Richard Pryor Jr. - In a Pryor Life
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When I was born, I weighed two pounds, three ounces. The doctor who examined me told my mother, Congratulations, Mrs. Pryor, you have a boy! No, wait, its a girl! No, it is a boy!
Mom cried, What did I have? A freak?
Yes and No.
My freakish life parallels my fathers in many ways: a Peoria whorehouse, abuse, alcohol and drug addiction, and frequent bad decisions.
But I survived. And thats what my book is about, a real-life story of overcoming obstacles, surviving, and thriving.
Richard Pryor Jr.
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I dedicate this book to my mom, Patricia Price, for without you I would not be here. Mom, you were my rock and my heart. You instilled in me all the beauty life offers.
Classic Cinema.
Timeless TV.
Retro Radio.
BearManor Media
See our complete catalog at www.bearmanormedia.com
In a Pryor Life: The parallel and contrasting lives of legendary Richard Pryor and his son
2019 Ron Brawer and Richard Pryor Jr.. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher or author.
This version of the book may be slightly abridged from the print version.
Published in the USA by:
BearManor Media
PO Box 71426
Albany, Georgia 31708
www.bearmanormedia.com
ISBN 978-1-62933-388-5
Cover Design by Bernie Furshpan, www.furshpan.com
eBook construction by
Okay, I know you want to hear about Grandpa Fox killing that guy in a bar, so lets flash-forward a few years to when I was four.
After work and on weekends Grandpa liked a nip or two of scotch.
One evening in the Globe Street Tap, a bar across the street from Fox and Grannys apartment, he got into a dispute with another patron: The Downstate Illinois Rivalry, a/k/a The Route 66 Rivalry, one of the fiercest contentions in sports.
On one side, the north side, are die-hard Chicago Cubs fans.
Opposing them are those southern Illini whose proximity to Missouri makes them St. Louis Cardinals rooters.
Grandpa Fox, from Missouri, was firmly in the Cards camp.
The bar argument got heated. Finally, the Cubs fan unloaded what he figured was the clincher: he unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, thrust it in Grandpas face, and told Fox to suck my dick!
Grandpa calmly knocked back the last drop of scotch in his shot glass, got up off the bar stool, and stormed out.
He crossed Globe Street, entered the two-family house where he and Granny lived, walked up the stairs to their second-floor apartment, and tip-toed in.
Four-year-old-me sat in the living room at a table with a new box of Crayola crayons and coloring book. I looked up when Fox came in. Hi, Grandpa.
He put a finger to his lips: shhhh.
Granny was talking on the phone and puffing away at a Viceroy cigarette, her back to us.
Fox silently entered the bedroom.
Curious about the shhhh, I stood and followed him.
He went straight to the chest of drawers, yanked open a drawer, pushed some socks and underwear aside, and took out a pistol.
I ran back into the living room. Granny!
Not now, Richie, Im on the phone.
But Granny! Grandpa
Richard! Its long distance!
Gun in hand, Fox tore out of the apartment.
Granny!
Not now!
I went to the window and watched Grandpa cross Globe Street and enter the bar.
A minute later, I heard the shot, BAM!
Fox copped a guilty plea in exchange for a reduced sentence: Two years in prison, due to the fact that he had been provoked and had no prior record.
And also, probably, because the guy he killed wasnt White.
My fathers birth mother was a prostitute in one of Grandma Maries whorehouses. She ran off when Dad was ten, leaving him to be raised by Grandma Marie in one of her brothels.
My fathers father, Leroy Buck Carter Pryor Grandpa Buck a former boxer, was the brothel enforcer should any of the customers get rowdy or any of the girls need a whupping.
Given that environment, its no surprise that Dad was physically and sexually abused.
He never talked to me about it, but he certainly continued to rain down physical abuse onto his numerous wives and girlfriends.
And children.
Mom (Patricia Beatrice Watts) and Dad (Richard Pryor) met in Peoria, Illinois in 1960. She was 16, he was 20. They fell in love and got married.
My mother was a woman who spoke her mind, often with a sharp tongue; my father had a hair-trigger temper.
The newlyweds lived in a house owned by Dads grandmother Grandma Marie who also owned a pair of Peoria whorehouses.
One evening as Mom prepared dinner Grandma Marie noticed a bruise on her face.
Pat, she said, whats that? And dont tell me you bumped into a door.
My mother looked away, sheepish and embarrassed.
Marie pressed on: Richie? He hit you?
Mom hesitated, shrugged, then nodded her head.
Why?
I made baked potatoes.
He hit you on account you made baked potatoes?
Hes sick of potatoes. I cook them a lot. Theyre cheap and theres different ways to make em. Sometimes he gets so mad he throws his plate against the wall.
And hits you.
Sometimes.
Okay, Child, listen. Grab that skillet there.
Mom reached for a skillet hanging on the wall.
No, the big cast iron one.
Mom took the big cast iron one.
Its kinda heavy, Mama.
Thats the idea. Now raise it up and bring it down.
Mom did.
Not like youre shooing away a mosquito. Bring it down hard, like you mean it.
Mom swung that thing like a sledge hammer.
Yeah. Now, set it on the stove in easy reach. And next time Richie raises a hand to you, you grab it and wap him upside the head.
Mom set the skillet on the stovetop.
Grandma Marie sat down, lit up a Pall Mall cigarette, took a puff, and asked, all innocent, So, Pat, whats for dinner?
Mom let a smile play across her face. Fried chicken. And I could whip up some mashed potatoes and gravy.
I would love me some mashed potatoes and gravy.
When Dad arrived for dinner and sat down at the table Grandma Marie turned her chair sideways for a better view of the proceedings.
Mom set out three plates of fried chicken with, yeah, the mashed potatoes and gravy.
Sure enough, Dad glanced at his plate, grabbed it and heaved it against a wall. Then he stood up and slapped Mom: a back-handed swipe that sent her reeling.
She grabbed the cast iron skillet by the handle and raised it up.
For a split-second Dad stared dumbfounded at that thing, and then wap! she brought it down on his head, hard. Knocked him cold.
He fell to the floor and landed across Grandma Maries feet.
She daintily slid her feet out of the way, repositioned her chair, and started eating.
My mother was born in St. Louis but raised in a town called Louisiana, Missouri.
Its one of those small all-American towns where everybody knows everybody and knows their business. I went there one time to look up an aunt of mine. I went to the house where she once lived, many years ago, and knocked on the door.
An elderly Black woman opened the door.
I said, Sorry to bother you, maam, but my Aunt Verelee used to live here. Do you know where she is now?
Oh, Verelee, sure, she moved about a mile away. Here, Ill give you the address.
When my mother was growing up the town of Louisiana, like much of Missouri, was subject to Jim Crow laws. When she and her friends went to the movies they had to sit in the Coloreds section. If they needed to use the restroom they werent allowed to use the theaters Whites Only one, they had to walk down the block to a gas station.
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