The Wayans brothers, Goldschlager, and the One-eyed Helper Man

You need to get a refill on your Diet Coke and maybe queue up a couple more, because this feels like it’s going to be a long story. Every bit of it is true. Quentin Tarantino Himself couldn’t make this stuff up.

Talking to strangers

I spent the first quarter of my life wishing that my mother wouldn’t talk to strangers, the next quarter not thinking about it at all, and the rest of it talking to strangers my own self. I don’t mean saying “Hi” and giving a little wave to somebody you are meeting on the sidewalk. I mean going up to people in stores, wrapping an arm around their shoulders, and telling them things they never asked to hear. There are strangers in the world who know things about me that even I have forgotten.

It was in this spirit that I began the study of Speaking Negro. When I realized that all the Young Folk were trying to be More Negro Than You, I knew that I had to brush up on my vocabulary to be able to, you know, “wrap” with them. I am committed to being young and hip and groovy, and hep to the jive, because that’s a big part of being All About People.

I went straight to the top for my lessons.

Shawn, Kathi, Keenan, Marlon

Embarrassing the next generation

I take seriously the obligation handed down from our ancestors to embarrass the younger generations with our words and actions. Fortunately, although I Forgot to Have Children, I was blessed with nieces and nephews, all of whom have had the pleasure of being embarrassed by me many, many times. Perhaps my favorite foil is my nephew Corky (Not His Real Name). He was a strapping young man in his 20’s when I began the practice of Speaking Negro.

Well, a strapping and sissy young man. At Corky’s insistence, I dumbed down my Negrospeak in certain ways. He became a little agitated when I greeted young men in the ‘hood with “Yo blood!” but he became apoplectic when, in conversation with said young men I might interject “N—– please!” He seemed to think that he might be in physical danger somehow. “Sure, you’re fine,” he said. “You’re just a crazy old white lady. But somebody is going to throw down with me!” In deference to Corky, I switched to the slightly less effective, “Bitch, please!” when I had a bone to pick with the young men. Or sometimes, “Homey don’t play that game.” Oh, I was a proud bird for mastering the art of getting down with the boyz in da hood, while Corky seemed to fear going out with me.

I still had a few things to learn

Corky had a few tricks of his own up his sleeve. He told me about a beverage called Goldschlager, which he claimed had actual flecks of gold floating in the bottle. Well, I had never heard of such a thing, and I thought he was having a little joke at my expense. So we set out on a road trip to locate some Goldschlager. It was a sultry Saturday night when we pulled up in front of the liquor store in the meanest part of the ‘hood. Corky shuffled along a few steps behind as I marched through the store looking for the elusive bottle. The Grizzled Store Clerk called his Helper Man out from the back room to see if we needed help finding something. And that’s when the outing edged into Quentin Tarantino territory.

As I turned to the Helper Man to tell him what we were looking for, I couldn’t help noticing that he had but one eye. Now, I have seen a few people with glass eyes, or eye patches, or dark glasses hiding who knows what. But this guy had one eye and then the rest of his head was all skin, from his bald head straight down where his eye should have been. And of course, he only had three or four teeth. Yo, even I had to take a deep breath and back up for a second at the surprise of it.

I quickly regained my composure and asked if he had something called “Goldschlager,” half expecting him to laugh at me for falling for the joke. Instead he led us to the front of the store right next to where the Grizzled Clerk was perched behind the cash register, unlocked a glass case, and withdrew the bottle, which really did have gold floating in it, no kidding.The One-eyed Helper Man handed the bottle to the Grizzled Clerk, who started to punch the sale into his cash register, when I said, “Jump back, homes, I just wanted to see it! Later, dudes!”

I think that is the last time Corky ever agreed to go anywhere with me.