‘Scoe

ROOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSS-COE!!!

ROOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSS-COE!!!

This is really a post that should have been written by Travel Buddy, but she’s lazy and wouldn’t do it.<– FACT!

So bear with me.

In Travel Buddy’s neighborhood, there is a man.

And this man, from what I understand, is like the neighborhood sherpa or, holy man, or, or shaman.

People come from blocks around, to get guidance from this man.

They stand below his window, and beckon up to him for advice. <–I guess…

Below they stand, at the time, in the dead of winter patiently awaiting the golden wisdom from this man.

The man.

This man, could only be called one thing.

Be called a name that is powerful and demands respect from all those he encounters.

A name, when called, makes the very ground you stand upon quake from its power as its syllables roll from your lips and firmly plant themselves in thin air.

That name…

Roscoe.

Yup, that’s right.

Roscoe.

Now I always thought Travel Buddy was lying when she said people would come to the corner of her street at the most random and inappropriate times (you know like 2-3 o’clock in the morning) and call up to Roscoe. Ok, ok maybe not that she was lying, but that she was over-exaggerating the details of what was really transpiring. Would you have believed her? Seriously someone is going to leave their home, in the dead of winter and seek out some dude named Roscoe, at 2AM? C’mon, son, FOH!

Well, then I heard it for myself.

It was about 2 o’clock in the morning, the Roscoe bewitching hour, and Travel Buddy and I had just staggered into her apartment after a ridiculous day at school. I got myself settled in and began to gather my things so I could take a shower. I took a wonderfully hot shower (in case you were wondering) and got myself all situated on her couch to write a paper (that should have been done well in advance) and all of a sudden I hear, “ROSCOE! ROSSSCOE!! Man, Roscoe, c’mon!!”

shut up. no way.

I text TB,

Me: You have go to be kidding me.

TB: I told you.

Me: I know, but I really thought you were kidding.

TB: Mhm, I know.

Me: Damn. My bad.

So after about 5 minutes…this guy is still outside yelling up to Roscoe for, umm, I don’t know…guidance (?). So I text TB,

Me: Umm can you tell Roscoe to answer that fool!?

TB: I’m not saying anything! And you better not either!

Fine.

I didn’t say anything. I finished my paper and went into the guest/”my” bedroom and drifted off into contact caught slumber.<– Yea the girls that live in the apartment below TB, smoke ALL. THE. TIME!

ALL THE TIME!!!

During this whole ordeal, I never heard a response from Roscoe, and, according to Travel Buddy, that’s the way it always is. I mean, Roscoe answers, you just can’t hear him in TB’s apartment, so it appears as though it’s a crazy, one-sided conversation.

As I understand it, and would like to think of it, Roscoe is like a silent hood genie. He comes to your rescue whenever you need him. For instance, TB said she over heard a few “conversations”. The first of which went something like this:

Man: “ROSCOE! Aye, ROSCOE!”

Silence (Maybe)

Man: “Roscoe, c’mon man, come walk my girl home.”

Wait…what?!

Roscoe is a sherpa, a holy man, a shaman, a hood genie…and a security detail…?

What kind of madness is this!?

In hindsight, Roscoe being security is not even the problem I have with this situation. Clearly Roscoe is a man of many talents and many things to many people. There’s no disputing that. My issue is this guy, came all the way to Roscoe’s place, in the middle of the night, to tell him to walk HIS girl home? What part of the game is that!? I’m sure in all of the time it took for them to walk to Roscoe’s, this dude could have easily walked his “cutie-pie lady friend” (in Pops’ voice) home his damn self! And we won’t even get started on why this woman would allow her dude to let some other man walk her home! WTH?!

#Ican’t.

If Roscoe playing security guard wasn’t strange enough, there was another wildly entertaining one-sided crazy conversation that stuck a cord with not only me, but my entire class. This time a woman came to the alter of Roscoe looking for something. Something with some action. The conversation went something like this:

Woman: “Roscoe. Hey, ROSCOE!”

Silence (again, maybe.)

Woman: “Roscoe, I need something. Something that moves. That’s a vibrator, right?”

Silence

Woman: “Is that what they call it? Yea, I need one of those.”

When Travel Buddy first told me this story, I’m not quite sure what my reaction was. I’m pretty sure I laughed out loud for several minutes, then demanded that she tell the story again from the top and not leave anything out.<– She has this voice she uses that is unique only to the Roscoe stories, which are all gems for different reasons, that elevates the story to an amazing level of oratory entertainment. Someone should give that girl a Pulitzer for drama, or something because she has got something special going on there.

By far this is my favorite Roscoe story for three reasons: 1) Was this woman actually asking this man for a sex toy? Like, all jokes aside, really asking? Or was she asking for some type of drug that would make her move? I imagine her voice to be like Whoopi Goldberg’s in Jumpin’ Jack Flash. 2) I really wish I knew what Roscoe said to her. From the story, she leaves on her merry way happy with whatever wisdom or product (?) Roscoe bestowed upon her. But what the hell was said? I mean does he just have a suitcase filled with various sex toys? Or is he indeed a SPNSR (Street Pharmaceutical Narcotic Sales Representative. Pronounced “spenser”, you know like dispenser)? Hell stepping away from the obvious, he could be something totally different that I clearly never even considered. 3) The sheer absurdity and randomness of this story is what will stick with me and be apart of some strange Grey Goose fueled anecdote I tell at some mixer I get invited to…that’ll also be when I realize the time has come for me to gather my things and be on my way. #Knowyourlimits, LOL.

Clearly the security and vibrator stories are very colorful examples of the few things Roscoe does, but after having been told them I still didn’t completely believe this man existed. I mean, if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound?!<– WTF am I talking about?

Exactly!

I mean I still thought Roscoe being beckoned was just a fluke.

…that was until it snowed.

Remember those RIDICULOUS snow storms we got in January and February, well I got caught in one of them while staying at Travel Buddy’s place. I mean it was unreal. I go to bed and there were just a few flurries. Tiny, cute, fluffy flurries. I wake up and A WHOLE ASS STORM HAPPENED!!!

WTF!? Ugh, I hate snow.

And that’s what I said the whole time as I got dressed.

That’s what I said the whole time, as I stood on TB’s stoop and stared out at the frozen block that had encased my car–in sheer disbelief.

That’s what I was muttering to myself as I failed miserably at EFFECTIVELY cleaning off my car. Wincing every time I took a step in the snow, because the sound of snow under foot makes my teeth ache something awful (yea think of how you feel with nails on a chalk board or the dentist’s drill. Yup, that’s exactly it). Still muttering to myself, wishing TB would bring her ass, so she could help me clean off the damn car.

Then there was a voice. A voice that came out of no where. It wasn’t exactly an “angelic” or “heavenly” voice. No. It was more like a raspy voice similar to what THAT GUY sounds like when he’s calling you everything BUT a child of God as you block traffic in your car with your out of state license plates because you’re clearly lost and the light is green and you are trying to make a left turn, but you ARE NOT a turning lane.<– Damn, PA drivers. Smh, it’s just a little jug handle!

No, but seriously the voice really it did come from no where, and it said, “Hey, you want me to do that?”

I looked left. I looked right. I looked across the street.

There was no one there, but the voice spoke again, “Hey you want me to do that?”

Umm…::whisper thinks to self:: where is that coming from?

I turn around and, well…looked up. And, there, hanging out of a second floor window wearing a wife beater, was a man, who I presumed was Roscoe…but I’m not really sure.<– He looked like Samuel L. Jackson in New Jack Swing mix with Samuel L. Jackson in Black Snake Moan, but cleaner if that makes sense.

Me: “What’d you say?”

Him: “Do you want me to do that for you?”

Me: “Umm…no, no. I-I-I think I got it.”

Him: “Really?”<– There was a serious look of skepticism on his face, and I couldn’t blame him. I looked a mess and my car cleaning skills were even worse. Pause: Shut up, Roscoe!

Me: “Yep. I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

Without further hesitation he ducked his head back into his apartment and securely closed the window with one fluid slam. And just as quickly as he’d appeared, he was gone.

Just as he went in, Travel Buddy came out.

Me: “Umm, I think I just met Roscoe.”

TB: “Really? How? You didn’t call him did you!?”

Me: “NO! I was out here minding my own business cleaning off the car and he asked me if I wanted him to do it.”

TB: “Well what did you say?”

Me: *Blank stare. Looks at car, then back at her* “Obviously I said no.”

TB: “Why!?”

Me: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHY!? I wasn’t even sure that was him! I said I THINK it was him!”

TB: *Sucks teeth* “Man.”

Me: “Man, nothing. Help me clean this off so we’re not late.”

TB: *Sucks teeth again* “Man, I’m coming. You work on your side. And stop throwing your snow over here! I’m not built for manual labor in such harsh conditions.”

Me: “Yea, aiight.”

A couple of weeks later, I found out that TB’s roommate apparently knows Roscoe. I thought about asking her to introduce me to him, but then I decided against it. Not because I didn’t want to meet Roscoe, but because of three very specific things.

1. It would require me to talk to TB’s roommate.

::sigh:: That bitch doesn’t STFU! She reminds me of Six from Blossom.<– #Throwback

Oh, and she ate my Capt’n Crunch with Crunch Berries and my Lactaid milk.<– Man that milk is expensive!

Bitch.

Nuff said.

2. Roommate is not the brightest nor most, umm, uh, stable (?) star in the sky.

I was there when TB confronted her about not only eating my milk and cereal, but also other things that TB had brought. Her excuse for doing it, and I swear this is too good to make this up, was that she did it in her sleep.

Yep…

I heard it with my own two ears. I didn’t believe she’d said it and neither did TB, so TB hit her with a, “Say what now?”

Yea. Apparently, her anti-anxiety meds make her sleep walk, eat, smoke (O_o), you know the norm. Something like a(n) Ambian or Lunesta zombie effect. Pssh…good enough for me!<– Shit was funny. I had THEE stupidest look on my face as I “contained” myself during her explanation.

She seems to like crunchy things, salty things, sweet things, my things, TB’s UNOPENED things…pretty much ANYTHING she didn’t F***IN buy herself and isn’t nailed down.

Smh. Whatever. That’s a whole ‘nother story, for a whole ‘nother day.

3. I don’t want to ruin my internal vision of Roscoe.

Let’s be real, this guy is a legend…or at least I made him one in my mind. *Shrug* I think I’m allowed to do that. I’m allowed to cling to my warped truth until it is swiftly and violently ripped away by a cruel, cruel reality. Many people in my class revere Roscoe…though there have been no positive sightings. According to Travel Buddy, no one has been past Roscoe’s place in a while asking him for anything. Even with the reduced traffic I think he should be apart of urban American folklore. He’s like what Big Foot or the Lock Ness Monster are to conspiracy theorist or what President Obama’s birth certificate is to Donald Trump and the Tea Party-ers/Republicans.

He’s an E3– an Epic, Elusive, Enigma destined to be pondered and searched for by many, for years to come.

I mean, my worse fear, is that he’s really a crackhead. Clearly, I don’t want to be mixing with that particular crowd. On the other hand he could just be the guy that everyone turns to when they need something, anything, to get them through.

::sigh:: I suppose, for now, he’ll remain “just Roscoe.” The silent man that makes things happen. The man that gives so much of himself, but never asks (presumably) for anything in return.

The Man.

The Myth.

The ‘Scoe.

Speak your mind…

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About themeanblackgirl

My name says it all!
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