Chapters (31)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Room in the Dark I
- Fawns of the Diaspora Court Liliane in Paris, While Tabou Combo Whispers “Coq Qualité” in Her Ears
- Room in the Dark II
- “I Usedta Drink, Smoke and Do the Hoochie-Koo,” or What’s a Girl to Do When Her Mother Looks Like Ruth Brown
- Room in the Dark III
- “El Bochinche” es que only Fe Cortijo Knows or All the LeBron Brothers Know If Victor-Jésus María Sang Lili to Her Freedom
- Room in the Dark IV
- And Where Is Garnett Mimms?
- Room in the Dark V
- I Know Where Kansas City Is, But Did Wilbert Harrison Ever Get There?
- Room in the Dark VI
- Zoom Went the Strings of Liliane’s Heart, But Arsenio Rodriguez Could Have Told Her the Music Sounds Just as Sweet When We’re Blind and Still We See
- Room in the Dark VII
- I Know Where the E Train Stops But I’m “Sendin’ Out an S.O.S.” and I’m Not Edwin Starr Either
- Room in the Dark VIII
- “Happy, Happy Birthday, Baby” or Wouldn’t It Be Great If the Lead Singer of The Crests Wasn’t a White Boy and I Could Be My Mother?
- Room in the Dark IX
- Every Time My Lil World Seems Blue, I Just Haveta Look at You and Learn Eye-Hand Coordination
- Room in the Dark X
- “That’s Why I Love Her So and Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, I Want to Know” or Why Jackie Wilson Died in Silence
- Room in the Dark XI
- There’s No Use Cryin’ “Forever” or Hyacinthe Returns from a Very Blue Holiday for Real B(l)ack at Ya
- Room in the Dark XII
- Lollie Struts Her Stuff Thru “The Sea of Love” or the Brides of Frankenstein Catch the Bouquet
- By Ntozake Shange
- Acknowledgments
- Copyright
I can’t exactly say what Alex did with a lot of the time he had on his hands. He was gone a lot, on the road a lot with this rock band or that avant-garde group. He wasn’t a musician, I was boycotting musicians at that time, but I didn’t quite find my way out of “the industry,” you know what I mean? So, Alex did lights, sound, road management, that sort of thing. Thank goodness I am not a groupie. Never was. But I don’t feel in charge of what I’m doing now. I am not able to move this pencil off my paper, nice heavy-grained paper I searched for yesterday, knowing I would come here today to draw this man I don’t know and then take all that I drew from and of him home with me again.
What baffles me is that this is the same table I would sit at to wait for Alex, always-in-my wardrobe Alex, yet there’s none of him around me. All I manage to do day after day is to go look at art: Julian Schnabel, Brice Marden, Jennifer Bartlett, “The Nigger Drawings,” and I end up here looking for him. How, you say, can I obsessively seek out a man of whom I have no knowledge? I know the nape of his neck from ten feet, how his braids fall over his shoulder blades, the angle of his chin when he laughs, the curve of the delts and the arrogance of his posture, his ease among friends. I just look at him. I watch and my hands do the rest. I keep coming back on some ritual of expiation. I’ve burned no candles, strewn no flowers, asked no questions. And this is a place to ask some questions. Lemme tell ya, if there’s some dirt to be had, dug up or fabricated, we are in heaven. From the bathroom to the bar is a nest of intrigue, seductive badinage, and income-appropriate drug trade. Remarkable insights offered from all quarters. That’s not including the Men’s Room. I have some friends, rather acquaintances, who pass through. Nadia who must be one of the most beautiful women in the world: deep copper like wildflower honey, a laugh like a million snuggles, the libido of a Great Dane in heat. She was a professional back-up singer, Frankle Calle, Lou Rawls, John Cougar Mellencamp. She had all the looks, the voice, and the coke. A couple of high-living Guadaloupeans gave the place a twinge of sophistication. Otherwise, it was straight-up industry profilin’ or procurin’ of pussy, or cocaine, whatever made you happy. Name that tune, baby.