Tiffany: “What’d you say, Roscoe?”Roscoe: “She stoopid talkin’ to youuu like dat, Tiĉ-a-
Knee. She can’t be talkin’ to youuu like dat. Fuckin’
bitch.”Tiffany: “Roscoe, you can’t talk like that at work!”It was even more shocking coming from him, because I
kind of assumed that handicapped people don’t curse and
talk shit. I always think if someone’s handicapped, then
they’re automatically some innocent angel. ͳat’s totally
ridiculous of course, but I still thought it.
And nobody could get mad at him, because he’s
handicapped. Who’s gonna yell at a handicapped dude with
a stroke face and little dead baby arm, just because he
cursed?
I liked Roscoe, and we had fun—but Roscoe was into me,
too. I mean, really into me, and not subtle at all. Every day
when he saw me, he’d come up to me and say:
Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEEEEE! You so booty-full! You look
soooo good too-day!”He would notice everything. I could change one little
thing, and he would notice it. I’d come into work, he’d see
me, his eyes would go all bugged out and crazy, and he’d
slur out: