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Yesterday I decided to use an off-Friday to finally get that “real ID” off my to-do list, the thing that was supposed to be such a big deal right before the pandemic hit. Just to be safe, I allocated the whole morning, got my favorite Venti Cafe Mocha and headed over to the West Oak Park DMV to take a number and settle in with my Kindle.
It’s 9 A.M. and the place is packed, barely an empty seat anywhere, people looking tired and annoyed, and it takes a bit to find a free seat. Not five minutes later I spot an older black man shuffling in with the help of a guy who looks a lot like a young Forest Whitaker. Right away I notice them getting strange attention.
Two guys jumped up and took selfies with the old man in a grey-and-red Temple U hoodie, who seemed to light up considerably from the sudden attention. By the time the elder found a seat (freed up as a favor from the selfie guys), I realized I was sitting in the Elkins Park DMV waiting area with none other than Bill Cosby, legendary comedian, TV icon, devoted husband, father, Doctor of Education, philanthropist, and felony sexual assult convict (recently vacated) just out exercising the civic freedoms that we all happily enjoy. Like spending this fun-filled day waiting in line at the DMV.
The room adjusted uncomfortably to Cos’s unexpected presence.
People turned to each other, whispering, checking their phones. You could see a few discreetly snapping pics. The selfie guys figured their grand gesture afforded them a few minutes to linger with the comedy icon, which he graciously accommodated. The assistant came back with his ticket, and after some discussion, left. To my astonishment, The Bill Cosby is sitting across from me at the DMV, alone, spectacles on the bridge of his substantial nose, perusing The Inquirer sports section, likely pondering like the rest of us what the Sixers were now going to do about James Harden.
Guess who’s gonna interview him. And I know how I’ll do it.
I just need to go to the car and get one very important thing…
*************************************
I stride back in a few minutes, the seat next to Cos vacated by the assistant still empty, and I seize it. “Is this seat saved for someone?”
Cos eyes me from behind the spectacles, adjusting back to make space and clearly annoyed at NOT being recognized. “No. All yours, my man.”
I let the next few minutes pass with no interaction, turning on the Kindle and staring at a screen of words while plotting my next few moves, letting the Emmy-winning amateur pharmacist settle back into anonymity.
“Hey, you know you look a lot like Bill Cosby? I’ll bet you get that a lot.”
A smile starts from his stubbled, age-marked, frankly hard-to-look-at famous face. And then a deep chuckle. “Yea, I get that more than you think.”
“Wow, it really is you. Your voice gives it away. Hey, don’t let me blow your cover.”
Cos lowers his paper and eyes me, a politician’s smile still there.
“You know, I just like to get out sometimes and do some daily things for myself. For a time there… well, they tried to take that from me.”
“Yea, that must’ve sucked. I get it. Most of us ordinary people think a day at the DMV is worse than being in the joint. I’m sure it’s not… but,” I crack a smile. “I’ll bet it’s close, huh?”
Now, a laugh from deep in his mid-section. Fat Albert had come to life. We were bonding.
“Mr. Cosby, if you don’t mind me asking, are you really still driving? I thought I saw on TV you were legally blind? Can’t someone else drive you places?” I could tell I needed to tread carefully on anything recent that pertained to this esteemed mentor of young actresses.
“Well,” he chuckled. “when you’re preparing to go to a trial, you have to present yourself…”
“Nuff said, I get it.” I smiled like a knowing conspirator.
Bill put his hoodie up, and as the handful of folks that recognized Cosby from his earlier entrance had their numbers called and cleared the room of awareness of him, we began a really interesting chat that kinda went all over the board…everywhere except current events, which I understood intuitively would be a conversation killer.
We shared a love of jazz. I was a Grover Washington Jr. fan back in the 70s, his buddy who composed the TV music for The Cosby Show. I’d even seen him live at the Newport (Rhode Island) Jazz Festival back in the late 90s, clowning around on stage with one of the headliners, playing the vibes and mugging for the crowd.
I remembered in college those groundbreaking HBO specials “Himself” and “49,” performances that really set a high-art standard for stand-up comedy in the era. Comedy that resonated particularly with White America, people like me. Cosby definitely wasn’t Richard Pryor, and he wasn’t Eddie Murphy, and he wasn’t Dave Chappelle.
Cosby didn’t just appeal to white audiences, he had essentially become a product of White America: powerful, corrupt, fraudulent.
But in that nearly 40 minute trip down memory lane, I saw no apparent acknowledgment or self-awareness of his fraudulence. I saw a man that felt completely entitled to all of the deference that the most powerful white men of power enjoyed in their heyday. The men with talent and vision made the rules for society. Men that answered to no one.
“Hey, I’m thirsty. I see a vending machine over around that corner.” I rise. “Are you a Coke or a Pepsi guy?”
“Diet Coke, if they have it. Thank you.”
I could tell Cos was enjoying this conversation, perhaps a lot more than the mentoring sessions he had chaired within the Montgomery County Correction Center, pontificating to young offenders how to be more responsible and accountable citizens as they rehabilitate and return to society. A return to society just like Cosby had made, but in his case without any actual rehabilitation. Or contrition. That needed fixing.
I returned with two plastic bottles of Coke Zero (all they had). Extending one to Cos, I smiled.
“Hope you don’t mind, I opened it for you. The caps are always really tight.”
**********************************************
The interior of his black Cadillac Escalade was nuts.
Light tan leather seats. High-tech Instrumentation throughout the dash. I ran my hands across all of it in amazement. So much power at your fingertips. Sitting in the driver’s seat of this commanding vehicle, I could see how it would make someone feel all-powerful.
“UGGGGHHH,” I sensed his rumpled body turning in the reclined back bucket seats. Two hours had passed since I helped an unsteady Bill Cosby out of the DMV and to his car, conspicuously parked in the first handicapped spot, the keys in his hoodie pocket making the substantial car blink in recognition. I passed the time on Bill’s iPhone, his thumbprint unlocking a trove of current information about his habits, interests, communications and recent movements. (I have now added Jill Scott, Whoopi Goldburg, and Phylicia Rashad as new personal contacts… thanks Bill!)
I spoke gently through the retractable plexiglass window between the drivers compartment and where I laid his incoherent ass across the backseat.
“Hey, look who’s up. I gotta tell you, Bill, your Wordle stats really suck.” Just start every game with A-D-I-E-U. Your scores will improve. Just try it.”
“Where the FUCK am I?!?” He was trying to sit up, unsuccessfully.
“You’re in your car. Really nice, by the way. You suddenly felt really, well… out of sorts. So I brought you back to your car.
“What the hell happened?” He paused to take stock further stock. “And where’d my shirt go?”
“Bill, I’ll tell you what. You’re kind of a wildman. That Coke went right to your head apparently. And, I’ve gotta be honest. When we got back here, you were, well, I don’t know how to say this, but you came on pretty strong. Let me just say that, whatever happened in the last two hours in the back of your really sweet car, Bill, was stuff that you consented to, enthusiastically I might add.”
Now, suddenly anything but in charge, I could feel the subdued sexual predator surge to life, his frame lunging toward the plexiglass window to grab at me. A step ahead of him (and having practiced this maneuver while he slept), I pushed the button that quickly retracted the window down, his large flailing hand smacking against it.
Then I activated the intercom system, another really cool feature of this wonder car.
“Cockpit to Bill, come in Bill. I can tell you can hear me.” His bulging eyes and bared teeth revealed as much.
“Oh, about your place in line. While you slept I got you another ticket. I think it’ll be at least another hour ‘til you’re up.” He half listened to me while jerking his body around in disbelief of the situation. “Hey Bill, I like my REAL-ID photo. They do a nice job here. Wanna see it?”
“Where the fuck’s my phone, asshole?”
“I told you. I have it up here. Don’t worry, I texted Camille and let her know about how long it’s taking. I pretended to be you. We actually had a really funny exchange. She’s sweet.”
[BANG BANG BANG] That plexiglass is really, really strong, thank God!
“Listen, I had a great time, and don’t worry I’ll be discreet about our encounter today, Bill. We’re both adults, it’s all good. I’ve spent a little time reading up on Cosby current events file for the past hour, and you are far from out of the woods, my friend.”
I hear nothing but frustrated, resigned silence from the backseat.
“The era you came up in, the era where the rich and powerful operated with total impunity when it came to sex crimes. That era is over, and the rules have changed. Young women are stronger, empowered, less afraid to take on abusers like you, Bill. And make no mistake, they will keep coming, with better lawyers and more galvanized public support. Andrea Constand wouldn’t go away, and she made a lot of trouble for you last time. But somehow you managed to summon what is likely the last of your corrupt powers as a celebrity to weasel out of that.
“So now I read that Lili Bernard’s next up.” I hold up Bill’s iPhone to the article for him to see. “You drugged and raped her at different times and places and now she’s coming after you for $125 million. Then we have Judy Huth. And you’re old friend Frank Scotti, who says he steered young actresses your way and guarded your dressing room door while you ‘mentored’ them, for years, right there on The Cosby Show set. Sorry Dr. Huxtable, but it looks like you’ll be lawyering up for the rest of whatever miserable life you’ve got left.” I check my contacts for the names. “Even Jill, Whoopi, and Phylicia will disown you eventually, you know that?”
Dr. Cosby had recoiled back into a fetal position across the back seat, facing backwards, his hands cupped over his ears like a child in the throes of a severe temper tantrum.
I studied him, then continued. “Oh, and by the way, the kids aren’t using quaaludes any more, Bill. They’re called roofies now. Rohypnol, to be exact. But I suspect being such a practiced predator, you know this. You just never experienced it from the other perspective. Kinda sucks to be incapacitated against your will, waking up naked and confused and ill somewhere strange, huh? Tell me what you’re feeling right now? I’m curious. I think there’s a button in that side panel there.”
To my surprise I hear the backseat intercom turn on, and Cos’ gravely voice struggle.
“Liars. All of them. And you! And who the hell are you? I swear you are gonna…”
“Exactly. You don’t even know who I am. All we did was talk about you. Now, I’ll be out of your hair in just a minute. Let me thank you for an interesting morning, and leave you with this piece of advice.” I consider it a victory that he’s actually looking at me. “First, you need to just come clean. Stop deluding yourself that you were entitled to assault and rape women at will. Because I think you think you were, because a lot of rich and powerful white guys you hung around with in the sixties did exactly that. Then, you do the big mea culpa… you apologize to everybody. Settle up with everybody. Hemmorage all of your personal wealth and live with a freakin’ ankle bracelet for the rest of your life. And maybe, just maybe, you can help a little bit with that part of society taking some accountability for it.”
I took one last look at the philanderpist through the plexiglass. I give him a little wave, and left his phone and DMV ticket on the front seat. “Sleep on that, okay?”
*************************************************************
“Hi Dad”
“Hey, honey.” I turn up the Bluetooth. “Whatcha doin’?” As I make a left across traffic I take notice of the little plastic vial hanging from my windshield rear view mirror. Earlier this morning, there were two.
“Just got back from the store.”
“Honey, whatever happened to that kid at school you told me about that doped your friend at that fraternity house?”
“Oh, I meant to tell you. He got suspended from school, and he’s up on assault charges, too. Leila wasn’t the only one, dad.”
“Wow, that’s great. I’m so proud of you for helping her out. That evidence that you guys snuck out of his room… that took courage. I’m actually looking at it right now as I drive.”
“How was the DMV? That took like all morning.”
“Ah, you know. Not much happens at the DMV.” I point the car towards the onramp home. “You inspire me, honey.”
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