The Last Black Unicorn - Tiffany Haddish Page 0,37

blessing from God. If he was my blessing and I shitted on my blessing, that’s not cool. I need to find him and talk to him.

I went back to the address where I’d picked him up for our date. The same girl with Down syndrome answered the door. She said Roscoe was gone.

“Roscoe left, Roscoe not here no more, but you still so booty-full, you so booty-full!”

Nobody at his group home knew where he went. I even talked to the lady that ran the place. She said she didn’t know where he moved to or where he went. He left without even telling them where he was going.

I didn’t know where else to look for him, or what else to do. He was gone. He just vanished.

Nobody knew what happened to Roscoe.

I didn’t tell anyone about Roscoe and me. I just kept it to myself.

I still have all these what if’s go through my mind. I seriously think to myself, What if he was an angel from heaven? What if God was testing me to see if I can have compassion and overlook people’s physical handicaps and look at the beauty of their souls? Roscoe was such a beautiful person, he had a truly beautiful soul.

He was always so positive and supportive. Whatever I said I wanted to do, everyone else put me down or told me I couldn’t do it. Not Roscoe. He would always encourage me. He was one of the first people I told when I decided to start doing comedy.

Tiffany: “I’m about to go full-time in comedy, Roscoe.”

Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEE! Youu do soo good! Youu soo fun-neeee! Tell me when youu doin’ it, I’m going to come see youuu.”

Tiffany: “I’m doing open mics right now, maybe when my shows get bigger, then you can come to the show.”

Roscoe: “Oh, you’re so fun-nee, youu make everybody laugh, you’re going to be the best comedian, you’re going to be the best.”

He would always be so encouraging. Even though life had dealt him such a bad hand, he was just a positive motherfucker.

And then he was gone, and it was my fault.

For years, I didn’t tell none of my friends about him. Then I ran into one of my old coworkers, and I told her. She about choked:

Friend: “You fucked Roscoe? Oh my God. How did you end up fucking Roscoe? I remember he used to talk about you every day, and if you didn’t show up to work, he’d be wondering where you were, so worried about you. How did you end up fucking Roscoe?”

I told her what happened, the whole story. Then she got all mad at me:

Friend: “You never told no one that? If you don’t talk about that onstage, you wrong! You have to go talk about that, because handicapped people need love—they need love too, they people.”

Tiffany: “Yeah, I know. I know I’m going to heaven, too. Roscoe taught me that.”

Friend: “What do you mean you know you’re going to heaven?”

Tiffany: “Because I fucked Roscoe. Roscoe is probably an angel, a fallen angel. I feel like Roscoe was like the John Travolta character in the movie Michael. He came to earth to teach me to be humble and that all people need love no matter who or what they are. Because I fucked him, that’s why he disappeared. That’s why we don’t see him no more, because he went back to heaven. Only a heavenly dick could fuck me the way Roscoe did.”

She kinda paused, and then we both broke out laughing. She told me:

Friend: “Well . . . I don’t know about all that. But still, you gotta talk about this. You gotta tell the world about your handicapped angel.”

In my heart, I knew she was right: I couldn’t keep it to myself.

How I Got (Restarted) in Comedy

I quit comedy when I was eighteen, so I could get a job and provide for myself.

I got restarted in comedy at twenty-two, because I had to stomp a bitch for disrespecting me.

It was Bertha. Yes, that same Bertha, the stripper that Titus the Boyfriend couldn’t pimp, but I could. Here’s how it all went down.

When I was still pimping her, Bertha asked me if I could pick her up from the strip club one day. She had me take her to a party. When we arrived, Titus the Boyfriend was there.

Tiffany: “I don’t know if I should stay for this.”

Titus: “Nah, it’s cool, Tiff. It’s cool. I ain’t tripping. I get it. Let bygones be bygones.