It was pouring rain in Atlantic City and I
was headed into town on the Black Horse Pike. I was driving my ’82 Jag – paid
for with the legal fees I had legitimately bilked from people hoping to get
rich quick via the still-young casino industry.
At a light, I glanced out to see the dark
shape of a man, a black man, looking to be about 50 and so drenched that the
curls of his obvious process job – that hair-straightening technique used by
just about every “colored” entertainer of a certain age - had begun to turn to
natural ringlets again. He wore a disheveled trench coat, and carried nothing.
The guy motioned for me to let him in.
Now, normally I wouldn’t have picked up a hitchhiker in Atlantic City if he
were wearing a white cassock and red slippers. But, before I could stop myself,
my hand was on the door handle and this dude was sliding in beside me.
“Whoa, thanks, brother. It’s bad out
there,” he said, slicking the rain from his face.
“No problem, I said. “Where are you
headed?” Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say?
“Resorts, man. I got a gig.”
“Oh.” I feigned surprise. Everybody in
Atlantic City has a gig. “You a musician?”
“Man, I’m Little Anthony,” he said, as if I should have known.
I didn’t, and my passenger of 30 seconds
had caught me off guard. Either he was crazy, a scammer or – what the hell –
Little Anthony.
“Little Anthony. Like Little Anthony and
the Imperials,” I went along?
“Yeah, bro, that’s me! I’m a star, baby. Allen
Freed, the motherfuckin’ father of rock ‘n’ roll, gave me my damn name.”
“Yeah, yeah. You guys were great … ‘Goin’
Out of My Head,’ right?”
“Yeah, man, that’s the shit! You got it,”
he said.
We sat there not saying anything else for
a minute, maybe longer. What does one say to Little Anthony? “What do you hear from
the Imperials?” We were only about 12 blocks from the casino.
He broke the silence. “Hey, man. It’s cool
that you’re a fan and that you got me outta this damn rain. I really appreciate
it, brother …”
I knew what was coming.
“Brother, can you help me out a little
more? My piece-of-crap car broke down. I hadda take me a bus from Philly. I’m
making a good paycheck tonight but right now, I’m tapped. I gotta get me a
coffee and cleaned up before the show.”
Like I figured. He was a scammer; imaginative
son-of-bitch, but a just another scammer. This town hosted the on-going Scammer
Olympics, so even though “Little Anthony” was good, he was no gold medalist.
But before I could say,” Give me a break,” he spoke again.
“I know what you’re thinkin,’ man. That
I’m some jive-ass who thinks he really is Jerome Fuckin’ Gourdine and uses a T Bird
bottle for a microphone? Well, man, I don’t mean to hassle you. You’re a good
dude. You picked my ass up out of this rain. But I am motherfuckin’ Little
Anthony, my man. "I'm on the Outside (Looking In,) “Goin' Out Of My Head ,” "Hurt So Bad." I sang all
them damn songs on the radio, bro. Even that goddamn ,”Shimmie, Shimmee, KoKo
Bop.”
I couldn’t speak. Resorts was a block away. Then, in a sweet
falsetto I hadn’t heard before except from an AM car radio, he began,
“You don't
remember me
But I remember you
It was not so long ago
You broke my heart in two
Tears on my pillow, pain in my heart
Caused by you ….”
But I remember you
It was not so long ago
You broke my heart in two
Tears on my pillow, pain in my heart
Caused by you ….”
Damn. He WAS Little Anthony.
I pulled over, stunned, to let him out.
“Thanks, man. Come for the show if you
want. We here ‘til Thursday.”
“Wait,” I said. The same guy was talking
as the one who had let him in the car in the first place. I pulled out a twenty
and pushed it at him.
He smiled, thinly. “Thanks, man. Truly.
I’ll get this back to you real soon.”
“Don’t worry,” I said.
He turned serious. “No, man. I always pay what I owe. How can I find
you?”
“Here.” I gave him a business card.
“Thanks, again, bro. You’re a good man.
And, don’t sweat it. You’ll get your money. Little Anthony don’t lie.”
