My Whitney Houston Story (well,...not Whitney per se):

I wanted to write my Whitney Houston story back when news of her death first broke; but I was in the middle of writing Buttons and Jules and felt I had to finish it. There was no urgency anyway since its not really a Whitney Houston story per se. I just call it my Whitney Houston story.

I think its really a story about my homemade bookmark (see above). I’ve had it for years now and its held my place in all the books I’ve read for close to a decade: Augie March, House of the Dead, Hard Times, Sexus, Nexus, On the Road, The Hundred Brothers, Winesburg, Ohio--a billion more! Every book I’ve read since I’m a New Yorker.

The girl on my bookmark is named Farrah. Or she calls herself Farrah--I don’t know if that’s a real name or not. I got her picture from Smooth Magazine, which I used to buy all the time before the internet killed print. I used to have a real big thing for black girls--a holdover from my Detroit days, though my taste has become a little more varied here in New York.

Still, Farrah’s one hot piece-of-ass, even if this pic was taken almost a decade ago. By now she’s probably got two kids and at least 20+ pounds to go with her $200 dollar, bi-weekly hair-weave expense; but I ain’t what I used to be either (and never was much to begin with). So call me up sometime Farrah!!

I suppose it’d be interesting to see what Farrah looks like now. I’ve looked at her face and body so often over the years I wonder if I’d recognize her on the street. Even after the changes of a decade. Did she win in life? Get what she wanted? We’ve shared a lot of good books and intermissions, so I certainly hope so.

But wait, this post’s supposed to be about Whitney (stay focused Lodo!). Not Whitney Houston per se, but a girl who looked just like a young, pre-crack Whitney who I met on my way out to Long Beach. This was about 6 or 7 years ago, on a sunny Saturday afternoon where I’d taken a seat on the Long Island Railroad next to the window.

On the LIRR you sit on leather benches wide enough for (3) people. The odd number creates all kinds of mixed social situations where parties of two are often matched-up with 3rd-wheel loners like myself. This happens all the time on the LIRR or the subway, and results in a lot of chance meetings. Particularly with women. You’re already on the same train, in the same city, going literally in the same direction if not the same destination. Oh my God--we have so much in common! And if she’s from out of town that’s great too. You know where such and such is? Sure, that’s east side. Let me show you. There’s no sexual overtones like in a bar; and conversation is easily spontaneous. Its just nice.

On this Saturday afternoon I sat alone on the train to Long Beach, next to the window as people boarded at Penn Station. There were two open seats to my immediate right; but I paid no attention since I had my book and wasn’t in a particularly social mood. I can’t remember the book, but I recall being immersed in it when I suddenly felt the presence of weight on my bench, followed immediately by the sound of female voices.

“I like your bookmark,” the voice closest to me said as she pointed at Farrah. If you didn’t know your accents you might think she was British, but I had a very serious thing for black chicks; so I knew even before I turned that she was Jamaican.

But I didn’t get confirmation ‘til I addressed her comment; and it was then that I found myself face-to-face with my young Whitney Houston look-a-like and her even more gorgeous friend from London named Khatija.

“You like that?” I asked Whitney as I held up the bookmark and we inspected it together.

“Oh yeah,” she answered in her West Indian accent, “she’s a pretty girl. But I hope I don’t disappoint you when I say she may not be very natural.”

“No?” I asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Well I know her,” she responded. “Or I’ve seen her. I’m friends with the photographer who took d'at picture.”

Here Whitney took the bookmark from my hand and showed it to her friend Khatija. The two inspected the photograph closely as they proceeded to comment on the lighting as well as dissect all the feminine tricks used by Farrah and her photographer.

“You want to hear something funny?” Whitney asked as she handed me back the bookmark.

“What?” I responded.

“We’re on our way to d’at photographer’s house right now. He lives in Rosedale and he’s going to videotape my audition for William Morris. You know who d’ey are?”

Indeed I did since my old buddy Jake was an actor.

“Wow, really?” I asked. “I’m a big fan of Smooth magazine.”

Both gals laughed.

“Well, he does all their photography from his house,” Whitney said, “If you see a girl in d’ere, he probably took her picture. This one here,” she said as she pointed at my bookmark, “d’at was taken in his basement. I can tell.”

“Oh wow.”

Wow. Great response, eh reader? Must have really been on my game. But in fact we got to talking and eventually Whitney opened her overnight bag and extracted a couple of dog-eared sheets of typewritten paper.

“You want to help me with my lines?” Whitney asked. “The more I rehearse the better.”

“Uh,..okay.”

So Whitney gave me my lines and proceeded to perform her scene right there on the train with no embarrassment or hesitation whatsoever. It was a scene from either CSI or Law and Order. I forget which one, but every aspiring actor in New York apparently has to appear on one of these shows before they move to the next level.

Anyway, Whitney played my character’s old girlfriend, and she laid into me there on the train about how she couldn’t support me anymore and had to leave and was taking the kid and wouldn’t be back (at which point she began to cry). She was good!--and the scene made a lot of sense. Of course this hot Jamaican babe was leaving me and of course she had to take our snot-nosed mulatto kid, and why should she support my freeloading, blog-writing, dope-smoking ass?

And that sing-song accent of hers! I really responded to that since she reminded me of my old girlfriend Judith who I dated back in the early ‘90’s.

Well, we finished our scene and by then I was breathing hard; with dilated pupils and a racing heartbeat. I wanted to reach out to Jamaican Whitney and say Baby, I can change. Don’t go. You me and little snot-nosed Lodo--we can make it! We can...

I was in the moment for real and both Whitney and her friend Khatija could tell.

“Wow,” Whitney said to me, “I’m getting a whole different vibe reading wit’ you than I do with Khatija.”

“Well of course,” Khatija chimed in, “he’s a man. He brings out different things. Read it again.”

So we read it again--or Whitney did (I only had 3 lines, none of which were successive). The 2nd reading was even better than the first, and when she’d finished Whitney had a very decisive look.

“Hey, maybe you want to come wit' us to Rosedale?” she asked. “That way Khatija can be behind the camera and I can read my lines to you.” (here Whitney gestured towards Khatija). “Khatija knows all my angles and can tell ‘im how to shoot me. ‘Cause I know what’s gonna happen when we get d’ere. There’s going to be a hundred girls waiting for their pictures and he’s only going to give me just a bit of time.”

“...There’s going to be a hundred girls there?” I asked.

“Umm hmm. But that doesn't help me 'cause now I see I need to read with a man.”

“So you should come with us,” Khatijia said with an inviting smile.

And oh man! that Khatija was really, really beautiful.




* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into another part. Next installment in a few days.

* ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images with the exception of those in which I appear. Images are included simply to enhance the story and copyrights may exist.