My friend Norman
My friend Norman died on Father’s Day. Norman wasn’t a father that anyone was aware of, but it was not through lack of trying. Norman was the whitest black guy I have ever known. He could be equally at home in a Harlem Barbershop or a White House Reception. He lived a full life with no discernable source of income. When you saw Norman, women were not far behind. He regaled them, he rejoiced in their presence, he told story after story after story after story.
Norman introduced me to Leslie who came to the beach in July in black – both clothes and mood. I never liked Leslie, but my son has observed that he never heard me laugh as long or as hard as when Leslie was next to me at our kitchen table eating or drinking or both. I love hating Leslie.
Norman brought Anne to my parents’ house to pick up some furniture he had agreed to rediscover. As we were carrying the stuff to his car, he mentioned Anne’s husband had recently shot himself dead in front of her. I was unusually silent. At another event, Anne dissed a chocolate cake my friend Josephine had made, and she (Anne) later died a horrible death. Josehine was rumored to be a Haitian Voodoo Queen; there is a lesson there, somewhere.
I met Barbara through Norman. She is a loving, earthy person who is daughter-abused and proud of it. Barbara was given little yet has achieved contentment and wisdom envied by many.
There will probably be a gathering of all Norman’s women to celebrate his life and I will be there. I will miss his stories. To honor Norman, I will plan to come hours late to his party. Black-Time, dude!
kongoboken 