Roscoe: “What yer fay-vor-it cologne, Tiff-a-Knee? What youu want your man to smell like?”
Tiffany: “Clean, Roscoe. I want him to smell clean.”
Roscoe: “You like Old Spice? You like Brut? You like Cool Water? Cool Water smells clean?”
Tiffany: “I don’t know if I like that, I don’t even know what that stuff smells like. As long as he smells clean. I like my man to smell clean. My boyfriend’s cologne is pretty good.”
At the time, I was dating Titus, and he worked in the airport. In fact, he was part of the same department that Roscoe worked for, but for a different airline. I told Roscoe this, and he said:
Roscoe: “Okay, I go see yer boy-fren. I goin’ smell him, I goin’ find out what’chu like.”
I didn’t think about that weird-ass statement until about two months later, when I was going through the breakup with Titus. He had lost his job at the airport, and we were having serious problems, and Roscoe came up to me and said:
Roscoe: “Tiff-a-Knee, why youuu got a damn man who don’t havva job? Youuu too good for dat, Tiff-a-Knee, your man gotta havva job!”
I don’t know how Roscoe knew that, because I didn’t tell nobody that my man got fired.
I wondered for a second if Roscoe had something to do with it, but that’s ridiculous—how’s a handicapped guy with a little baby arm gonna get my man fired?
The breakup with Titus was hard. I spent months getting over him, crying, being sad and fucked up.
Every day, Roscoe was telling me I’m beautiful. Even on the days I was coming in tired and burnt out, with nasty, puffy eyes, because I’d been crying all night, he still told me I’m beautiful.
Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEE! Youu are so booty-full! You look soooo good too-day!”
Roscoe gave me my space when I needed it, but he pretty quickly got back to asking me out. And now it went from once a week, to every single day.
Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEE! Youu are so booty-full! Can we go on a date? You want to go on a date with meee?”
One day, I was finally over my ex-boyfriend. I don’t know what possessed me, maybe it was the Filet-O-Fish that Roscoe had just brought me, but I said:
Tiffany: “Yeah, fuck it. Let’s go on a date, Roscoe. Let’s do it.”
His eyes bugged out, and his sideways mouth hung open. For a second, I thought maybe he was having a stroke. But then he snapped out of it:
Roscoe: “Fer reaaal? Fer reaaal, Tiff-a-Knee?”
Tiffany: “Yeah Roscoe, let’s go out.”
Roscoe: “Okay, oh my God, okay, aww right. Dis gonna be great, Tiff-a-Knee! We’re gonna go to Hermosa Beach, to da Hennessey’s, it’s gonna be the best date evaaaa! We’ll catch da 217 bus, den get the crosstown, then—”
Tiffany: “Roscoe, I got my own car, I’ll pick you up.”
He gave me his address and then ran out of work. I don’t even think it was the end of his shift, he was just so excited that he bolted out of the airport.
The next evening, I pulled up to his place. I was thinking, This is a pretty big house, considering he’s handicapped and works as a baggage handler. How is he affording this? Does he live with his parents?
Nope. Turns out it’s one of those group homes for adults with disabilities. And I am here to straight pick up this man to go on a date. At a group home.
? ? ?
A girl answered the door. Clearly she had Down syndrome. She took one look at me and screamed at the top of her lungs:
“YOU MUSS BE TIFF-A-KNEEEE!!! YOU MUSS BE TIFF-A-KNEEEE!!! YOU ARE SOOO BOOTY-FULL! YOU ARE SOOO BOOTY-FULL!”
She started running in circles in the living room, throwing her hands in the air and screaming as loud as she could:
“EVERYONE COME SEE! TIFF-A-KNEE HERE, SHE IS SO BOOTY-FULL!! [deep breath] TIFF-A-KNEE HERE, SHE IS SO BOOTY-FULL!! [deep breath] EVERYONE COME SEE! TIFF-A-KNEE HERE, SHE IS SO BOOTY-FULL!!”
All I could think to myself is, I gotta come over here every day. This is wonderful. This is how people should greet people. This is what I’m talkin’ ’bout.
As she was running in circles, screaming at the top of her lungs, the living room filled up with all sorts of different handicapped people. It was like—I don’t even know how to describe it. Like, in that Rudolph Christmas special, the Island of Misfit Toys.
There was a dude in a wheelchair, who had this goofy smile that did not change one bit the whole time I was there. There was an older lady in there, she had Down syndrome, she was smiling and clapping. There was a young kid with his hands over his ears rocking back and forth on the sofa, but he was smiling, too. Roscoe came down the stairs, and he looked a little annoyed:
Roscoe: “Ever-buddy calm down, she my date, dis is my date, guys! Relax, okay! Relax, I see you guys lay-tah.”
Roscoe was the alpha dog in the group home!
He was like the older brother trying to deal with his little brothers and sisters. They all hugged him and lined up at the door to say goodbye. Roscoe finally got through his people and to me, and he gave me flowers.
And yes, there were bugs in them.
Roscoe: “Tiff-a-Knee, I gonna show youuu sucha good time, we gunna have so much fuuuuun. We gunna eat da best buuurgers . . .”
On and on like that, the whole car ride. He finally calmed down by the time we got to Hermosa Beach, to a bar called Hennessey’s. It was karaoke night.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Hennessey’s in Hermosa Beach, but this is a beachy, preppy, white-people bar. It’s where the bros drink their brews, and the surfers sip their hurricanes, and they all just white together.
We were the ONLY black people in there. Even the busboys were white.
We ordered our drinks, and before they even came, Roscoe ran up to the stage. With his good arm, he grabbed the mic from the last person who sang. I am pretty sure there was a long line of people waiting their turns, but you know how polite these beachy white people are. They ain’t gonna say nothing when someone like Roscoe grabs the mic.
He composed himself onstage as the DJ loaded the song. He waited patiently and anxiously for his song to start, hopping around just a little, like a kid that had to pee.
Then it started. And he started singing. He was not just doing regular karaoke. This dude was straight belting him some Luther Vandross. I mean, he was into it.
“A chair is still a chair,
Even if no one is sitting there . . .”
Now understand, Roscoe was handicapped, so I’ll be nice about it: his singing was terrible. He was off-key and tone-deaf. It was just bad, horrible singing.
But he knew all the words, and he knew all of Luther’s moves, and he put his heart into it. He had on his little burgundy blazer, and he was swinging his little dead baby arm around, all suave and shit.
But yeah, it sounded just horrible.