Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [225]
Payton often called Quirk late at night, his voice soft and emotionless. Quirk could usually tell what was coming. Doom. Gloom. “You won’t see me when you get to the office tomorrow,” he’d say. “Enjoy life without me.”
On one occasion, Quirk picked up the phone and heard this: “I’m ending it. I’m no longer going to exist. And if you think I’m not taking you with me, you’re wrong.”
“I usually chose to ignore those threats,” said Quirk. “I never fully believed him. But it was definitely a cry for help.”
Quirk and Tucker often considered leaving. There were certainly other job opportunities out there that didn’t involve this sort of drama. But the women found themselves bonded by a confounding sense of loyalty toward Payton. They saw him at his best, and believed his goodness outweighed the negatives.
“When you love someone,” said Quirk, “you don’t simply throw them away.”
Along with Studebaker’s, Payton was an investor/owner in four other establishments. Those who asked were told that Payton relished the business; that there was nothing he’d rather do than show up at the Pacific Club in Lombard or the Acapulco Bar in the Holiday Inn–Elk Grove to shake hands, sign autographs, and mingle with his customers. The claim was nonsense—Payton hated having to worry about money, and resented that so many past investments had fallen flat. Were it not for Payton Power, the profitable power equipment company he owned with Mike Lanigan, Payton’s business track record would be uniquely terrible. “It ate him up,” said Tucker. “The instability of it all.”
In 1993, Payton was in the midst of opening America’s Bar, a downtown Chicago club that would feature Top 40 music and the city’s only one-dollar all-you-can-eat smorgasbord. With the establishment set to debut in ten days, three building inspectors stopped in, conducted an evaluation, and told Gary Wallem, the general contractor, that the opening would have to be delayed until a proper permit was acquired. Payton requested a meeting with the men the following day, and showed up carrying a large gym bag. He looked at the first inspector and said, “What’s your name?”
John Doe.
“Walter pulled out a football and a pen and wrote, ‘To John Doe—your good friend, Walter Payton,’ ” said Wallem. “Then he did it for the other two inspectors as well.”
At the conclusion of the ritual, Payton said, “So, about that permit . . .”
“What permit?” replied the first inspector. “Your permit is fine with us.”
The story is funny, and Wallem tells it with gusto. Yet Payton detested this sort of thing. He had always scoffed at celebrities trading in their fame for perks and business favors, and now Payton was trading in his fame for perks and business favors. This wasn’t how he had envisioned his life after football. It was beneath him. Beneath his image of Sweetness.
On many nights Payton refused to sleep, instead staying up to drink bottles of Coca-Cola, gorge banana-flavored Laffy Taffys, and watch old movies. He would slump down on his couch, his eyes gazing longingly toward the escape of the large screen before him. When a Roger Ebert–esque thought entered his head, he had to share it.
“Ginny, quick, turn to channel seven. Scaramouche is on.”
Walter, it’s four thirty A.M.
On multiple occasions Walter would excitedly call one of the women from a clothing store or jewelry kiosk or shopping mall. “I want to buy something, but I need an opinion first,” he’d say. “Drop everything and get over here now.”
“We had no choice,” said Quirk. “We dropped everything. We were possessions to Walter. People were like puppets on a string to him. He tested you and tested you. Did Kimm and I have healthy relationships with him? No.”
The women hated Payton. The women cherished Payton. At his absolute best, when the darkness subsided and the sun shone brightly, Payton could be spectacular. “He was,” said Tucker, “addicted