Thursday, May 19, 2016

Little Anthony Don't Lie


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 ….”

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.”

Credit to John Donnelly, Esq.