Hello, I’m the Epistolist and this is the true short story of when I met Bill Cosby, and how he was such a friggin’ creepy jerk-ass.
Hey, Hey, Hey, Bill Cosby Gave Me Just The Tip (...A.K.A. The Claws of Cos ...A.K.A. Thank You Bill Cosby For Not Raping Me...However, You Suck For Insinuating I Was Fat Though)
The Place: San Francisco, California
The Year: Around 2000
Current Hairstyle: Diana Ross Inspired Curly Fro with Bangs
Food and Beverage of Choice: Deep Dish Pizza and Any Beer of a Golden Complexion
Inhale. Ahhhhh San Francisco, I miss the air the most, one of the many cities I consider home. My fiancé’s name was Franz, we were spinning around the drain up there, knee deep in artsy-fartsy, hippie-dippyness, silver sativa clouds and our pipe dreams, otherwise known as ‘college.’ We were living in a pretty legit, modern residential hotel, one of our many cribs, this one, bordering the Financial District and Nob Hill. We were surrounded by a whirlwind of trendy pizza joints, pubs, vintage shops, everything tailored with well designed windows and everything adorned with swank beautiful ones lined up in rows against the backdrop of trees winding with wisdom and bold, pointy and inviting skyscrapers. In this lively, spellbinding habitat we blended with the elite, paying for our home on a week to week basis. Pretend balling.
Franz, my boo, my bey, was a looker, with dark rockabilly hair; tall, white, broad, average in nature. He was a towering Elvis, a basic, one whose three earthly talents were 1) Random muscle car knowledge, 2) His big heart and 3) He loved the heck out of yours truly, which believe me is a great and magnificent talent. He had an enormous soda can dick he measured often and a negative triple digit I.Q. He was a gift from God. And he of course, had no problem snagging an awesome job within milliseconds of arriving in town, at a high end bougie boutique hotel in bustling Downtown.
I always have issues finding and keeping a gig due to my LA face, Oakland booty, juicy body exterior and my even juicier, spicy eccentric, bubbly, beyond intelligent, strong as steel interior. Franz attempted to get me the hire hook up through his company...needless to say, I intimidated the management of waspy, boring, pale-vanilla cattle. They chose other candidates more like themselves, more like him and after a elongated minute of charming the pants out of folks as I hit the pavement 14 hours a day, a la mode with my resume in tote, I finally, finally found myself a gig...working at the super ritzy, plushy, Clairmount Hotel…In the gym… In the basement.
This gorgeous hotel had an high end staff and is literally etched in pillars and gold. The employees were pretty diverse my boss was a lovely gay Latino guy with salt and pepper hair who truly dug me, he’s how I got in and hired...oh, and I told him about my gay brother, my darling imaginary gay brother who raised me. I always use my imaginary brother, to get the ‘in’ with peeps I need to influence. He of course, is a clone of whoever ‘they’ are. I’ve snagged many a job and sold many goods with my bro in my corner. Also, with the help of my mad genius computer skills and my almost-plus size model looks, and my darling personality I told you about, my work ethic and constant thirst for overtime and of course my employer’s or customer’s need to have a sassy caramel macchiato BFF; I’ve done pretty well for myself. I’m sure a splash of Affirmative Action aided me as well...Thanks again Affirmative Action...I think. Even so, you hire me, you have a bomb ass, ride-or-die employee for at least 6 months to a year in a half, if you promote me regularly and raise my salary in $10 to $15 increments frequently. If you continue to treat me like a human you may have me for my life, I have yet to find that position though.
Anywho, needless to say, this hotel was a celebrity magnet and I don’t mean to toot my own horn but I personally customer serviced and handed out bleached pressed white towels to a slew of high end celebrities on the B list. The various band members from Third Eye Blind, INXS, (Michael Hitchence, I know you died in ‘97, but rest in peace anyway, it was my pleasure to be close to you through your bandmates, “I Need You Tonight” will forever be my karaoke jammy jam) and a few baker’s dozen of aloof European Supermodels, Dominatrixes on holiday with their billionaire slaves, and a lot of those celebrities who comment on those ‘I Love The 80’s / 90’s shows on VH1. Anywho, as I digress and digest, in this celebrity haven, we’d even close down the gym to the public, so these stars could do aerobics and sweat like pigs in peace.
One day, the star was Mr. Bill Cosby. Being black and growing up in the 80’s and 90’s I was force fed episodes of The Cosby Show and a Different World, the most popular cocoa shows of that era, and told quite honestly how to be a ‘goood’ black person in modern day society by a now known rapist. Or alleged rapist. A rapist still, nonetheless. I hum verbatim the introduction of The Cos show, the theme song, when I’m trying to think or study or parallel park or work out, or masturbate or bake a cake, that’s how crammed this man as an entity is in my mind. Other themes that are held equally dear in my brain are The Golden Girls, Saved by The Bell, Living Single, Mr. Belvedere and of course Small Wonder, and as of late the Pretty Little Liar theme song.
Cos, however, as a black pop icon sat on more real estate in my head than any other media from that time in my life. Bill’s vomit colored knitted sweaters, his words of wisdom, his love of apple juice, sandwiches, and getting some before-bedtime coochie from Mrs. Huxtable...also taking up precious real estate in my head, was...Hi, Rudy’s ponytail and snaggle tooth grin, which I embodied as well back then since we were about the same age, um, fucking annoying spineless, and no-storyline Sandra and Elvin, horny Cockroach, ( I love those words together) Theo’s pre-pubescent mustache, Buuud, and the Cosby kid no one really cared about, what’s her name? It started with a V, Victoria or Vanna, Vanessa or something or other. And a bucket full of light skinned kids, cast, crew and grandkids, that were whitewashed by the wayside. Oh, I did not forget to mention, the gorgeous, Lisa ‘Everyone wants to be you, be your BFF and fuck you’ Bonet.
With all that happening in this skull of mine, I felt like I knew the guy. I knew his version of bland, uneventful storytelling stand up, that sucked to me because he was never edgy enough. He was infinitely safe, an abyss of thumbs ups he never truly made me laugh once and I always felt that the Fat Albert Show was super racist. Which never made since with his image, because he was sooooo pro-black, anti-racism, or was he sooooo pro-racism and anti-black, perhaps he really is a slightly self hating black dude. I remember his incessant battles with America’s black youth over rap music and about us wearing our pants around our waist not around our ankles and cursing. He didn’t want black people, my people who endured lifetimes of feeling like we were cursed to curse.
I also recall hearing back in the day that he was attempting to purchase old Amos and Andy shows, to prevent them being aired to modern day audiences, in addition to that I read that he had enough bread to purchase NBC and was vehemently trying to do so. I felt his need to display a 1% positive Black American Family to the world, jam packed with black regal wealth, black history and black education, black doctors and black lawyers and black brownstones, oh my. I felt his need to show us that and get me to college and to 6 digit bank account status. I appreciate him showing me and us, this world, a world of squeaky clean college grads with natural hair galore. Knowing he came from Philly in the era he did, you just want to look up to this guy, even though his agenda is annoying and confusing, I was still proud of him. Proud to claim him as ‘one of us.’ You want him to win with honor, even though he comes across as a likeable black Uncle Tom. Wait...aren’t all Uncle Toms black? Nevertheless, I never knew how to truly digest his contribution to the industry or society, however due to him being the funny face of Jello pudding pops, and America’s favorite chocolate black Pop-Pop Dad, I was a brainwashed fan. I was a fan. And I told him so right away when I met him.
I knew he was coming, no pun intended, we closed down the gym for him. My boss was scheduled at another gym that morning and it was just me and The Cos. We had closed down the gym for him per his request. He was there early at like 6 in the morning. I opened the gym door, I introduced myself. “Hello. Good Morning. I will be giving you a brief tour of the gym, before you begin your workout and feel free to let me know if you need anything. By the way I am a huge fan.” I smiled from ear to ear, my positive energy radiating from my pores.
His energy was pompous and flat as fuck, in a noisy track suit, his face not-so-funny, he looked down on me. His nose, eyes, lips coiled up like he had just smelled a nasty fart, which is actually kind of funny when you think about it. And even though he had a big ass belly, he had a solid firm bod and disposition. He looked like he could choke a bitch out. “Treadmill,” he demanded. “I’ve been here before, no need for a tour.” Ooooh, that rhymed.
If I didn't know he was The Cos, I would have never guessed he was, he was just some ordinary foul faced dude. No, he did not look like a comedian; a jerky millionaire, yes.
I got him some mighty, bright, white towels, an ice cold water bottle, as I took him down to the treadmills, and he asked, “Do you know who I am?”
I replied, “Yes, I do. You are The Cos. I-I just said, I just told you I am a huge fan,” as I got his treadmill going. Beeping the buttons with my finger.
“Put it on 2.5.”
“You got it Sir. Do you want it on an incline?”
“No,” he snarled.
“Super,” I said assuming he was all set as he grabbed the treadmill handles and began to walk. “Well let me know if you need anything else,” I said.
He turned to me and barked like an evil, snobby version of the hookah smoking caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, “Where are you going? Get on this treadmill,” he eyeballed the one next to his.
I told him, I lied, “Unfortunately Sir, I have other work to do, I have to-” I chimed like a cheerleader, showing my ripe age.
He immediately interrupted me, “No you don't. There’s no one else in here and I know you have instructions to…(he paused long here, due to his predator instincts or he was already out of breathe)... To assist me while I am here.”
He was fucking right, I had nothing else to do. I was alone with him. He was fucking wrong though, his tone was sour and lame, but he had a point. I smiled and abided, this was my second job that year. I got on the treadmill next to him and put it on a 2.5.
“Put yours on a 6 and just run,” he demanded of me, literally inhaling my Oakland booty and my ample boobie with his wonky eyes. I could tell he was getting off on trying to ruffle my tail feathers.
I was unswayed. Jokingly, forgetting my work veneer for a moment, I said “You should too bro, pump yours up to an 8,” I eyeballed his 8 month pregnant looking tummy… “Hold on, hold up a minute, wait are you insinuating I’m fat?” He had no right, even with my current food and beverage of choice, he had no right to say such things to me. I was appalled by his rude familiarity. How dare he, I knew him, he didn’t know me. He picked up on me being slightly offended and tried to back track, by giving me that snide look again looking at my juicy lady bits, which eased into a Jello Pudding Pop Pop face. I was like finally getting a taste, a slick lick and a wicked whiff of some of that Jello Pudding Pop-Pop goodness-personality of his, the one I actually thought he had. All that from one positive, silly facial gesture. The man was talented.
Man, a Pudding Pop sounds so good right now. So does a little deep dish and a beer. Maybe I was a fatty. Anyway, back to The Cos insinuating I was chubbers.
I said, “Hey, Hey, Hey…” Like several hundred times. I was in awe of this moment. I repeated the question, “Are you saying, I’m fat dude.”
He looked at me, his face no longer filled with Jello Pudding Pop-Pop expression of joy, drained of all light, he gave me the straightest gas face ever, and said, “I need to concentrate, focus on my workout.” He was mind fucking me. The Cos, raw dog without a bag, was prison butt fucking my mind, my self-esteem with no lube.
“Yeah,” I said completely weirded out, “Walking can be quite difficult sometimes. I shall let you concentrate and focus...on...your...work...out.”
I walked with him for about 20 minutes, the longest, most uncomfortable 1200 seconds on Earth. Any attempt I made to break the silence, he’d either give me his trademark stank look, nod his head nonchalantly or he’d mime shush me when I hummed The Cosby Show theme. Oh, the horror.
The only consistent sound was the dredging sound of our ‘mills’, his rudeness expelled in various sighs, stank face looks and eye rolls, oh and me humming. At 22 minutes in he gestured for me to turn his machine off.
“Walk me home.”
As I tried to tell him, I couldn't just close the gym and walk him home he said, “Walk me home I just live down the block.”
I called my boss and Ok’d it, again this was my second job that year and I locked up the gym and we begin to walk deeper into Union Square, ironically walking vertically up, up, up a tall, steep hill as The Cos continued to attempt to ass pound my confidence down, down, down into the sidewalk.
It was a beautiful post card of a morning the breeze lit by the sound of happy, chirping birds, and cars zooming and booming top 40 hits, various drivers getting their hope filled days started and there I was walking with the legendarily douchey Bill Cosby in awkward silence down the street. As we approached the obnoxiously humongous and striking cathedral church, I asked him, “Is your wife Camille home?” I don't know why in the fuck I asked that. Can you say random? I don't know how I know Bill Cosby’s wife’s name. I barely know my times table past 12, or my Mom’s maiden name. But I know Bill is married to Camille and somehow that name is stored on The Cosby sanctioned part of my brain. All I know, is that those words came blasting out my mouth at like 90 miles per hour.
Maybe my spider sense was tingling… And knew that was the only way I could be free from the passive-aggressive-aggressive claws of The Cos. Or maybe I was too cute for him to rape, too hip, too odd, too tough, too hard to read. I also didn’t have a drink on me to spike with his Cosby Jesus Rudy, I mean Ruffie, Juice. Nonetheless whatever I did, frigging worked.
Out of nowhere, after my ass inquired about Camille, he abruptly said “This is far enough. Now beat it”. As I turned to walk away, he counted his palm of benjamins, he gave me one, $100 bill. Pretty nice tip for being his bitch for 30 minutes. A little over three dollars a minute. Not bad. That’s like phone sex money…hmmm, or was this his version of shut up money.
“See you Cos, have a lovely one,” I said as I headed back. Recounting the one bill a dozen times. Ironically the irony was priceless! A big bill from 'Big Bill.'
All and all Bill Cosby is a jerk, a good tipper, yet a total jerk and kind of a creepy asshole, or just another celeb who has lost touch with reality and the human connection we all have with people that have careers within the service industry, all those positions the upper class look down upon. Mr. Bill Cosby attempted to make me prey to his predatory nature, he tried to miniaturize me as a person, as a thickums, and as young, chocolate dandy, candy, lady, however, he didn't rape me… Not in the traditional sense. He treated me how chauvinistic pigs treat ladies like me.
He reminded me to not get lost in the essence of celebrity, their wealth and the images the project. He reminded me to be true to myself and not let anyone get away with dogging me out, that I could still stand up for myself and be professional, without wagging my neck or raising my voice and keep my cool and my job. He left me a $100 dollar tip, that I was going to dangle in front of and brag to my bf about, he gave me a tip objectify me, a tip to put up with his nonsense, a tip that was not connected to his penis. And for that Mr. Cos. I thank you.
*The boyfriend and hotel names have been changed to protect their dog gone privacy.