Thank you guys for coming.
I'm sick.
I can't believe all you people came out in the rain to see me.
I could see Prince or Anita Baker, somebody.
But thank you.
I am grateful.
And I'm also wet.
I'm going to read--
I won't apologize but I'll just--
I'm going to read the first two, what's
called monologues and then what's called or considered
a dramatic chapter, the first chapter of this book
that I'm working on called Disappearing Acts.
OK.
Who's laughing already?
Franklin.
And although I don't look like it, I'm nervous.
So it takes me a few minutes to get going here.
All I can say is this, I'm tired of women.
Black women in particular because that's about all I
ever deal with.
Maybe a fine Puerto Rican here and there, but not much.
They're all the same, that's for damn sure.
Want all your time and energy, want the world
to revolve around them.
Once you give them some good loving, they go crazy.
Start hearing wedding bells, start thinking about babies,
and want you to meet their whole damn family.
They'd make you cum and you'd swear
they struck gold or something.
But they claim the mind for themselves.
And the prettier they are, the more they want.
Well, I don't play that shit no more.
I try to make it clear from Jump Street I ain't serious.
I got enough on my mind right now
without getting all hung up and twisted up with another woman.
Every time I turned around, my phone
was ringing off the damn hook.
Hi, Franklin, one would say.
And I would sit there and try to guess which one it was.
What you doing?
What a stupid ass question to call up somebody and ask.
It would seem quite obvious I wasn't thinking about her
or else I'd have called her, right?
But no.
It don't work like that.
They hedge.
You feel like some company?
And don't say, no, I'm busy.
All hell would break loose then.
You got somebody over there?
I want to say none of your fucking business
but that would be too cold-blooded.
They want to know what you're doing every minute
of the day you ain't with them.
Can't just be by yourself, they always
think if you don't want to see them,
then it's got to be another woman.
And I've been out with some of the stupidest women, I swear.
Usually don't find this out until after I've
did it to them.
What was her name?
Gloria?
Yeah, Gloria.
This chick had an ass like butter, moved like a roller
coaster but when it came to brain,
she was missing about 16 cards.
Worked at the welfare department but she
should have been a case herself.
I should have known better when all she talked about
was getting her nails done and was forever blowdrying
her fucking hair.
She couldn't even figure out the easiest puzzle
on Wheel of Fortune.
I remember one night we'd had a pretty serious session
and I had to go to work in the morning.
But since it was election day, Koch
was running again for mayor.
I got up extra early so I could go vote.
I look down at her, you voting today, I ask.
I ain't voted in years, Franklin,
she said, just grinning and shit like she was proud.
You stupid bitch, I wanted to say but I didn't.
It wasn't worth it.
You gotta go, I said, now.
She acted like her feelings was hurt but I didn't care.
One chick, I liked her a lot, her name was Theresa.
And she hated it when you called her Terri.
Now, Theresa has something on the ball.
Worked at a bank and not only could she cook her ass off,
but she liked sports.
We used to lay around all day on a Saturday or Sunday
and just make love during halftime
and watch every game that came on TV.
She knew a call when she heard one too.
And she gave the best head I ever had in my life.
I don't know who taught her but I
wish she'd give lessons to a lot more of them.
The only thing about Theresa was she wore a wig
and I couldn't stand to hear her talk.
She had this squeaky ass voice that drove me nuts.
It was real high, like Alvin and the Chipmunks or something.
Sometimes I wanted to say, would you just shut up?
And when the girl came, I swear to God it was embarrassing.
I don't remember what happened to her, to tell the truth.
She just faded out the picture just like Karen, and Maria,
and Sandy, and Amina, and all the rest of them.
All except Pauline.
Pauline, now that woman, she was the last one.
The one that broke my heart.
Don't ever fail.
The one you always want is the one that always leave.
Pauline was soft and sexy.
She had the prettiest breasts in the world.
They was round, and full, and stood straight out.
She was the only woman I ever met that could
cum from me just licking them.
Pauline was 100% grade-A woman.
Lived in the projects with her two-year-old son,
but she treated me like a whole man.
She was going to secretarial school
so she could get off welfare.
That's one thing I really liked about her.
She tried.
And Pauline had pride.
She never called me.
It was always me doing the calling and I didn't mind.
Some women you just want ain't satisfied till you get them.
Don't ask me what happened, but a few weeks ago when I called,
she said she was busy.
Busy?
I let it go.
The next day, I called back.
She still busy.
What the fuck is going on, I ask her.
She didn't say nothing for a minute.
My chest was heaving.
Pauline, don't play with me.
Then I heard her mumble something
like, I met somebody else.
Met somebody else what?
Who?
I heard her say some shit like she was sorry
but I just hung up the phone.
A man don't need this kind of shit.
What kind of dude could she possibly
have found that could make her feel better than me?
I hate this shit.
I wanted to marry this woman.
To tell the truth, my head was all
messed up because I kept sitting around wondering
who it could be and what was he doing for her that I wasn't
doing, didn't do.
I kept drawing a blank.
Because when I love a woman, I try
to treat her like she's the only one in the world.
Sometimes, I guess that ain't enough.
That's when I decided to take a vacation from all of them.
They think they're the only ones who can go without sex, well,
that's a lie.
A man's mind is about the strongest thing
he's got going for him.
Let women tell it, you'd swear our brains are all
in the head of our dicks.
Sometimes, this shit is true.
But right now, I'm trying to get my constitution together.
I've made too many stupid mistakes, too
many bad decisions.
I guess dropping out of high school was the biggest one.
I ain't never liked people telling me what to do.
I couldn't sit still for another two years listening
to that boring shit about America,
how to write a damn sentence.
Couldn't just learn to add, subtract, and multiply.
No, they had to complicate this shit.
But wood shop, didn't miss a class.
This was just one more reason for my moms to despise me.
I truly believe that her whole purpose in life
was to castrate men.
She started with my pops and worked her way down to me.
But he's so damn henpecked, I still
don't know what he feel about me really.
To tell the truth, I ain't never been all that crazy about them
either.
But when you're 16 years old and already 6 foot 2,
ain't much they can tell you.
My moms would lay it on thick, just running her damn mouth
to hear herself talk.
You're going to end up with a bullet hole in you, boy.
You stupid, just like that sister of yours.
Y'all should have been twins.
Can't do nothing right.
Sit up straight.
Nah, just get out of my face.
Make me want to shoot you my damn self.
Pops usually stood in the background,
pretending like he was doing something else like he
didn't hear nothing.
He always ended up in the pantry where he kept his scotch.
But there was only so more stupids I was going to be.
One day, I was going to punch all her lights out.
I did what I wanted to do anyway,
shot dope, played hooky, fucked whatever was pretty
and was willing to give it up.
It took me 15 years to get my GED but I got it.
Didn't take me that long to give up dope, that shit got old.
Had to scramble for it in five nights in jail once
and that was enough for me.
It wasn't the kind of life I pictured for myself,
that's for damn sure.
Neither was marrying Pam when I wasn't but 20 years old.
She was so fine and so sweet, I really could not get past it.
Everybody warned me.
Leave them West Indian women alone, man.
She was from Jamaica.
Two babies later, Pam was a different woman.
Fat as hell.
Never felt like making love no more.
We stopped that after Derek was born.
And by the time Miles got here, we
wasn't doing nothing but screwing.
I was working two jobs, post office at night,
construction during the day.
She took care of the kids, I busted my ass.
And what kind of thanks did I get?
I'm too tired.
She was too damn fat.
Them thighs always felt like blubber,
her waist looked like an old inner tube,
and what used to be firm, full breasts that I
used to love to suck and massage, shit,
now they fell down flat and limp on top of that gut.
It got to the point that I didn't want her,
couldn't stand the thought of touching her.
The only thing she had energy for
was them soap operas and food.
It took me three years to leave because the kids was growing up
and wasn't going nowhere no time soon.
But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
This was about my sanity.
That was six years ago.
Never did get the divorce.
I'm waiting for her to do it, she's waiting for me.
I see the kids once in a while but don't
want them to see me like this, living
in a rooming house with a whole bunch of other dudes.
But all I need right now is a room.
I ain't no woman and ain't no interior decorating neither.
What I got is what I need, a bed, a dresser, a TV,
a work table for my woodworking, my fish tank, and my music box.
I can't see spending my whole damn check
on no rent, especially some weeks when I don't get work.
Now, the dudes that live in this rooming house is real losers.
Some of them been put out, some of them
got a habit, some of them just fucking lazy.
Wouldn't work if you gave them a job.
The rest of them just lost, don't know what else to do.
Grown men on welfare.
Now, that's some ridiculous shit.
I ain't nothing like them and they know it.
I've got definite plans for my life.
They ain't crystal clear to me right now,
but that's where I'm working on my constitution.
A man needs one, needs to get his priorities straight.
Right now, it don't feel like I got no foundation.
I feel more like sheet rock, like mortar.
Can't nothing make your life work
if you ain't the architect.
Took me long enough to realize this shit.
My life is pretty simple.
I like to get drunk on Friday nights
but only if I worked a full week.
No play, no pay.
No pay, no play.
Usually go to the bar but I don't socialize
too tough with none of these dudes in here
because they ask too many damn questions, just like women.
Want to know your whole history.
But I don't give up no information.
You got a lady, man?
I look at them like they faggots and say, why?
Nosy motherfuckers.
You got any sisters?
I got two but I'll be damned if I'd introduce Darlene
to these losers.
Christine is married, which is where she should be.
Nah, I ain't got no sisters.
Why?
They look like they ready to run and then
say, I was just wondering, man.
That's all.
On the weekends, I like to sit in here
and watch whatever game or fights is on TV
and do some woodworking.
Pussy don't even cross my mind when I got a piece of wood
in my hand.
Get myself a ball and stay up all night,
chiseling, measuring, sanding, making a scale model.
Don't make me no difference.
You tell me what you want and I can build it.
Beds, couches, lamps, tables, wall units.
And the more complicated, the shit is the more I put into it.
Ain't nothing like a challenge, especially when it turns
out prettier than you expected.
But I'm slow.
I like to take my time and not rush
when I'm working on a piece, which
is one reason I don't make big pieces for people no more.
They started bugging me, wanting me to hurry up and finish it.
Christmas was coming up, something.
How can you hurry up when you trying to create a work of art?
If the shit turned out all ugly, then I'd
have to hear that shit.
I paid all our money for this?
These days, I make what I feel like make it for anybody
I feel like making it for.
Mostly myself.
At least three days a week, I work out at the gym.
Hell, working construction, I can't afford
to get flabby and out of shape.
No, there's more to it than that.
I love my body and want to keep it that way.
Faggots seem to love looking at it too.
Basically, I guess I'm a loner.
Ain't got too many friends, ain't too many
people worth trusting.
Jimmy, a dude I grew up, with stops by every now and then
to borrow a few dollars.
But I don't ever have to worry about catching up
on nothing with Jimmy because all he do
is deal dope, cocaine.
He's small time, thinks he's big time but he ain't.
Because if he was, he wouldn't have
to borrow no money from me, would have a permanent address,
and drive something besides some curled up Stacy Adams.
He don't offer me none of that shit
because he know as far back as we go,
I don't want to be around nothing
that even smell like dope.
Lucky is the only dude in this building
that I do associate with.
He's also the only male nurse I ever met in my life
and he ain't no faggot either.
But he always in white.
Worked the midnight shift at some old folks home.
We play cards, spades, poker, sometimes dominoes.
Lucky is smart as hell too.
He reads everything, which is why
we get into some heavy debates.
Like the shit that's going on in the Middle East,
should Jesse Jackson run for president in '84 or not?
That kind of shit.
I like being around people who think,
who read the damn paper every day
and know what's going on in the world.
Lucky's biggest problem is that he lives at the track.
Horses is his middle name.
When he gets off work, he'll catch two buses, four trains,
whatever's running to get to a track.
I hate to take his money, but, hell, when you play and lose,
you lose and pay.
He's got a hell of a record.
Music collection too.
I mean, serious.
That's another reason I like to sit in this room.
Shit get us a bottle, order some Chinese food,
debate about damn near anything that come on the news,
and listen to Herbie Hancock or Cole Porter in the background.
You can't beat it.
And I play my music loud as hell because that's how I like it.
Once in a while, one of these dudes
will knock on my door to complain.
Say, man, would you mind turning it down a taste?
If I'm drinking scotch, doing some woodwork,
and I'll say, maybe.
Or just ignore them.
They don't mess with me either.
Maybe because it is-- maybe it's because I
am 6' 4 and weigh 215.
I don't know.
I do know I can be a pain in the ass but that's my nature.
I just like to test people, see what they made of,
where they coming from.
I got discharged from the Navy because of my temper, lack
of cooperation.
Couldn't carry out, let alone follow orders.
And didn't give a shit.
Didn't want to go in the first damn place.
A Black man got enough wars to fight at home.
When they said draft and they meant army, I said, not me.
Let me go somewhere halfway exciting.
Submarines, and ships, and shit.
Everybody thought it would do me some good.
But how can taking orders from the white man, killing people
that ain't never done nothing to me personally do me some good?
It took me two years to get out.
My whole family disowned me.
If I was white, I probably would have been disinherited.
My mom said, you just lost, boy.
Always was, always will be.
Why don't you just go somewhere far away and leave us alone?
The bitch.
And my pops, I don't know the right word to describe him.
Meek.
That's close enough.
You could have had a future if you'd've
followed the rules, son.
That's all it takes to make it in this world,
playing by the rules.
Yeah, right.
Look how far it got you, I wanted to say.
A longshoreman, his dream in life.
Shit.
I didn't get no dishonorable, just a general.
I can still get some of the benefits.
And Christine, she's a year older than me,
the perfect word for her is dumb.
Just plain old dumb.
How she graduated from high school, I'll never know.
My folks worshipped Christine and you'd
swear she was the only child they ever had.
That's because she'll lick the ground they walk on.
You got too much anger in you, Franklin.
That's your biggest problem, she said.
You're hostile and you don't know what the words cooperate
or compromise mean.
Why you so mad at everybody?
She don't even know me.
Maybe if I was high yellow like she was, and didn't ever have
to worry about dealing with white folks scaring them half
to death because I'm so big and black,
I would be happy as a little fucking lark too.
That's what it boiled down to-- color.
Me and Darlene was the black sheep in the family.
Took after my pops and we got treated like that too.
Even now, Christine lived right across the street from moms
and pops in a Leave it to Beaver house
with a Father Knows Best husband and three little baby Brady
Bunch kids in dull ass Staten Island.
And Darlene: if you'd have just made it
through high school, Franklin, you
could be playing for the Knicks.
They've got hardship cases and you know it.
You wouldn't have had to go to college,
could be making bookoo cash right now.
She pissed me off.
Thinks just like everybody else in America.
Why is it that if you happen to be Black
and over six feet tall, everybody
thinks you're supposed to play basketball or football?
But I'll let Darlene off the hook
because she nutty as a damn fruitcake,
thanks to my parents.
She changed jobs like some people change their clothes.
Don't know whether she coming or going
and ain't never got no man, living up there in Harlem
drinking herself to death.
And she don't think nobody know it but I know it.
I ain't seen none of them in almost a year
and that's just the way I like it, really.
All except for Darlene.
I worry about her.
Every now and then, I'll call her just
to make sure she's still alive.
She already tried to kill herself once
and you think my folks would go up there and see her?
All they ever want from us was to go along
with their program, which meant don't ever disagree with them
about nothing.
Shit, they forgot that kids had opinions too.
And it ain't no secret that they had it in for me
from Jump Street.
All they ever felt for me was disappointment, not love.
And me being their only son, you'd
think they'd be more understanding.
But that would be too much like right.
They would love to see me drive up in a brand new car,
walk in their house wearing a suit
and tie, flashing credit cards, and proving
to them that I didn't turn out to be the fuckup they thought
I would.
But even if I ever got to that point,
I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing it
since they never gave me none.
But time can do some wild shit to your mind.
For one thing, it can put you in check,
make you stop and realize on your 32nd birthday
that your life is going down the fucking drain,
that you ain't moving, ain't headed nowhere in particular.
You're drifting, pretending like you on your way
but you don't know where.
And when you sit in a tiny ass room, smoking one
Newport after another, playing Solitaire
with a bottle of scotch, looking across the room at a piece
of wood that could turn out to be
a beautiful piece of furniture, and you
know what you're doing is good, but don't know what
to do about it or where to go from here,
you sort of get scared.
And who are you supposed to tell?
A man don't run around telling everybody that he's scared,
especially when they don't know what the fuck he's scared of.
And for some reason, don't nobody
seem to think that Franklin Swift should
be scared of nothing.
But time scares me.
It feels like it's running out, like I got to go ahead and make
a move, a big move.
Hell, something drastic.
And if the white man would give a Black man a break,
maybe I could get in the union once and for all,
making $14 to $17 an hour.
They tearing down and putting up new buildings everywhere
you look in Brooklyn.
Italians will renovate anything for a dollar,
but be black and try to get in the union and what do they do?
Lay your black ass off right before the cutoff date or want
to pay you hush money or go-home-and-don't-show-up
money.
Anything to stop from paying your union scale.
And who can afford the dues when they're paying you
6 or 7 bucks an hour?
So, yeah, I'm just a laborer.
If I can get in a few weeks of steady work at a little higher
than slave wages, I could join.
They give us 30 days to do it.
Shit, I could buy a decent car, be out of this dingy ass room.
I could afford a one-bedroom apartment then
and send the kids more money, let them spend a night,
take them to Coney Island, the movies.
Shit, I don't know.
I don't need much.
And even though this is 1982, the white man
still love to see Black men lift that barge and tote that bell.
If I didn't do nothing but sit around
here all day like some of these dudes,
then they'd call me a shiftless, lazy, no-good nigger.
Almost begged the motherfuckers for a job and they
still feel threatened.
A man gets tired of begging.
After a while, you feel butt naked,
stripped of anything that even looked like pride.
And they love that shit, which is
why I resent every brick I pick up,
every wheelbarrow I push, all the mud I sling,
every wall I've ever put up or torn down.
And one day, I would love to just say, fuck you.
But I made the bed, now I'm laying
in it, which is why I'm looking into night school.
I can't work construction for the rest of my damn life.
Muscles wear out, and the mind act like it want to follow.
And out of all the things I may be, stupid ain't one of them.
One day, I'd like to start my own business.
Be my own man, give the damn orders instead of taking them,
have some money in my pocket and money in the fucking bank.
That's what it's all about, ain't it?
And that's exactly why women ain't in the picture right now.
They complicate shit.
Fuck up my whole program.
All they do is throw me off track
and it takes me too goddamn long to swing back.
That's Franklin.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you!
Whoa!