usually only brightness.

“Delightful,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. She quickly recovered, correcting herself, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Eastridge. I didn’t mean to…”

“That’s okay,” Sykes said with a wave. “No need to apologize.”

“It’s just… I had another run in with my father.”

* * *

“One phone call,” Hayward Stockton said, dramatically raising one finger skyward, a gesture more intended to show his power than to illustrate the number. “One phone call.”

“I know, Daddy.” Tracy thumbed through the copy of Cosmo on her lap, refusing to look up, knowing that ignoring her father was the only thing that got to him. “But I told you I want to get into a school on my own.”

“You could be making ten times what you’re making at that camp working for me this summer instead. Ten times!” Hayward huffed, disgusted. “You could be learning the business now.”

“Daddy, I will someday. Obviously,” she said, finally closing the magazine. “But colleges like to see this kind of experience on their applications. It makes me look well-rounded. Besides, it’s helping these kids, and I like that.”

“Waste of time,” Hayward grumbled, refilling his scotch glass. “Complete waste of time.”

“It’s helping.”

“By keeping them out of jail a few years longer.”

“Daddy!” Tracy stood and slammed down the magazine on the coffee table, rattling the crystal decorating it.

“It’s true.”

“How can you, of all people, be so insensitive?” 

“It’s not being insensitive,” Hayward dismissed with a wave.

“You’re right,” Tracy said, ratcheting up the argument a notch, “It’s racist!”

“How dare you!” Hayward roared. “How dare you! I haven’t got a racist bone in my body. I have plenty of Colored working for me at Glycine…”

“Daddy, stop!”

“In all kinds of positions. Not just janitorial!”

“Oh my God.”

Hayward pointed at his daughter. “You watch that. I’ve told you repeatedly I won’t have the Lord’s name taken in vain.”

“Daddy, I’m not having this conversation with you. I’m going to keep working at the camp. Period.”

“Your mother thinks it’s a waste of time, too.”

“She does not.”

“Ask her. Ask her.”

“I don’t even know where she is to ask her.”

“Vail,” Hayward crinkled his brow. Unsure now. “Aspen maybe. No… Oh, who the hell cares. She’ll be back this weekend and you can ask her then.”

“Life with the Cleavers,” Tracy said, rolling her eyes and heading out of the room.

“You watch your attitude,” Hayward called after her. He drained the end of his Scotch and scowled in her direction, then shouted, “One phone call! One!”

* * *

Sykes nodded. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, miss.”

Tracy finally noticed the lunch bag and thermos. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I in your seat?”

“Ain’t my bench. Ain’t got my name on it. Belongs to anyone. Actually probably closer to belonging to you.”

Tracy laughed. “Let’s call it a communal bench,” Tracy said, sliding to one end. “Please have a seat.”

Sykes sat on the far end, half of his body hanging off the bench. He unwrapped his sandwich and looked out at the fields where the corn was just beginning to inch its way out of the earth.

“My father wants me to go to business school.”

Sykes nodded but said nothing.

“He wants me to take over for him here.”

“What you want?” Sykes finally asked without looking over.

“To make a difference,” Tracy said. 

“Your father makes a difference. Lots of us have jobs because of this here company of his. That makes a big difference in all our lives.”

Tracy wasn’t in the mood to concede anything with regard to her father at the moment, but she understood his point. 

“My two cents,” Sykes said, finally making eye contact with Tracy. “Because that’s what you’re here asking for, right?”

Tracy nodded.

“You just be you. Everything else gonna fall into place. No doubt.” He considered his own words a moment, and then nodded. Satisfied. He took a bite off his sandwich and turned his attention back to the fields.

“You eat your lunch out here a lot, don’t you?” Tracy finally said after a long silence.

Sykes nodded. 

“Peaceful out here,” she said. “We could all use a little more peace,”

“You ain’t never lied,” Sykes said.

* * *

“You fired him?” Tracy yelled, loud enough for everyone outside Hayward’s office to hear.

“He over-stepped,” Hayward said matter-of-factly, pouring himself a scotch and settling in behind his desk. “And keep your voice down.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Tracy yelled, double the volume.

“You will, or you can go,” Hayward said, coldly, calmly, staring over the edge of his glass at his daughter. Daring her to continue. “One doesn’t meddle in other people’s family’s business.”

“He didn’t meddle.”

“Call it what you want. He inserted himself where he did not belong.”

“It was a five-minute conversation.”

“Five minutes too long.” Hayward had a counter to everything.

“Four minutes longer than any conversation you and I have had,” Tracy shouted.

“Nonsense. You’re just being dramatic,” Hayward said. “You and I have had much longer conversations.”

“No, daddy,” Tracy said, lowering her tone, and leaning in over the back of one of the chairs in front of Hayward’s desk. “You talk. You talk and talk and talk, and you never listen. That’s not a conversation. That’s a monologue. Or a lecture.”

“People need to keep to their place in the world,” Hayward said.

“Is that what you did, Lingyun Zhou?”

Hayward froze. Only the widening of his eyes gave him away. They said what the rest of him did not. Would not.

* * *

Sykes Eastridge was rehired within three hours of being let go. Lawrence Lowell had never seen it before. Even with Hayward’s mercurial personality, it was a new record for a re-hire by three days. Sykes remained with Glycine until he retired in 2009.

In 2010, at Sykes’ memorial service, Tracy gave the eulogy just as she had at her father’s service three years before. The church was packed to overflowing for Sykes. It was barely half that for Hayward.

Afterwards people came up to her to reminisce about Sykes, tell her how honored he would have been to have her speak for him, what a wonderful tribute it all had been.

“Really a beautiful job, Miss Stockton,” Lawrence said to her, grasping her hands dramatically. “He was a wonderful human being.”

Tracy smiled and nodded. There was only one response.

“You ain’t never lied.”