In 1979 I was 22, living in Harlem working as a dishwasher, it was a strange time, a period when disco and cocaine boomed; I'm up for a few lines anytime, but fuck disco.
I was the only White guy working at Amy Ruth’s Soul Food joint, and I began to feel accepted when my Black coworkers called me honky, or rabbit. The word nigga was persistently bandied around the kitchen, by everyone except me.
My wages were less than minimum wage, $2.00 an hour cash, tax-free. I never have paid taxes since, because the US Government fucks the middle class and the rich don't pay nothin.
I worked At Amy Ruth's from 9 AM till 5, 6 days a week; the staff was served soul food at a large metal table in the kitchen, I loved it and was gaga for sweet potato pie.
After work, I'd hit Harlem bars; The Red Roaster, Jumbo's, Big Time, and others. I had a hard-on for Black girls.
Often, I'd be the only White guy in the bar; intuitively knowing to speak softly and be mannerly. At times, you'd see a White guy flashing cash at the bar, a big mistake because he'd get mugged outside.
Sometimes dead drunk White dudes would hit on Black girls who didn't want the attention; getting their asses kicked; unless you're a Chuck Norris, the Black dude wins every time.
One night at Jumbo's I played my cards right, prudently chatting up an Ebony gal named Malika, a Colombia law student with short hair, wearing 60s-style black glasses, and a hot dress. Tulip wasn't the sexiest gal in the bar, but she had charisma.
I spent a week's pay on 7 & 7s, then around 11 Milka says,
Henry, you're sweet boy, I like you, let's go to your place.
wow sure!
I lived in a cheap room at Wilson Men's Club, no women allowed so I lied,
ah, Tulip, I live at my grandmother's. She's a no-nonsense Catholic virgin who is racist.
Tulip laughs saying,
do Black people intimidate her?
I suppose,
okay, Henry, we'll go to my place, I live with my parents they don't like White folks.
We take a bus to Central Harlem passing the Apollo Theater, Moshe's Deli, and Sam Gluck's Shoes,
Tulip says excitedly,
I love Moshe's Deli, blintzes, and matzah ball soup, and I say,
maybe you're a Black Jew,
We chuckle, feeling this could become a regular thing.
Exiting the bus at 357th Street, we walk a short distance to Tulip's family apartment, a brick 3-story walk-up. She unlocks the front door and we amble up 2 flights of stairs to her family flat, then before going inside she puts her forefinger to her mouth, whispering,
shush,
Taking off our shoes we tip-toe to her room, there's a desk piled high with law books, and the curtains, wallpaper, and bedspread are flowered.
We strip and caress on the bed, masturbating; 69, doggy style, missionary, mutely at first, then so wildly that the bed board hammers the wall.
Alerted by a loud knock on the door then illegal entry, her parents march into the bedroom, they're shocked by what they see, and her mother wails,
what are you doin with that White boy, girl?
Then, Malika's daddy shows with a shotgun, aiming it in my direction.
In boxer shorts, I dive head first through an open window, landing on the fire escape, hustling to the sidewalk, and catching a bus home.
On the bus in my underwear none of the riders batted an eye, New Yorkers have seen it all.
The following day I'm washing dishes at Amy Ruth’s Soul Food and Malika walks in the kitchen, I ask,
how'd ya know where I work?
You told me, Henry, I don't care, I love you, but I want you to better yourself.
I will baby, I love you too.