The Last Black Unicorn(27)

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.

This is the part I remember the most, not just because of Roscoe’s horrible singing, but because of this white lady sitting in front of me. She kept looking back at me. I was drinking my wine and trying to enjoy the fact that my handicapped date was singing his heart out, but this white lady would not stop looking at me. Finally she turned around, looked me up and down, and said, “You are so strong.”

For real—she turned her whole chair around, and said—I am fucking quoting her, “You are so strong.”

I wanted to curl up under the table and die.

When Roscoe finished singing, everybody went nuts and cheered and screamed and clapped. You know how white people do, they just encourage and cheer anybody who lets it all hang out and just don’t give a fuck. Roscoe got excited by all this attention and sang another quick song. I can’t even remember what it was, I was still so mad and embarrassed about that comment from that bitch.

He finally came and sat down. He was sweating and all out of breath, because he basically just performed a concert. He took a long swig of his beer, reached over the table with his good arm, grabbed my hand with that strong hand, while his little dead hand rested on the table. He looked all deep into my eyes, and I was looking at him, and all I could think was that I wanted to kill the rest of my wine. I wanted to down the rest of it, but I didn’t want to seem like a lush. He was looking at me, and he said:

Roscoe: “Tiff-a-Knee, I juss wanna tell youuuu, I feel like I’m da luckiest man alive. If I die to-mar-oooow, it’d be my happiess day of my life. I’m serious, if I die to-mar-oooow, dat’s fine, dis da most wunnerful day. A girl as booty-full as youu to be out wiffa guy like me, is the most wunnerful day evaa of my life.”

Tiffany: “Oh, Roscoe, it’s no problem, we work together, we cool.”

Roscoe: “No, Tiff-a-Knee, you don’t unnerstan. Dis the most special day evaa. I want it to be magical for us.”

He started crying. Like, big-ass man tears coming out of his eyes. And then snot starts coming out of his nose. He just turned into a hot mess, as he told me I was so special and how amazing this day was for him. He took a minute to compose himself and said:

Roscoe: “I could die, it’s okay, I’m okay if I die now. Dat’s how special dis is to me, Tiff-a-Knee.”

Here I was, sitting in a crowded bar, with a man crying, snot coming out of his nose, and honestly, all I could think was one thing:

I’m going to fuck the shit outta Roscoe.

For real. That’s what I kept saying to myself, “I am going to fuck the shit outta Roscoe.”