Alice?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm just stating
what is obviously the case."
"What is obvious to you is not particularly
obvious to me."
"Oh, yeah? Well, why don't you tell that to the
guidance counselor at the Ethical Culture School who had to tell you
after fourteen years of family life that your own daughter . . ."
At that point I got in the elevator.
11
The Club Los Cocos was like a bad set from Miami
Vice, with mirrored peach glass walls and ten-foot-tall brushed
aluminum palm trees that looked like they were borrowed from some
department store window. All the men were dressed up in cream-colored
suits and white T-shirts like Don Johnson, and the ladies weren't
wearing much of anything at all. They were dancing to a frenetic
salsa band that was moving up and down at an irregular pace on an
elevated platform.
I surveyed the room, trying to choose the right
person to guide me to Mariposa, when the sight of someone who was
hard to miss made that search irrelevant: Otis himself was dancing by
one of the aluminum palm trees. He looked wired to the ceiling as his
feet spun around and his arms flailed in every direction doing some
whacked-out combination of the pachanga and the kazatsky with two
Puerto Rican girls and anyone else who cared to join in. With his
celebrity and his zaniness he was making the evening for about half
the people in the room as well as for several burly Los Cocos
bouncers in orange mesh tank tops who looked on from a
ramp
by the side of the bandstand.
I made my way over to him, edging my way through the
dancers, but he spotted me before I could get him. "Ah, it's
Brother Dick! Brother Big Dick! I heard you was lookin' for me ....
Stop the music, you spic, wop motherfuckers!" he shouted to the
band. "We gotta stop this salsa shit for just one second. C'mon
stop, José, Carlos, Luis, Miguel, or whatever your name is. Stop!"
They stopped. Everyone in the room turned and faced Otis, who was
walking toward me, his face dripping with sweat. He put his arm
around my shoulder, hanging on me in stoned weariness. "Everybody,"
he cried out, "this white boy done come all the way from Los
Angeles, California, to see me." He looked me straight in the
eyes. "Well, you seen me, now fuck off'"
"All right. I'll leave.'.' I made a move to go.
" Hey, my man, just kiddin' you. Can't you take a
joke?"
Otis flashed a sweet, little-boy smile. "What
you wanna do, anyway? Carry me back to El Lay, make some people rich,
play 1980s Stepin' Fetchit for the moo-vee companies? Yes, massa.
Yes, massa. Lawdy, lawdy." He wiggled his hands like a Holy
Roller. "That's who I am, man—Stepin' Fetchit. Ain't no
difference 'cept I say motherfucker and talk about how big my dick
is. That's what white folks love nowadays, cursin' niggers. How you
think Eddie and Richard got so big? You don't see white dudes sayin'
shit like that. Not even Sylvester Slambo Stallone. Not even
motherfuckin' Belushi said that kind of shit 'less he was imitating
black people. You want to laugh at us more, motherfucker? You wanna
see me dance? You wanna see me tap? You wanna see me shuck and jive
and get so stoned I can't even stand up and my life is a tragedy you
write about in one of your books of motherfuckin' sociology I can't
even read 'cause I got dyslexia and that ain't all? You want that?"
He grabbed my lapels. "Well, then, laugh, motherfuckah, laugh!"
he screamed at the top of his lungs and then clutched his stomach,
doubling over in pain.
"You all right?"
" Yeah, yeah, man, don't worry about it." He
tried to smile again, but he kept holding his stomach. "I just
got a little bit of an ulcer, I read backward, and I got a heart
murmur. Other than that I'm fine. And I gotta go to the bathroom,
man." Still doubled over, he started heading toward the back of
the club. Everybody was staring at him now and I could see the
bouncers moving in.
"It's okay," I yelled. "I'll take care
of him." And I pushed him through to the back, into the
"I'm not implying anything. I'm just stating
what is obviously the case."
"What is obvious to you is not particularly
obvious to me."
"Oh, yeah? Well, why don't you tell that to the
guidance counselor at the Ethical Culture School who had to tell you
after fourteen years of family life that your own daughter . . ."
At that point I got in the elevator.
11
The Club Los Cocos was like a bad set from Miami
Vice, with mirrored peach glass walls and ten-foot-tall brushed
aluminum palm trees that looked like they were borrowed from some
department store window. All the men were dressed up in cream-colored
suits and white T-shirts like Don Johnson, and the ladies weren't
wearing much of anything at all. They were dancing to a frenetic
salsa band that was moving up and down at an irregular pace on an
elevated platform.
I surveyed the room, trying to choose the right
person to guide me to Mariposa, when the sight of someone who was
hard to miss made that search irrelevant: Otis himself was dancing by
one of the aluminum palm trees. He looked wired to the ceiling as his
feet spun around and his arms flailed in every direction doing some
whacked-out combination of the pachanga and the kazatsky with two
Puerto Rican girls and anyone else who cared to join in. With his
celebrity and his zaniness he was making the evening for about half
the people in the room as well as for several burly Los Cocos
bouncers in orange mesh tank tops who looked on from a
ramp
by the side of the bandstand.
I made my way over to him, edging my way through the
dancers, but he spotted me before I could get him. "Ah, it's
Brother Dick! Brother Big Dick! I heard you was lookin' for me ....
Stop the music, you spic, wop motherfuckers!" he shouted to the
band. "We gotta stop this salsa shit for just one second. C'mon
stop, José, Carlos, Luis, Miguel, or whatever your name is. Stop!"
They stopped. Everyone in the room turned and faced Otis, who was
walking toward me, his face dripping with sweat. He put his arm
around my shoulder, hanging on me in stoned weariness. "Everybody,"
he cried out, "this white boy done come all the way from Los
Angeles, California, to see me." He looked me straight in the
eyes. "Well, you seen me, now fuck off'"
"All right. I'll leave.'.' I made a move to go.
" Hey, my man, just kiddin' you. Can't you take a
joke?"
Otis flashed a sweet, little-boy smile. "What
you wanna do, anyway? Carry me back to El Lay, make some people rich,
play 1980s Stepin' Fetchit for the moo-vee companies? Yes, massa.
Yes, massa. Lawdy, lawdy." He wiggled his hands like a Holy
Roller. "That's who I am, man—Stepin' Fetchit. Ain't no
difference 'cept I say motherfucker and talk about how big my dick
is. That's what white folks love nowadays, cursin' niggers. How you
think Eddie and Richard got so big? You don't see white dudes sayin'
shit like that. Not even Sylvester Slambo Stallone. Not even
motherfuckin' Belushi said that kind of shit 'less he was imitating
black people. You want to laugh at us more, motherfucker? You wanna
see me dance? You wanna see me tap? You wanna see me shuck and jive
and get so stoned I can't even stand up and my life is a tragedy you
write about in one of your books of motherfuckin' sociology I can't
even read 'cause I got dyslexia and that ain't all? You want that?"
He grabbed my lapels. "Well, then, laugh, motherfuckah, laugh!"
he screamed at the top of his lungs and then clutched his stomach,
doubling over in pain.
"You all right?"
" Yeah, yeah, man, don't worry about it." He
tried to smile again, but he kept holding his stomach. "I just
got a little bit of an ulcer, I read backward, and I got a heart
murmur. Other than that I'm fine. And I gotta go to the bathroom,
man." Still doubled over, he started heading toward the back of
the club. Everybody was staring at him now and I could see the
bouncers moving in.
"It's okay," I yelled. "I'll take care
of him." And I pushed him through to the back, into the
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