Brother from Brooklyn

Until very recently, I didn't know any black people. It just worked out that way. The Westchester town I grew up in was mostly Italian and Jewish-American. At school, blacks stayed on one side of the lunchroom and whites stayed on the other. There was one mixed family-white father, black mother-in my neighborhood. I've been self-employed my whole life, first as a painting contractor and now as a musician and writer, and I never happened to come across blacks in my workplace unless it was in passing. Since I moved here in the 80s, I went my way and the black population of New York City went the other. Until recently.

The YMCA in Park Slope renovated its weight room this year, and sent members who wanted to use free weights to other area gyms in Brooklyn and Manhattan. The closest alternative Y to my home was on Flatbush Ave., in a kind of a crappy section of town. It's got potholed streets, garbage strewn here and there, and assorted characters lurk. But it was closest, so there I went every day.

I got a few looks as soon as I walked in, being the lone white face. The guy at the front desk demanded a three-dollar entrance fee and he wasn't nice about it. I explained to him that all the city YMCAs were currently accommodating the Park Slope refugees, but it made no difference to him; he had to get the manager to make sure I wasn't trying to scam my way into the Y. It went well, though. After a few days of showing up at the same time, minding my own business and going through my workouts, a couple of guys began nodding to me when I came in.

I noticed that black guys are a lot less uptight than the whites at other gyms I've been to. A lot of white guys keep their faces and their energy closed; you could be a foot in front of one of them and he wouldn't acknowledge you exist. The guys at the Flatbush Ave. gym were relaxed, carefree and just doing their thing. I liked that.

Aside from getting quickly fed up with the asinine "blazin' hiphop and r&b" blasting from the speakers, which I blocked with earplugs, things went pretty smooth. I had assumed that all black people talked about were racial issues when they got together as a group, but these guys talked the same b.s. as any average group of guys in a gym: sports, girls, world events, you name it.

At around the same time, a publisher colleague of mine recommended me to the editor of a new magazine aimed at African-Americans whose office is down the hall from his. I got a nice e-mail from this editor inquiring about my automobile expertise and asking me to write a car column for them. I snapped up the opportunity, and got myself a new gig. As I started writing my first article, I debated whether or not to insert a white guy's version of black lingo here and there. Then I realized the patronizing stupidity of that, seeing as how the only black lingo I really know comes from Airplane! and Good Times, so I just turned in the work as I would have normally written it. I noticed they added "homie" to the end of one of my articles recently, though.

"I always knew there was a big black dude trapped in you somewhere," my friend Catherine said recently when I told her what had been going on. She was joshing, but I'm beginning to wonder. Last week, my aunt told me that our family had been landowners in South Carolina, and had come to the U.S. in 1649, and that it's probably more than likely I've got some African-American in my genes.

I got married a little over a year ago. My new wife is a size 18, more than 200 pounds. To the majority of white guys, the one deal-breaker in a relationship would be if the lady carried too much heft, but I'm the opposite: though I've dated women of all sizes, I adore the large and lovely and purposely sought out that type of woman. I also know I share a preference for full-figured ladies with many black men. The other day I was in the gym locker room and I heard two guys talking. One of them, a young, tall, good-looking guy, spoke admiringly about a woman he'd danced with at a club the previous night. "Big, fat ass!" he said, holding his hands out about as wide as a doorway. The other fellow smiled and said, "Damn!" and the two of them bopped fists in solidarity. I walked past them smiling. I couldn't help it; I've never, ever heard white guys talk about fat women that way.

The only other remarkable incident concerning this newfound toe-dipping into pockets of black New York City culture happened a couple of days ago. I went to the Flatbush Ave. gym as usual. I headed for the locker room and got there at exactly the same time as an enormous, rough-looking dude, about 6-foot-3 and 240 pounds. His face looked like a melted candle. I paused, backed up and indicated with my hand he should go first. There were people behind him waiting to enter the locker room, but he just stood there. He didn't go into the locker room and he didn't back up so I could proceed. It took me a split second to realize he was fixing me with a peculiar, expressionless stare.

"Uh-oh, here it comes," I thought. The first black guy who wants to pick a fight with me, and he's a giant. I didn't move. I didn't know what to do. If a punch was thrown, would the other guys jump in to stop it?

Then the giant spoke to me, slowly and almost inaudibly. A drop of drool fell from the side of his mouth. I couldn't make out what he said, but I instantly realized he was severely retarded and meant me no harm whatsoever.

"Go ahead, brother," said a man behind him, easily pulling the giant back a few steps. A second later I realized the man meant me, and I entered the locker room. Say it loud.