Family Affair © 2005 by Bob Miller

“Is this seat taken?”

I was in the process of picking up some quarters I had dropped on the floor while getting them out of a slot machine tray and didn’t look up, but replied, “Nope!”

“I wouldn’t sit here, honky, if there were any other seats, but the damn casino is full.”

This time I did look up. It was Red Foxx and an Oriental lady. He sat down and she stood behind his chair. He didn’t introduce her. I don’t think he was trying to be disrespectful to her. I suspect that he didn’t consider her name any of my business, and he was right.

“What’s your name, white boy?”

Normally this would have gotten a reply from me that I wouldn’t print here, but I had lived in Las Vegas for years and had heard about Mr. Foxx’s, shall we say, affection for Caucasians. “It’s Bob, Mr. Foxx, and I’m pleased you’ll make the exception and sit here. Hope you win. I’m down about a hundred dollars, I guess.”

Foxx didn’t say anything; he just glared at me. I was about to say something to him that I would have regretted saying to this very moment. I hate that about myself. I’ve lost so many potentially good friends over the years by going to whatever lengths it took to prove that I could be a better jerk than them. Is that an oxymoron?

Anyway, I turned so we were face to face, with the intention of finding out just how good a verbal gladiator he was. All of a sudden, looking into those piercing eyes of his, I started laughing and couldn’t stop.

He said, without warning, “Hell, you got to be half nigger. Look at your arm. It’s blacker than mine.”

I looked down at my arm as he had commanded, and sure enough, it was darker than his. My complexion is dark, and playing golf in the Nevada sun hadn’t lightened it any.

My leaving the casino had nothing to do with the late Mr. Foxx. I was just tired of losing and had promised an aunt that I would stop by to fix a leaky water faucet. So without saying anything, I left the comedian and cashed in the few quarters left in my change bucket.

* * *

Opening the door, my aunt said, “Right on time. Come on in.”

The repair took only five or six minutes. Then we took seats in her den and exchanged family chitchat.  I told her about the Foxx encounter and asked jokingly if we had any African Americans in our family.

“Well…” she started. “It has been pretty well established that my grandmother did have a flair for black males.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I whispered.

“Afraid not, dear nephew.”

“Well, that’s not fair. I get the blood, but not the music or athletic abilities. The only sport I can halfway play is golf.”

“Yeah, you sure got shortchanged there. And then there’s that other shortcoming.”

“What other shortcoming?” I said, a little disappointed that my favorite aunt would say such a thing.

“Sweetheart, have you forgotten I babysat you and changed those awful diapers of yours? Are you hungry?”

I wasn’t as hungry as I had been a few seconds earlier, but I was hungry.  “Yes,” was all I could get out as my mind wondered what on earth I was going to do about this situation?

“I knew you’d be hungry, so I prepared our favorite meal. You get the ribs out of the oven while I fix the salad.”

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