Black guy has moist, on-the-verge-of-lying-or-crying eyes and a raggedy Afro. Opal’s has a proprietor-Opal, a young and wise black woman, who looks like the comedian Lily Tomlin-and a little bell over the door that goes tink-a-link, announcing all the handouts and gimmes who come to sit at Opal’s counter and talk about how needy their respective asses are.īlack guy sits at the counter, and Opal offers him some potato soup-“something nourishing,” she says. jukebox, it could be in Detroit or in New York, could be anywhere. Young black guy, looks like the comedian Richard Pryor, walks into one of his hangouts, Opal’s Silver Spoon Café.
Late afternoon: the entr’acte between dusk and darkness, when the people who conduct their business in the street-numbers runners in gray chesterfields, out-of-work barmaids playing the dozens, adolescents cultivating their cigarette jones and lust, small-time hustlers selling “authentic” gold wristwatches that are platinum bright-look for a place to roost and to drink in the day’s sin. Illustration by Al Hirschfeld, courtesy of the Margo Feiden Galleries LTD Pryor enlightened his audience on race and interracial relationships using a flamboyant vocabulary that he’d learned growing up in his grandmother’s whorehouse.
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