Pryor - Jokes My Father Never Taught Me

Once upon a time, in a Faraway Land, two hippies were sitting around talking about the rain.

Dont say hippies, Rain. It was 1967, and we were Flower Children, not hippies.

Whats the difference?

Hippies were dirty. Flower Children were clean and beautiful.

Thats a stretch.

Just go with it.

Okay. Ill try.

Once upon a time, in a Faraway Land, two Flower Children were sitting around talking about the rain. They lived in a Magic Castle

Actually, if youre going to insist on telling the truth, it was a Spanish colonial on Plymouth Street, with brown wall-to-wall shag carpeting. And its not even there anymorethey tore it down to make room for an office building.

Can we focus on the two Flower Children for the time being?

Its your book.

The female Flower Child, born in the enchanted borough of Brooklyn, was a beautiful Jewish-American princess, with blond hair and blue eyes.

I wasnt a fucking Jewish PrincessI was a radical in the Army of Peace! I left home when I was in high school and shacked up with a bunch of Cuban Marxists!

And the male was a very handsome Black Prince, who just happened to grow up in a whorehouse.

The motherfucker was handsomeIll give him that. But Prince ? I dont think so.

The Prince and Princess met in a bar and took an instant dislike to each other

Now were talking, Rainy. If youre going to tell the story, tell it like it is.

But they overcame their differences, flew to Las Vegas, and got married in a tacky little chapel.

Bastard wouldnt even spring for an Elvis impersonator.

They made love all night and all day, every night and every day, and before long the Jewish Princess was pregnant.

Sick as a dog, too.

Then one rainy afternoon, while the two of them were sitting at home (on the shag carpet), listening to the rain, it suddenly came to her. Lets call her Rain, she said.

Who? he said.

The baby! she said.

And the Black Prince perked right up and his eyes went all wide. Rain! he said. Now thats a good name. I like that name!

You know, I hate to do this to you, but now that I think about it, maybe it wasnt the rain after all. Maybe it was the sprinklers.

Mom!

Im just trying to be helpful. You said you wanted to tell the truth and nothing but the goddamn truth, and Im doing my part.

Well? Was it the sprinklers?

No, probably not. If it had been the sprinklers, we would have called you Sprinkle.

Great name for a porn star!

You know what? Its coming back to me now. It really was raining. I remember because the windows were all fogged up, and because your father got to his feet and used his finger to write your name in the glass: R-A-I-N.

Then what?

What do you mean, Then what ? You know what. Life happened, and everything went to shit.

Not everything, Mom.

No. I guess youre right. Not everything.

I remember good times, too.

Yeah, so do I. The motherfucker was crazy, but he was never boring.

No, he certainly wasnt boring. Life with Richard Pryor was one hell of a ride.

It was one of those rare Los Angeles days when the ocean fog lifts early and the smog never appears. The baby blue sky sparkles, calm and cloudless, and you can see the sharp outlines of the houses clinging to the Hollywood Hills.

The year was 1973I was four years oldand my mother and I were in her battered Volvo, winding our way toward those hillside houses. I had no idea where we were going, and my mother wasnt talking.

Are you going to tell me now? I said.

Stop bugging me, she said.

I just want to know where were going, I said.

My mother took a deep breath, gave me a dirty look, and exploded: Were going to meet your father, okay?! Happy now? Were going to meet your motherfucking father.

That was a lot to process for a four-year-old. The language didnt bother meI was used to itbut I was having trouble getting my mind around the fact that my father lived only a few miles from our own apartment. My father lives here? I asked. In the same city?

Where the fuck did you think he lived? On the motherfucking moon?

Frankly, that was a possibility. I had heard many stories about my fathermost of them pretty unflatteringand I never imagined that some day I would become part of his life. He was a famous comedian, after all, and Id been given to understand that comedy took precedence over fatherhood. Whats more, he happened to be a self-destructive, self-absorbed schmuck, and he wasnt even remotely interested in me. Thats what my mother told me, anywaythat and worse. Whenever she talked about him, and she talked about him often, she would work herself into such a frenzy that she would turn red in the face. Her parents, my Jewish grandparents, also talked about him. They didnt curse with quite as much vigor, and they didnt turn red in the face, but they made no secret of their feelings for the crazy Black Prince who had ruined their daughters life (and, in many ways, their own).

Im going to meet my father? I asked.

Didnt I just say that?

He lives in one of these nice houses?

Thats right. The son of a bitch lives in a fucking palace, and we live in a dump in the wrong part of Beverly Hills.

Why is it the wrong part of Beverly Hills?

Would you give me a goddamn break already?!

I didnt understand what she was so upset about. Earlier that afternoon, when we were in the house, preparing to leave, my mother had seemed excited, if a little nervous. She said we were going somewhere special, and told me to wash up and put on a nice dress and to try to look pretty. When I returned, fully dressed and looking awfully pretty (if I may say so myself ), she was still in her jeans, topless, tearing through her closet for just the right thing to wear. I guess she wanted to look pretty, too, but nothing made her happy. I watched her try on one blouse after another, growing increasingly frustrated, until there was a veritable kaleidoscope of blouses piled on the bed. She had practically emptied the closet by this time, so she went back to the bed and sifted through the discards, hoping she had missed something. She tried the purple dashiki again, then the severe black knit sweater with the bell sleeves, but neither of those worked. Finally, she opted for my very favorite: a yellow and red Mexican peasant blouse with embroidered flowers. She buttoned it up, tied up her hair with a red silk scarf, and turned to look at herself in the mirror.

Motherfucker! she said.

What did you say, Mommy?

Nothing, she snapped. Lets go.

We went out into the street and moved toward her old, sad-looking Volvo. She opened the rear door and motioned with her head. Get in, she said. I did as I was told, and as she strapped me into the backseat, I noticed that her hands were shaking. I wanted to ask her if something was wrong, but she didnt seem like she was in the mood for questions, and I didnt want to make her mad. I hated it when she got mad, and she got mad often. She shut my door, hard, then climbed behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled out into the street.