You tell the story.
No, you tell the story—
I had just recovered from a rather significant romantic mis-step and had fled from Chicago to New Haven, to Yale, at the invitation of my director friend Leah, to write a play. I hoped new work would heal me.
A friend took me to see Reggie-the-Psychic-of-Brooklyn-New-York.
You better get yourself together, girl, Reggie said, because your man is on his way and you can’t stop this love from coming.
This is no regular Negro, Reggie said. He’s from someplace tiny that no one’s ever heard of. I see you in a kitchen, picking up a conversation where you left off, even though you just met each other.
He’s a painter, said Reggie. The paintings are big, and the colors look like sunset, like the American Southwest. I want one!
And here comes the baby! Reggie said. It’s a boy, and he’s coming sooner than you think.
And by the way, you want to be a playwright? Guess who you’re going to meet tomorrow? Mister George C. Wolfe.
Pish-tosh, I thought, and then went on about my business. Reggie-the-Psychic. Hmph.
A few weeks later, I was sitting in a café in New Haven, drinking my orange pineapple smoothie and minding my own business.
I was to meet an old, old friend. Strangely, she never arrived.
Excuse me, he said, like so many songs go. I looked up from my book.
And thus we proceeded to talk.
I loved that she was an artist. I loved that she was a teacher. I loved that she had short hair.
A torque inside my stomach, the science of love.
I was headed back to Chicago that week and so wrote down for him, 517 West Roscoe Street, Chicago, Illinois, 60615, and then, last minute, my local telephone number for the next few days.
The phone was ringing when I went back to my campus apartment: Would you like to come by for coffee tomorrow?
And I said yes.
And he said, Call me when you set out walking, and I will wait for you.
There he stood on the corner of George and State Streets, waiting for me, smiling.
I went for coffee and I never left.
And did I remember to say? The day after speaking to Reggie, I met the great George C. Wolfe, at the theater in New Haven, totally by chance.