Why People Walk Away From Me At Parties

Sometime in the early 1940's, Malcom Little--the man the world would later come to know as Malcom X--landed a job washing dishes at a diner in New York City, somewhere in the vicinity of 42nd Street. Malcom hailed from Lansing, Michigan and had a slight reddish tinge to his hair. Nobody at the restaurant had ever heard of Lansing before, so Malcom's nickname became "Detroit Red."

One day, another young man came to work as a dishwasher at the same restaurant. He too had reddish hair. But he came from St. Louis by way of Chicago, so his nickname became "Chicago Red."

For months, Detroit Red and Chicago Red labored together in that humid kitchen. They stood shoulder to shoulder, hour after hour, scrubbing pots, scouring pans, scraping plates, hands perpetually plunged in scalding, soapy water. Twice a day, they got a smoke break. They would untie their aprons, sling them over their shoulders, and wander out the back door of the restaurant to sit, side by side, on a pair of upturned milk crates. There, they would close their eyes and turn their faces to the wind, blow smoke rings and share daydreams of making it big in Hollywood.

Needless to say, Detriot Red never made it to Hollywood. His life took a radically different path, and we all know his story. But Chicago Red finally did find success in show business. However, by that time, he had changed his name--to Redd Foxx.



My brain is crammed with little anecdotes like that. My eagerness to share them, one after another, without being asked, without warning, without let-up, without mercy, is why people walk away from me at parties.