The Last Black Unicorn

by Tiffany Haddish

  Bertha: “This the most money I ever had. Oh my God. Thank you so much, Tiffany. Thank you so much!”

  Then I had another friend who was a stripper, and I had her show Bertha some moves. I helped her go from $70 a night to $300 or more. And I got my cut from that, too.

  One day, Titus made her mad, and she dropped it on him:

  Bertha: “You’re a fucking horrible pimp. Tiffany is a way better pimp than you’ll ever be.”

  Titus: “What?”

  Bertha: “Tiffany is a way better pimp than you’ll ever be. She’s a great person.”

  Titus: “What the FUCK are you talking about?”

  Bertha: “Tiffany’s been taking me to do pornos. See all this money I got?”

  Even better—she did this in front of his homeboys, who were actual pimps.

  Pimp Friend 1: “Damn, Titus! Yo bitch took yo bitch?”

  Pimp Friend 2: “Maybe Tiff should hang with us. She sound like the true pimp.”

  He called me, all hysterical, voice trembling.

  Titus: “You take my bitch?”

  Tiffany: “Yeah, I took your bitch, BITCH, and I’ll do it again. I’ll take all your bitches, you little dirty-ass motherfucker.”

  Titus: “I fucking hate you. You’re a horrible person.”

  I just felt so good. I felt like I really accomplished a lot.

  • • •

  Eventually, I started pimping Titus’s male friends. One of his boys—we called him Goliath because he was so huge—heard what I had been doing for Bertha. He asked me if I could set him up, too. I started off getting him some pornos, and those went well. Then something else came up.

  I was still doing Bar Mitzvahs on the weekends, and of course, if you’re doing Bar Mitzvahs, you’re going to meet old Jewish ladies. I met a lot of lonely ones, and I got to be friends with them. Then they started telling me how lonely they were and saying things like, “My husband’s not satisfying me.”

  I remember the first conversation that started it. I had just finished a Bar Mitzvah practice, and was about to leave.

  Jewish Lady: “No, Tiff. Stay. Have a glass of wine with me. I don’t really have a lot of friends. My husband has all the friends. I don’t really have anybody to hang out with. It’s kind of lonely in this big old house.”

  I thought this was kind of weird, but this was a rich lady, so whatever. I’d talk to her. She did seem lonely. She was telling me about how her husband’s never at home, how her sex life was down the drain.

  Jewish Lady: “I feel like I’m a virgin again. He doesn’t touch me or anything.”

  Tiffany: “Oh, wow.”

  Jewish Lady: “So who are you dating? I bet you date hot guys.”

  Tiffany: “I do okay.”

  We had this same conversation, like, three times, until I finally got fed up.

  Tiffany: “Girl, why don’t you just buy some dick? You should come with me to the strip club and just check it out.”

  Jewish Lady: “Oh, no. I couldn’t be seen in a place where men are dancing.”

  Tiffany: “Well, just buy some. They won’t tell nobody. Just keep it on the down low.”

  Jewish Lady: “On the down low?”

  I straight up had to play some R. Kelly, “Down Low” for her, to explain what that meant.

  She gave me this crazy look, like a kid that stole candy.

  Jewish Lady: “I’ve never been with a black guy. I would love a strong black man. What’s it like doing a black guy?”

  Tiffany: “Well . . . they be smelling like cocoa butter. That’s nice. They be all strong, and they dicks are so powerful. If you find a man with an ass, oh my God. It’s just so good. They pick you up. It’s just good. It just depends on who you get with, though. But they can be good.”

  Jewish Lady: “That’s what I need.”

  Tiffany: “But you know, any guy could be really great, if you guys have a connection and stuff.”

  Jewish Lady: “I don’t need the connection. I’m married. I just need to have an orgasm. I just want to feel ravaged.”

  She started showing me these romance novels she had. All her romance novels were like, I don’t know. She had one that was like a slave thing or whatever. It was a big, strapping black guy on the cover, holding this passed-out white woman.

  Tiffany: “Well, I don’t know any slaves, but I could probably hook you up with somebody big and strong.”

  So I hooked her up with Titus’s boy, Goliath. She’d give me $200, I’d take $50, give the rest to Goliath, and then set up the meeting.

  Then she introduced me to another lady. I linked her up with another guy that was a friend of Goliath. It was kind of like word of mouth, and I started having a lot of clients.

  One lady wanted a strong white man. I didn’t know any huge white guys, but I used to be in Venice Beach a lot, and I met this dude on the boardwalk.

  Tiffany: “Hey, would you ever fuck for money?”

  Big White Dude: “Yeah. Of course.”

  Just like that. Pimping dudes was easy.

  The problem was that I wasn’t really necessary. A lot of these guys, once I introduced them and got my $50, they started hooking up with these chicks on their own, doing their own thing. Which makes sense, to be honest. Aside from the intro, they didn’t need me.

  So I ended up getting out of pimping, because I didn’t make much money. It’s just not a lucrative business, selling dick. Dick ain’t really all that hard to come by.

  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! 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 pol
ite 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: