“Roscoe left, Roscoe not here no more, but you still so booty-full, you so booty-full!”
Nobody at his group home knew where he went. I even talked to the lady that ran the place. She said she didn’t know where he moved to or where he went. He left without even telling them where he was going.
I didn’t know where else to look for him, or what else to do. He was gone. He just vanished.
Nobody knew what happened to Roscoe.
I didn’t tell anyone about Roscoe and me. I just kept it to myself.
I still have all these what if’s go through my mind. I seriously think to myself, What if he was an angel from heaven? What if God was testing me to see if I can have compassion and overlook people’s physical handicaps and look at the beauty of their souls? Roscoe was such a beautiful person, he had a truly beautiful soul.
He was always so positive and supportive. Whatever I said I wanted to do, everyone else put me down or told me I couldn’t do it. Not Roscoe. He would always encourage me. He was one of the first people I told when I decided to start doing comedy.
Tiffany: “I’m about to go full-time in comedy, Roscoe.”
Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEE! Youu do soo good! Youu soo fun-neeee! Tell me when youu doin’ it, I’m going to come see youuu.”
Tiffany: “I’m doing open mics right now, maybe when my shows get bigger, then you can come to the show.”
Roscoe: “Oh, you’re so fun-nee, youu make everybody laugh, you’re going to be the best comedian, you’re going to be the best.”
He would always be so encouraging. Even though life had dealt him such a bad hand, he was just a positive motherfucker.
And then he was gone, and it was my fault.
For years, I didn’t tell none of my friends about him. Then I ran into one of my old coworkers, and I told her. She about choked:
Friend: “You fucked Roscoe? Oh my God. How did you end up fucking Roscoe? I remember he used to talk about you every day, and if you didn’t show up to work, he’d be wondering where you were, so worried about you. How did you end up fucking Roscoe?”
I told her what happened, the whole story. Then she got all mad at me:
Friend: “You never told no one that? If you don’t talk about that onstage, you wrong! You have to go talk about that, because handicapped people need love—they need love too, they people.”
Tiffany: “Yeah, I know. I know I’m going to heaven, too. Roscoe taught me that.”
Friend: “What do you mean you know you’re going to heaven?”
Tiffany: “Because I fucked Roscoe. Roscoe is probably an angel, a fallen angel. I feel like Roscoe was like the John Travolta character in the movie Michael. He came to earth to teach me to be humble and that all people need love no matter who or what they are. Because I fucked him, that’s why he disappeared. That’s why we don’t see him no more, because he went back to heaven. Only a heavenly dick could fuck me the way Roscoe did.”
She kinda paused, and then we both broke out laughing. She told me:
Friend: “Well . . . I don’t know about all that. But still, you gotta talk about this. You gotta tell the world about your handicapped angel.”
In my heart, I knew she was right: I couldn’t keep it to myself.
How I Got (Restarted) in Comedy
I quit comedy when I was eighteen, so I could get a job and provide for myself.
I got restarted in comedy at twenty-two, because I had to stomp a bitch for disrespecting me.
It was Bertha. Yes, that same Bertha, the stripper that Titus the Boyfriend couldn’t pimp, but I could. Here’s how it all went down.
When I was still pimping her, Bertha asked me if I could pick her up from the strip club one day. She had me take her to a party. When we arrived, Titus the Boyfriend was there.
Tiffany: “I don’t know if I should stay for this.”
Titus: “Nah, it’s cool, Tiff. It’s cool. I ain’t tripping. I get it. Let bygones be bygones. Me and Bertha, we in a relationship now.”
Tiffany: “Okay. Cool.”
I pulled Bertha aside and told her:
Tiffany: “I will always be cool with you. Just don’t ever disrespect me. If you ever disrespect me, it’s going to be a motherfucking problem.”
That night was fine. I was drinking 211 beer. Now, I don’t know if you ever heard of this beer, but it’s 99 cents. This is the shit that bums buy to get all fucked up on the cheap. It makes you fucking crazy. Of course, Titus the Po’ Pimp has this at his party.
I drank some and fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, it was late. Titus and Bertha were on the floor, right next to the couch I was sleeping on. Fucking. Like, right next to me. I jumped up:
Tiffany: “BITCH, WHAT I TELL YOU ABOUT DISRESPECTING ME?”
I just started stomping on her. I was straight ghetto-stomping her out. She curled into a ball and started crying.
Tiffany: “GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS UP, BITCH! I’M FIXIN’ TO BEAT YO ASS SOME MO!”
Bertha: “Stop! I’m not going to fight you, Tiffany. I’m not going to fight you. I’m going to call the police!”
Tiffany: “CALL THE MOTHERFUCKING POLICE! I’ll just get your ass deported up out this bitch. You fixing to get deported right back to Jamaica, bitch! I know you here illegally, I’m the one fucking pimping you!! What’s up now??”
Titus tried to stop me from stomping on her. I did what any black woman who was being disrespected would do: I straight punched him in the mouth.
Tiffany: “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME, NIGGA! I WILL KILL YOU!”
Titus: “Why you tripping???”
I just started going berserk. I was drunk as hell on 211, screaming at the top of my lungs, Bertha was crying, Titus was screaming, I was throwing furniture—it was for-real black woman craziness.
Then his homeboy picked me up from behind and carried me out the house to my car.
Needless to say, I stopped talking to Bertha after that. I had no more words for her. That’s how I stopped pimping her.
Maybe two months later, Titus showed up to my house with a ring, asking would I marry him. He had put rose petals all over my car in the shape of a heart and a bunch more all over my yard.
Tiffany: “Are you fucking serious right now?”
Titus: “Tiffany, you the smartest woman I know. Please, will you marry me?”
Oh, yeah—the ring still had the price tag on it, from Kmart. It was $38.
A $38 ring. That’s what he thought I was worth.
Tiffany: “Get the fuck out of here with this cheap-ass ring. Fuck you, don’t ever talk to me again.”
I was so pissed. I cussed him out. I was angry all night.
The next day, I was so disturbed emotionally, I started crying. I cried all day, all night. I could not stop crying at work.
Then I started to bleed. At first I thought it was just my period, but it wouldn’t stop. It was heavy. I was feeling weak.
This went on for weeks. I was bleeding so much, I eventually went through every maxi-pad in all of LAX. I seriously think I used every one of them huge free maxis in all the women’s bathrooms in the whole damn airport.
Eventually, it just ran down my leg. It was just like I had peed on myself, but it was blood pouring out of me.