When Ro and I were still dating and hadn’t yet moved to NYC, we worked part-time at an art gallery in an insurance city of little interest to anyone. Despite the uninspiring locale, cool characters were regulars in the gallery: pinball wizards from the arcade next door, basement bar bassists on break from their first set, vegetarian sandwich shop sprout-pushers, disco dancers doing that last Tony Manero move before New Wave put a merciful stop to it, staff-of-one underground newspaper weirdos, and the occasional Joe who just came to have something matted and framed but stayed for all of the above.
One such character was a man named Earl – a huge, gold-bedecked Rastafarian shopping for an artist who could paint a series of oils for his personal collection: renderings of Haile Selassie (the emperor of Ethiopia), and lions (his symbols). Ro, a recently graduated young illustrator with a New York-ready portfolio, got the gig.
Earl was tremendous, and very generous. He gave Ro a lot of work before we moved to Manhattan. His bon voyage to Ro was, “Little Brother, I am the Rastafarian Prince of North America. If anyone ever f***s with you, tell them you know me. You will be safe”.
Sure, “your highness”. Thanks.
We settled in to East 22nd and I got a job in the advertising department at Bloomingdale’s flagship store on East 60th. One of our department’s junior execs, an aloof, somewhat imperious beauty named Lois (pronounced like Joyce), and I went to lunch. She had a lilting island accent, so I asked about it and she said “Jamaica”. Ah! Have I got a story for you! I told her about Earl the “Rastafarian Prince” with a mixture of awe and amused incredulity. Lois went rigid. Wide-eyed. She said, “You KNOW Earl B*****??? He IS the Rastafarian prince of North America!!!” Lois was very deferential to me after that. Treated me like a, well, princess.
Gordo and Guy’s dad is my tribute to Earl. Much love, Mon.
