I wasn’t worried though. Making the rest of the world understand why the people I choose to write about are extraordinary has become my specialty.
I spent weeks learning everything I could about him. Kwame’s stories of his father have one note—mistrust. They didn’t spend much time under the same roof, and when they were together, it was heavily orchestrated and full of ceremony. He couldn’t even confirm that the birthday on Wikipedia is correct.
Given that he’s never done an interview, everything that’s been written about him is pure speculation. So I’ve decided to begin our conversation by getting his biographical information down.
I was prepared for Mr. Palmer to be skittish and to need his ego stroked before he’d open up.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. As soon as he walked into the room, it was clear that Al Palmer doesn’t need anyone to remind him that he’s extraordinary.
He was born knowing that he was special and has made it his life's mission to ensure that the rest of the world knows it, too.
All while not saying a single word publicly.
He’s rarely photographed and some of the attendees at his infamous party leave uncertain whether they actually met him.
So face-to-face time with Al Palmer is rare.
I note that for someone who doesn’t like the spotlight, he’s dressed like a modern-day Mansa Musa. He’s wearing a vibrant purple silk suit that’s lined with gold satin fabric. There’s a gold ring on every finger, and he carries himself with a gold-handled walking stick dangling from his hand that he clearly doesn’t need at all.
It’s ostentatious but tracks with everything else in his house. Largerthan life, unmistakable symbols of wealth that run so deep, it’s endless. He’s got the kind of power that’s rooted in myth but is real enough to move markets, influence lawmakers, and demonstrates its dominance without regard for authority.
At its most potent, it moves in silence.
You never see it coming but you always know when you’re in its presence.
When we’re done eating, and I’ve gotten his background information squared away, his fashion choice is the first thing I ask him about.
“When you’re bigger on the inside than the outside you have to distract people from that fact or you’ll never get anywhere.”
His small stature is somewhat of a surprise but only because his son is so tall and broad. He’s petite, for lack of a better word. But it only takes a few moments in his presence to forget all about it. “Do you really think your height has something to do with your success?”
His gaze narrows. “I wasn’t talking about my physical size.”
Heat steals up my neck. “Oh. I’m sorry. I just assumed—”
“It’s fine.” He waves my tongue-tied excuse away with the flick of his elegant wrist. “I learned at an early age that if you can’t convince the world that the deficits they see when they look at you are immaterial, then you’ll find yourself famished for things like acceptance, compassion, tolerance…approval and praise,” he adds with the lift of one of his heavy gray brows. A knowing smile tilts up the corners of his severe mouth as if he knows how viscerally affected I am by what he's saying. It’s like he’s reading straight out of sixteen-year-old-me’s diary.
I swallow hard. “Right.”
“So, you either live with less than you need or you figure out how to make the world give it to you.”
“Is that what you did?”
“I couldn’t live with less. Not when I knew what I was capable of. So I chose to distract them by being confident before I had any right to be. By taking risks no one else would and being a very gracious winner when they paid off. I did that until my name became synonymous with power and prosperity. Until they needed me more than I needed them.”
I nod, understanding the notion of proving everyone wrong. I refer to my notes and grimace at the next question. I act like the writer I want to be and ask the question. “How do you deal with failures? Like the chain of hotels you financed that went bankrupt last year.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You’ve done some digging.” He’s smilingbut his voice is hard.
I nod, unabashed. “I call it research.”
“You say potato,” he says, his voice losing some of its edge.
“I wanted to be prepared.”
He smiles. “Of course. I don’t call anything a failure, and I don’t air my woes.”
“So, for you, the perception was more important than actual success?” I ask for clarity.
