Black At Last

Frank's Bar on Fulton Street is black. It's not Black Panther 'Black' or Malcolm X 'Black' but it's blacker than any other bar in Fort Greene. Since 1972 too. I've been hanging out there for the last year. I have never pretended to be anything more than what I am. A white boy from Boston and the regulars of the bar have accepted my whiteness. I speak with Homer about the Knicks. We agree that they suck. Billy in the corner tells me tales of the 50s. He is that old and Tim, the owner's brother, drinks with me on Sunday afternoons. Ain't no one else there but me and him. He's 75. I'm 57. We've seen some of the same things, but I was a white boy cracker.

Until tonight.

I stopped at Demel's Chocolatier in the Plaza this evening. They were closing on Friday. Attila packed a box of cakes. He asked where I was going, thinking I might be trendy, after all my boss Richie Boy had been in the Boom-Boom club the other night.

"That's not my game. I'm strictly Frank's."

Especially on the nights Rosa tends the bar.

She's funny, hot, and pours free beer.

This evening I arrived with chocolate cakes. All the girls at the bar cooed with expectancy. They were chocolate-lovers to the bone. I fed them pralines, dark chocolate mousses, super chocolate pies. All the sisters were ecstatic and the largest on all said, "Thank you, Mr. Chocolate."

"Mr. Chocolate?" I pondered the enormity of this appellation and said, "I have reached the promised land when a white man can be recognized as chocolate. Chocolate City I love you."

Everyone laughed except for one young man.

"You ain't no brother."

These were harsh words, but I stuck out my arm. It hadn't seen the sun in six months.

"I blacker than you."

And it was the truth.

Everyone laughed harder. Even the brother lighter than the white boy.

I do love this bar.