فصل 07

7

Roscoe the Handicapped Angel

In my early twenties, I worked the ticket counter at an airline. When you checked in to your flight, I was the girl who printed your ticket and tagged your bags.

Roscoe was my baggage handler. He would stand behind me at the counter and throw the bags on the conveyor belt.

Roscoe was also handicapped. And not just a little handicapped; dude was messed up in multiple ways.

To start with, he only had one working arm. I don’t know how he even got that job—who hires a baggage handler with only one working arm?

His right arm was big and strong and it worked great. But his left arm was like, this tiny deformed little arm. It was permanently bent at an angle, and kinda hung there and looked like a T. rex arm. He could move the fingers and stuff. Otherwise, it couldn’t do much. Like a baby arm that never fully developed.

It made me feel creepy at first. Have you ever seen a physical deformity on a person, and at first, it sends a chill down your spine? Even if you don’t want to feel that way, you do. For the first few weeks, I was straight-up repulsed by that dead baby arm. Eventually, I moved on to sympathy, “Oh, poor Roscoe.” And then after that, I was just used to it, and treated Roscoe like anyone else.

His arm wasn’t the only thing off about him. His face was always making crazy expressions. You ever seen someone who had a stroke and couldn’t really control their face afterwards? It was like that. I don’t know if he actually had a stroke or if he was born that way, but his mouth went to the side, and it made him talk mush-mouthed.

It took some time to get used to how he spoke, because his mush-mouth made him draw out all his vowel sounds and for real made him sound slow. He said my name like it was three different words: “Tiff-a-Knee.”

But he was not mentally disabled. You could have a normal conversation with him, and he would totally be able to talk to you. At times, he was even smart. And man, he was funny. You can’t be funny if you’re dumb.

But mainly, he didn’t give a fuck. I remember one time soon after I met him, I had this one customer who was such a bitch. She was complaining about every little thing, cussing her husband out, trying to yell at me. I kept being nice, because that’s how they trained us, but she was being a straight-up bitch. When she walked away, Roscoe came up behind me:

Roscoe: “Wow, whatta fuckin’ bitch. I hope she getta yeast in-fec-shuuun, dat stoopid bitch.”

Tiffany: “What’d you say, Roscoe?”

Roscoe: “She stoopid talkin’ to youuu like dat, Tiff-a-Knee. She can’t be talkin’ to youuu like dat. Fuckin’ bitch.”

Tiffany: “Roscoe, you can’t talk like that at work!”

It was even more shocking coming from him, because I kind of assumed that handicapped people don’t curse and talk shit. I always think if someone’s handicapped, then they’re automatically some innocent angel. That’s totally ridiculous of course, but I still thought it.

And nobody could get mad at him, because he’s handicapped. Who’s gonna yell at a handicapped dude with a stroke face and little dead baby arm, just because he cursed?

I liked Roscoe, and we had fun—but Roscoe was into me, too. I mean, really into me, and not subtle at all. Every day when he saw me, he’d come up to me and say:

Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEEEEE! You so booty-full! You look soooo good too-day!”

He would notice everything. I could change one little thing, and he would notice it. I’d come into work, he’d see me, his eyes would go all bugged out and crazy, and he’d slur out:

Roscoe: “Whooooaaaa, Tiff-a-Knee, you look soooo hot. I love your blue eye-shad-ooow.”

He started bringing me Filet-O-Fish sandwiches on Fridays, because he learned that I liked them. When he saw I appreciated it, he started bringing me flowers on Mondays.

Roscoe: “Deese are for youuu, Tiff-a-Knee, for youuu house.”

I could not put these flowers in my house. These were not regular flowers you buy at the store. I am pretty sure Roscoe stole them out of somebody’s yard, because they had dirt and ants and bugs all over them. They were pretty, though.

• • •

Once he got to know me, Roscoe started asking me out on dates at least once a week.

Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEEEEE! You so booty-full. Can we go on a date two-mar-oooow? You want to go on a date with meee?”

I would tell him that I had a man, and he would look sad. Then a few days later, he’d ask me out again, and we’d go through the same conversation. He was never pushy about it, always polite and respectful, but man—he never gave up.

One day, he asked me:

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! You’re the most beautifull girl in the whole airport. 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.

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.”

First off, I’d never seen a man cry for me. I’d never seen a man express his love for me like this. Nothing like this had ever happened to me ever before.

I just thought to myself, Well, this is who I’m supposed to be with, obviously. This is who I’m supposed to spend my time with, this man who loves me so much and does so much for me and adores me like this. That’s right. I’m going to fuck him. I’m gonna fuck the shit out of Roscoe tonight.

I didn’t care about nothing else. Fuck that judgmental white lady. I downed my wine, we got another round, and then we went back to my place.

I did most of the cooking, but to his credit, he made sandwiches for us. But I didn’t go in there and watch him make them, because I didn’t want to see that dead baby hand on my food. I kept that image out of my mind.

Eventually, I took him back to his place, and I kept thinking this thought:

How can I take him around my friends?

On the one hand, I think I love this dude. He’s an amazing human and the best sex I’ve ever had—just so loving and caring. He was the shit to me, the awesomest in the world.

At the same time, he’s handicapped. There ain’t no way around that fact. I can’t take him around my friends. I can hear their voices in my head:

“You dating a handicapped guy who rides the bus? Is you serious? You getting community service for this? Did your probation officer tell you this counts or something?”

“Tiffany, you were an extra in an Xzibit video! Why are you messing with this guy? You could be fucking Xzibit! What’s wrong with you, Tiffany?”

“He can’t keep his drool in his mouth! He only got one arm that works! Bitch, what are you doing?”

Over and over it went, in my mind. There was no escaping the fact that I cannot date a handicapped guy.

• • •

I got to work the next day, and Roscoe was there. We’d had zero discussion of how we’d act at work. He was super-excited to see me and everything, and I mean super-excited. As he walked up, I could see his dick getting hard in his pants.

Tiffany: “Yo Roscoe, we gotta talk at lunch. We need to have a conversation.”

Roscoe: “Oh yeaaaa, we gunna talk awww right!”

He grabbed his dick and smiled at me.

Tiffany: “Don’t do that, Roscoe. A real talk. A conversation.”

Roscoe: “I know a place we can havva talk awwright. A goooood talk.”

Tiffany: “No, we’re going to meet in the Center Air, it’s a restaurant in the center of the airport. Meet me in the Center Air where everybody be at, we’ll meet right there.”

Lunch came around, and we met there and started talking. Roscoe was happy and serene and had no idea what was coming. I felt so bad.

Roscoe: “Tiff-a-Knee, youuu so booty-full to-day. I was thinking bout’chu all night lass night—”

Tiffany: “Roscoe, shh. Stop. We have to talk.”

I took a deep breath and launched in.

I told him I was shallow. I told him I was insecure. I kept talking about what a bad girlfriend I was, and how I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I said I knew he wanted me to be his girlfriend, but that maybe it would work in our next lifetime. I hit him with the Erykah Badu; maybe next lifetime we can have a better life. But I’m too immature right now. I probably rambled for twenty minutes, before he got it and stopped me:

Roscoe: “Are youu sayin’ youu can’t date meee?”

Tiffany: “Yes Roscoe, that is what I am saying.”

Roscoe: “What? Are you fuckin’ seer-ee-us? Are youu sayin’ youu don’t wanna be wiff me?”

Tiffany: “Not like that, Roscoe, I want to be your friend, I just can’t be your woman. I can’t be in a serious relationship with you. I don’t know how I can handle that.”

Roscoe: “Arrr youu sayin’ youu can’t be my gurl?”

Tiffany: “Yes Roscoe, that’s what I’m saying.”

He looked at me, and his face nearly broke my heart. It was the rawest look of pain and heartbreak I have ever seen on any face, ever in my life.

Roscoe: “Okay.”

I almost started crying, and I was so close to grabbing his hand and taking it all back, when he stood up.

Roscoe: “Well . . . FUCK YOU THEN! DATS WHY YER PUSSY GARBAGE!”

Tiffany: “WHAT???”

Roscoe: “YER PUSSY IS GARBAGE.”

Roscoe stormed off. I was in motherfucking shock. I wanted to yell something back at him, but there were people everywhere. And besides, what am I going to yell back? “Well you’re fucking handicapped!” or “My pussy IS NOT garbage!”?

I didn’t know what to say or do. I just sat there in shock, until my break was over. Then I went back to my counter.

When I got back to the ticket counter, he didn’t even want to throw my bags no more. He went down to the other end of the counter and threw somebody else’s bags. And he gave me the evil eye the rest of the day.

Then, I didn’t see him after that for a few days. I went to his bosses at work. They said, “We don’t know where Roscoe is, Roscoe just stopped coming to work.”

After a few weeks, I thought to myself, Damn, maybe I shouldn’t have broke up with him. Maybe that was my blessing from God. If he was my blessing and I shitted on my blessing, that’s not cool. I need to find him and talk to him.

I went back to the address where I’d picked him up for our date. The same girl with Down syndrome answered the door. She said Roscoe was gone.

“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.

Yes, I wonder if Roscoe ever sees me on TV or in any of those movies. You know, I imagine that he’s like sitting in some group home somewhere maybe, sees me on TV, sitting there with his friends and like, I know her, I f@cked her, her pussy’s garbage and then like, shot up Roscoe, you all know her, you never f@cked her. No, I’m telling you, I f@cked her and her pussy’s garbage. Okay, I promise you guys. She’s horrible.

If you have seen me Roscoe and if anybody had seen me with Roscoe and he told you that he f@cked me, he did and please send him back to me. I promise you Roscoe my pussy is not garbage any more. I know you just say that because it was hard. I love you and I miss you.