Thomas Stepforth Sr. understood: it was hard enough to remain self-aware as a regular human being. Having a few billion dollars made it a lot harder.
So, the little things: Mr. Stepforth still did the things he saw his rich-in-love-and-wisdom parents both doing even into extreme old age as much as they could: responding on the ground to the needs of the family.
Mr. Stepforth was 66 years old and in good health, so sometimes, even during the pandemic, he made shopping runs … shopping runs for Black seniors like himself in Lofton County, VA who were not as mobile because of health or transportation issues in the pandemic. He had built an entire company to do this, but periodically he went and did a truck run to Big Discounts for Your Loft and brought the food to the distribution center himself.
But as it happened, because everyone uses the roads, a fellow billionaire was out and decided to pick up some cheap alcohol to drink away depression, because …
“No need to drink up my old vintages on this thing – what a mess!” Mr. Kevin Chanson said when Mr. Stepforth recognized and greeted him politely out of courtesy.
Mr. Chanson did not pick up that Mr. Stepforth was not interested in an extensive conversation – or perhaps he did, because he blocked his fellow billionaire's path with his cart. This was a power move of a different kind: even though Mr. Stepforth had more money, Mr. Chanson was pulling the racial hierarchy. He needed to talk to someone, and Thomas Stepforth was to him available. Thomas Stepforth, however, realized that Mr. Chanson had forgotten how many times they had met in business and come out the worst for blocking Mr. Stepforth's path.
“Sometimes, people just do not know any more how to preserve themselves from future beatdowns – they just need what they need and expect the world to adjust, and then the world does what it does without adjusting,” Mr. Stepforth later explained to his wife, Velma.
Mr. Chanson was having one of those moments, and this one was really bad.
“I financed so many of these unincorporated communities that just left the map in Hurricane Mneme and its tornadoes – I've been out to look at them this morning – what a mess! What a mess!”
Mr. Stepforth listened, just waiting for Mr. Chanson to realize where he was and who he was talking to … or not.
“These were ultra-luxury communities … the height of beauty and fashion … a total loss, and people actually died – the best sorts of people – what kind of world is this?”
“A world in which the experiment you financed was actually a success to the end,” Mr. Stepforth said.
Mr. Chanson jumped.
“What?”
“Think about it,” Mr. Stepforth said. “You and the people who lived there stood on business, to the end.”
“What business, though?” Mr. Chanson said. “I don't get it.”
Mr. Stepforth smiled.
“You financed communities in which people like me never were meant to enter as anything but servants, and then, as the laws changed after 1974, refused critical updates because you did not even want people like me to make money you did not control in doing the work. You had your way all 46 years, so well that not only were people like me never allowed to live as equals, but also did not die as equals in Hurricane Mneme because we were not there to die. Well done, Kevin: inequality enforced to the very end. Congratulations on the success of your investment!”
Mr. Chanson's mouth fell open, and he fell back and grabbed his heavy cart for balance … which moved it backward for Mr. Stepforth to get his carts around. Mr. Stepforth put his hand on Mr. Chanson's cart to keep it from rolling back and plowing itself and Mr. Chanson into the liquor shelf, and then went around and got on with his day.