Once upon a time, in a Faraway Land, two hippies were sitting around talking about the rain.
“Don’t say ‘hippies,’ Rain. It was 1967, and we were Flower Children, not hippies.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hippies were dirty. Flower Children were clean and beautiful.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Just go with it.”
“Okay. I’ll try.”
Once upon a time, in a Faraway Land, two Flower Children were sitting around talking about the rain. They lived in a Magic Castle—
“Actually, if you’re going to insist on telling the truth, it was a Spanish colonial on Plymouth Street, with brown wall-to-wall shag carpeting. And it’s not even there anymore—they tore it down to make room for an office building.”
“Can we focus on the two Flower Children for the time being?”
“It’s your book.”
The female Flower Child, born in the enchanted borough of Brooklyn, was a beautiful Jewish-American princess, with blond hair and blue eyes.
“I wasn’t a fucking Jewish Princess—I was a radical in the Army of Peace! I left home when I was in high school and shacked up with a bunch of Cuban Marxists!”
And the male was a very handsome Black Prince, who just happened to grow up in a whorehouse.
“The motherfucker was handsome—I’ll give him that. But Prince? I don’t think so.”
The Prince and Princess met in a bar and took an instant dislike to each other—
“Now we’re talking, Rainy. If you’re going to tell the story, tell it like it is.”
But they overcame their differences, flew to Las Vegas, and got married in a tacky little chapel.
“Bastard wouldn’t even spring for an Elvis impersonator.”
They made love all night and all day, every night and every day, and before long the Jewish Princess was pregnant.”
“Sick as a dog, too.”
Then one rainy afternoon, while the two of them were sitting at home (on the shag carpet), listening to the rain, it suddenly came to her. “Let’s call her ‘Rain,’” she said.
“Who?” he said.
“The baby!” she said.
And the Black Prince perked right up and his eyes went all wide. “Rain!” he said. “Now that’s a good name. I like that name!”
“You know, I hate to do this to you, but now that I think about it, maybe it wasn’t the rain after all. Maybe it was the sprinklers.”
“Mom!”
“I’m just trying to be helpful. You said you wanted to tell the truth and nothing but the goddamn truth, and I’m doing my part.”
“Well? Was it the sprinklers?”
“No, probably not. If it had been the sprinklers, we would have called you ‘Sprinkle.’”
“Great name for a porn star!”
“You know what? It’s coming back to me now. It really was raining. I remember because the windows were all fogged up, and because your father got to his feet and used his finger to write your name in the glass: R-A-I-N.”
“Then what?”
“What do you mean, Then what? You know what. Life happened, and everything went to shit.”
“Not everything, Mom.”
“No. I guess you’re right. Not everything.”
“I remember good times, too.”
“Yeah, so do I. The motherfucker was crazy, but he was never boring.”
No, he certainly wasn’t boring. Life with Richard Pryor was one hell of a ride.