I wrote this in a euphoric state on Wednesday, May 30, 2007 from my best friend Amanda's apartment. She inspired me to start this blog, and is allowing me to re-publish the two I have done for her on my own!
"Ooooh I love a well-dressed man!" I look up from my rehire application form at "Cafe Roman", a traditional Italian mainstay on Broadway across from a world famous performing arts center (hint, hint!), to find an older black woman with designer sunglasses and graying dreadlocks staring me in the face from across the bar. I decide to move to her end while I wait for a manager to come interview me. Why not? We start talking, and I mention that I've just spent five months in Ghana. She looks at me with one eyebrow raised and says without words that she is wary of white people who go to Africa, period. I quickly qualify my presence over there by saying, "I was just studying, that's all." We go on talking, she not-so-subtly identifies that I am not attracted to women, and then encourages me to pursue an old flame (a fellow waiter). Before I know it we are debating history and fiction, and the possible danger of fiction. I argue wholeheartedly on the side of it, believing that fiction can force us to stare knowingly into periods of our histories that we know nothing about. "Give me an author who's done that," she demands. I laugh nervously and say, "Toni Morrison." "Oh, Toni's not my favorite," she says laughing a hearty laugh. "Really? What don't you like about her?" "I am her!" I turn redder than the pomodoro langosta on the famous antipasto bar. I'm actually staring my literary hero in the face. I actually just debated the power of fiction with her. She sized me up, and I unknowingly told her how incredible I think she is. Just an average encounter at "Roman's", which is frequented by stars like Meryl Streep, Al Pacino, Jim Carrey, Roseanne Barr and Barbara Walters. Ten years from now I'll say: one afternoon in Manhattan I shot the shit with Morrison.
"Ooooh I love a well-dressed man!" I look up from my rehire application form at "Cafe Roman", a traditional Italian mainstay on Broadway across from a world famous performing arts center (hint, hint!), to find an older black woman with designer sunglasses and graying dreadlocks staring me in the face from across the bar. I decide to move to her end while I wait for a manager to come interview me. Why not? We start talking, and I mention that I've just spent five months in Ghana. She looks at me with one eyebrow raised and says without words that she is wary of white people who go to Africa, period. I quickly qualify my presence over there by saying, "I was just studying, that's all." We go on talking, she not-so-subtly identifies that I am not attracted to women, and then encourages me to pursue an old flame (a fellow waiter). Before I know it we are debating history and fiction, and the possible danger of fiction. I argue wholeheartedly on the side of it, believing that fiction can force us to stare knowingly into periods of our histories that we know nothing about. "Give me an author who's done that," she demands. I laugh nervously and say, "Toni Morrison." "Oh, Toni's not my favorite," she says laughing a hearty laugh. "Really? What don't you like about her?" "I am her!" I turn redder than the pomodoro langosta on the famous antipasto bar. I'm actually staring my literary hero in the face. I actually just debated the power of fiction with her. She sized me up, and I unknowingly told her how incredible I think she is. Just an average encounter at "Roman's", which is frequented by stars like Meryl Streep, Al Pacino, Jim Carrey, Roseanne Barr and Barbara Walters. Ten years from now I'll say: one afternoon in Manhattan I shot the shit with Morrison.
2 comments:
This is my favorite story that I have on my blog, thanks to you. I am so excited that you now have your own forum to keep us all up to date on all of the crazy things you have to deal with as a waiter/student/writer/dancer/fine-young-thing in New York. All love.
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