Kofi Fosu Forson
Suzanne Mallouk and I met in the circular seating area in front of Hunter College back in the mid nineties of Clinton’s America. Literature made sense. I was in the same class as Emer Martin, the Irish writer.
I sat next to a pretty woman who immediately let out a heavy sigh. I promptly told her that every thing was going to be alright. We fell into conversation. It wasn’t long before she told me she was Jean-Michel Basquiat’s former lover.
My initial impression of her was that she was precocious. She looked important, not enough to attract unnecessary attention. She accompanied me that evening to a reading where I read from my novel in progress. While I stood up on stage reminiscing about gorillas, she and I made eye-contact.
During the intermission, we went for pizza. I recollect us attempting to cross the street. We almost walked into each other. This to her was a sign of genius. Inside the pizzeria, Suzanne wiped off her thick red lipstick. More so without make up, she had the most beautiful face I had ever seen.
It was a wonderful evening, so I suggested Suzanne and I take our troubles downtown. In front of her apartment I stood while she went upstairs to change. She brought with her books featuring Basquiat’s art and a photograph of the two lovers to prove that she was indeed who she said she was.
Days later, I tried to make sense of our meeting. I invited Suzanne to a party honoring Emer Martin. Suzanne was the prettiest woman in the room. She did everything to fight off the women who approached me.
For that evening alone, Suzanne Mallouk and I were friends and I was in the company of history. I ran into Suzanne years later. She had furthered her goal as a doctor and was practicing.
For the blessed beauty of Downtown New York to commit to the practice of medicine, life is beautiful and we all grow up to be cowboys.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007