The Last Days of Max Robinson

by Aaron Freeman

(This article originally appeared in Chicago Magazine June 1990)

America's top black anchor came to Chicago riding a wave of fame and achievement — an Emmy on his mantle, a network behind him, and a bright future ahead. Then he got AIDS. A friend remembers

It WAS A BEAUTIFUL APING DAY in May of 1988 when I arrived at Max Robinson's tiny apartment in Marina City Towers. I remember the image of Wacker Drive and the Chicago River forming silvery arcs 50 floors below. Max was settled on the couch, in a living room thick with African and African-American art—sculpture, batiks, oil paintings, and masks. He shook _ my hand firmly but did not rise. I sat down in a chair opposite him and we chatted about mutual friends, mutual enemies. He produced a big blowup of a Washington Post feature on his career as America's most famous black anchorman. The article was long but he clearly wanted me to read it all, so I did. It included recent pictures of him and I remember thinking, Damn, the camera still loves this guy, even if he is dying of AIDS. Seeing him relaxing in his sunny living room that day, I could hardly believe Max was terminally ill. He was thin, but not frighteningly so. His face seemed not hollow but craggy and full of character. His eyes spoke not of disease but weariness. His trademark voice, the voice that carried him so far, was clear, strong, rich and musical. It wasn't until he stirred from the couch that I saw his fragility. As he rose to pour himself some iced tea his steps were unsure. The 30-foot trip across the living room to the kitchen exhausted him. He didn't look at me as he Glory days Robinson on the job' shuffled back to the couch. He stared at the floor. Maybe he was just walking carefully, but I took it as a denial of his pain. Like a child who believes that by closing his eyes he becomes invisible. Visibly drained and in some degree of discomfort, he flopped back down on the sofa and closed his eyes for a few moments, breathing deeply. Collecting himself, he opened his eyes and quietly asked me to continue with the computer lesson I had come to give him.

Max had decided to begin writing his autobiography, using a Macintosh computer. He was working on the book with Chicago Tribune writer Clarence Page and Page's wife, Lisa Cole. But Max wanted to use some of the computer's more arcane applications, and because I'm known to be something of a Macintosh fanatic, Clarence suggested Max call me.

Midway through one of my long, pedantic explanations of RAM allocation and the many uses of a hard disk, I noticed Max had stopped asking questions. As I glanced at him it looked as if his spirit had left his body. He was far more unconscious than if he had been asleep. I didn't know what to do, so I kept up a nervous chatter.

Then a thought popped into my head. With forced cheerfulness I asked, "Hey, are you related to Randall Robinson, the man who started TransAfrica, the group that staged all those protests outside the South African Embassy in Washington?"

"He's my brother," Max said, lifting his chin from his chest. "You know, I'd like to talk to that guy," I said. "I think he's got the wrong idea. P. W. Botha [then president of South Africa] is actually a reformer; sanctions are just hurting black South Africans." -
"You like Botha?" said Max, becoming more animated.
"Absolutely," I said. "He has made significant changes, and I don't know that sanctions help." ~
"That is the silliest thing I ever heard," said a now fully indignant Max. "You obviously don't know anything about what's happening down there."

While I'm not particularly fond of the Afrikaner regime, I do love provoking arguments, and this one appeared to be doing Max some good. His eyes were clearer, his voice was stronger, and he was sitting up straight in his chair. It was a transformation. Observing this, Annie Coleman, Max's nurse, commented to me, “You should come by more often. He needs somebody to get him excited."
"If he doesn't kill me first, talking that kind of nonsense," Max huffed. Max and I continued for another half hour to debate the political relevance of Zulu chief Gatsha Buthelezi, the significance of South Africa's repeal of its laws against mixed marriages, and whether the Afrikaners are evil or just lost.

I called Max several times over the next few days to check on his computer progress. What I got each time was an argument. The Presidential campaigns were in full swing, so we had lots of combustible material.
"What time are you coming over tomorrow?" Max asked after one of my phone calls. I realized then that he was a man in need of a friend, a peer to be there for him. I had heard about people who acted as "buddies" to AIDS patients, caring for them, comforting them, standing by them to the end. I wondered how this new commitment would fit into my already hectic life. Did I really need to take on a terminally ill friend?

Looking back on it, I think I decided to be Max's "buddy" because there didn't seem to be anybody else to do it. Sure, he had many friends in town, but they weren't the ones he was calling. Maybe he was too proud to ask old friends for help. Maybe he figured they were too busy for the kind of commitment he needed.

Even so, hanging out with Max wasn't exactly penance. He was one of the most engaging, amusing, and intelligent men I've known. His bet was always cluttered with newspapers, biographies, and reference books. From the Presidency of Andrew Jackson to the physics of Steven Hawking, Max read everything. I would have been pleased to spend hours in his company under any circumstances. And I wasn't Max's only visitor during this time. His son Malik dropped by most weekends and a number of friends and acquaintances stopped by, most notably Lisa Cole. Lisa visited Max weekly and she kept coming long after Max had become too ill to dictate any more of his life story into her micro cassette recorder.

MAX INSISTED HE WAS NEITHER GAY NOR bisexual. I'm sure he would want me to make that point. He was, however, an alcoholic, and he often didn't remember what had happened after the first 20 or 30 Scotches. It's possible that he could have done anything in one of his drunken stupors. But his love of men was wholly platonic. That's what he told me, and I believed him.

Even dying of AIDS, Max remained a ladies' man. One of his lovers was Sandra (not her real name), an old flame. I first saw her in the elevator heading up to Max's apartment. She was gorgeous and thin and carrying a helium balloon valentine that read "Sweetheart." I didn't know who she was or where she was going, but as the elevator stopped on the 50th floor I said, "Aw, you shouldn't have." She replied, 'I didn't," and stepped into the hall. Sandra also had AIDS. Max said she hadn't contracted it from him and he never shared any details about their nights together but, given his condition, I assume their passion was careful. We gossiped endlessly. Having generated so many rumors, Max delighted in spreading a few. He told me stories about a now-famous TV news reporter who had gotten her signals crossed about the timing a tryst with her married paramour. She showed up at his apartment wearing a tiny halter and even tinier cutoff jeans—and was greeted at the door by the man's none-too-amused wife.

He also told me about his ongoing feud with Frank Reynolds. Reynolds, it seems, was arrogant and inconsiderate to janitors, secretaries, and maintenance people. This outraged Max. So whenever Reynolds came to visit Max's office, he was made to wait outside in the reception area for a minimum of 15 minutes before being allowed an audience.

Sometimes our discussions were of a decidedly serious nature. I complained about the way Max dealt with the public aspect of his disease. Though his plight could have been a warning to others, Max never publicly acknowledged that he had AIDS. "When people hear you have AIDS they stop thinking of you as a gravely ill person and start snickering about your sex life," he said.

I asked Max once if he ever wondered, Why me?
"Never," he replied emphatically. "I didn't ask 'Why me?' when I was sitting in those limousines drinking Champagne. How can I ask 'Why me' now?"

Max and I came at racial questions from completely different perspectives. He believed in confronting racism wherever he found it. I advocated ignoring it whenever possible. His view was more highly principled. Mine made my life less frustrating -
Max had light skin and had been raised in Virginia where that mattered. He insisted that his light-skinned ancestors had worked in the big house with the massuh and learned the ways of white power, while my darker people were mere laborers, bought and sold by the dozen and dumb as dirt. "We try to educate you field niggers," Max would say, "but you just don't listen." I think he was kidding when he said that.

ON A LOVELY AFTERNOON IN JULY MAX ANNOUNCED THAT HE HAD picked out his gravesite. He described it like a kid with a new toy.
"It's gonna be in Oak Hill Cemetery in Washington, where all the most famous black people are buried, but I got the best spot in the in the place. It's in the corner right near the chapel. The spot is a little ragged now but they're gonna fix it up for me. I've also decided on an above ground tomb. I don't want people walking on top of me."
"No," I said, "you want 'em to run into you."
"Well, if they ain't paying attention to where they are, they deserve it. What do you think of this one?" And he handed me an elaborate burial vault catalogue that told, in words and pictures, far more about burial options than I'd ever dreamed I'd know. Max had selected a black marble tomb with classical white lettering. In the picture it vaguely resembled a stylish dining-room table. "Now that," he beamed, "is a tomb with some style to it. I think I'll have them put some benches near it, too, so when people come to visit they can sit down and spend some time with me"
"So, Max," I asked, "can I toss a tablecloth over it and have some lunch?"
"Absolutely," he said. "Have lunch on me."

Meanwhile, Max's health continued to deteriorate. He couldn't eat; he had diarrhea and sporadic and unexplainable fevers. I asked him why he didn't force himself to eat, since he desperately needed the calories, but he said he had no appetite. Throughout the summer Max talked about moving back to Washington, where his career in journalism had started. Much of his art collection and many of his relatives were there. As autumn approached, the subject of Washington came up with greater frequency. Howard University's School of Journalism had offered to pay Max $3,000 to address a fund raising event. The money was not critical, but because a video would be made of the event the fee could be applied toward Max's earnings as a member of AFTRA, the television performers' union. The income would maintain his union medical benefits for another year, and that, if nothing else, made the trip worth attempting.

He was also increasingly frustrated by his medical care. He feared his doctors in j Chicago had become too comfortable with the notion of his inevitable decline. He hoped that the doctors in Washington could bring more urgency and fresh ideas to his treatment. Max also liked the fact that his medical team in DC, unlike the one here, would be black. "My own people will take better care of me," he said. I didn't want Max to go back to Washington. He was sick already, and I knew how traveling sapped his strength. I feared that the journey itself would shorten his life. I also knew that if he went there, he wouldn't make it back. I had grown to low Max, and had hoped to be with him all the way. His move to Washington would make that impossible. But Max clearly wanted to go. So I helped him plan what we both knew would be his last plane ride, the last time he would ever see Chicago. We had an 11 a.m. flight from Midway to Washington National. I arrived at Max's apartment at about 7 a.m. to find him little more than a shadow. He didn't turn his head to look at me as I entered the room; he never even opened his eyes. "Hey," he whispered. You ready to start getting ready?" I asked. "How about I turn on CNN so we can check out what's going on in DC?" “Just give me a minute," he said. I went into the kitchen to make breakfast, all the while wondering who I should call at Howard University to cancel Max's appearance. Though he was too sick even to finish his breakfast, somehow we got him dressed, packed, and onto the plane.

The flight to Washington was miserable. Every bump or shift in the airplane was visibly jarring to Max's frail frame. He didn't eat or read or listen to music. He just sat with his head down, his eyes closed, and occasionally he grimaced.

WE ARRIVED IN WASHINGTON FOUR HOURS before Max was scheduled to speak. We stopped to rest at the Howard Inn hotel, and Max requested an oxygen bottle to ease his labored breathing. His nephew, a navy officer, dropped by, as did a few people from the university. Their attention seemed to lift him. And then we got Max installed in his wheelchair and we set off for the presentation.

The double doors of the banquet hall swung open dramatically. One of the university trustees was speaking at the podium; he fell silent as we entered. Every eye focused on Max as we rolled down the aisle.

And then the crowd broke into applause, a great, rolling, standing ovation. Despite the adulation, Max looked small and feeble, still cradling the green oxygen bottle between his legs and holding the clear plastic mask over his nose and mouth. I wheeled the chair through the crowd to the steps of the dais. People were standing and cheering. Max motioned for me to take the oxygen bottle; then he pushed his body out of the chair and hauled himself up the three steps leading to the dais. He shuffled painfully to his seat and I took a chair next to him.

I don't remember how Max was introduced. I can't recall which of his many accomplishments were mentioned: reporter, writer, anchorman. Max was still laboriously sucking oxygen and trying to collect himself. I was attempting to look strong and confident, while fearing that he wasn't going to make it, that he would stand up, then collapse in exhaustion. He showed no sign of being able to breathe without help, much less deliver a speech. But then the magic words were spoken: "Ladies and gentlemen, Max Robinson."

Another standing ovation—this one lasting only slightly longer than it took for Max to push his chair back, rise, and pull himself erect before the podium.
His final performance was a winner. He started slowly, haltingly; his voice cracked. Then he began to preach. He railed against the callousness of Reagan, the indifference of the media to bigotry, and the sorry state of our race. He pleaded with students to preserve their integrity because, he said, there may come a time when integrity is all they have left. "Believe me. I know." Max said, "what it's like to be in America with nothing left to sell."

The next day Max checked into Howard University Hospital and I flew back to Chicago. I never saw him again. We talked on the phone every few days. People would call me to ask about buying various pieces of his art or furniture. I'd relay the offers to him, but he usually refused to sell. We pretended he would eventually be released from the hospital and get an apartment in DC, I'd have his belongings shipped out, and he'd finish his book. On his deathbed he asked for his Macintosh. I sent it to him, but he never unpacked it. I solicited estimates from various moving companies. The fantasy made our conversations easier, for me at least. The illusion did not survive our final conversation, however. He'd had a fever for several days and was delirious. Between anguished moans he spoke random words and phrases. He retained only pieces of his once fine mind.

THE MORNING OF DECEMBER 20, 1988, WAS cold and gray in Chicago. About 10 a.m. his sister, Jean, called to tell me that Max had died at Howard University Hospital an hour and a half earlier.

The memorial service was held three days later at Shiloh Baptist Church in Washington. I flew to National Airport along with Art Norman, a reporter with WMAQ-TV in Chicago, and Bruce Reins, Max's long-time producer and friend.

Some of my friends expressed surprise that I took Max's death as well as I did. It did not devastate me because I don't think I really believed it. It was another of those weird denials the two of us had become so good at. I was fine when we landed at Washington National. It was a real funereal day—cold and drizzling. As I rode in Art's rented Pontiac the sadness finally caught up with me. The closer we got to the church the more real and terrible it all seemed. After all the games, jokes, and denials I was going to see Max again, dead.

I was wrong. I didn't see him. At his own request he had been cremated within hours of his death. When we arrived at the church we were told that Max was not there. The sadness that had welled up inside me during that long car ride vanished. I felt nothing, empty.

The memorial service was impressive. Shiloh Baptist Church was packed with TV news stars: Roone Arledge, Dan Rather, Charlayne Hunter-Gault, Peter Jennings. Jesse Jackson gave the eulogy. Jackson rebutted the notion, offered in the numerous analyses of Max's fall from media grace, that he was hounded by demons. He said that Max had merely suffered the rages of a giant in too small a cage. Jackson said that Max's problem was that he "just could not adjust." When he saw racism and injustice he could not accept it; he had to call attention to it, to complain about it, to fight it, even if the fight cost him his career.
During lulls in the service, my mind wandered. I settled on a final fantasy of
Max. One day I plan to visit Oak Hill Cemetery and find that black marble tomb. I'11 spread an African National Congress flag over it and have my lunch. And as the sun blazes down upon his name I will raise a glass of Scotch and toast my friend. ~

Aaron Freeman is an actor, comedian, and winter.

© 2001 Aaron Freeman