• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

I arrived in New York and went to a midtown hotel which Wilkie had suggested. The congested traffic and raucous voices, the milling crowds and towering buildings, made me think of my tiny fourth-floor room at the end of a dark corridor a sanctuary.

I telephoned Saint Subber, who said I must come to his apartment. I wriggled around his invitation, not wishing to face the street again so soon and hesitant about going to a strange man's apartment—especially a New York producer's apartment. Hollywood films had taught me that breed was dangerous: each one was fat, smoked large smelly cigars and all said, “All right, girlie, ya got talent, now lemme see ya legs.”

“Mr. Saint Subber”—or was one supposed to call him Mr. Subber?—“I need to have my hair done. May I see you tomorrow?”

He blasted my excuse. “No, no matter, I won't be looking at your hair.”

See, my legs. Just as I thought.

“I want to see what you look like.” He gave me his address and hung up.

I had come three thousand miles, so surely I had the courage to go a few more blocks.

A uniformed doorman in front of a neat East Side apartment house raised his brows when I told him my destination, but he walked me into the lobby and reluctantly handed me over to a uniformed elevator operator. The operator pulled his face down as if to say “So, hot stuff, huh?” but he said “Penthouse,” and we began our smooth ascent. When we stopped he rang a bell and the door opened.

A beautiful blond young man offered me his hand. “Miss Angelou?” He did not look as if my legs would interest him.

“Yes. Mr. Subber?”

The elevator door closed and we were in a beautifully furnished living room.

“No, I'm not Saint. My name is Tom. I'm helping on the production. Please have a seat.” He led me to a sofa. “Saint will be with you in a few minutes. What can I get you to drink?”

While he was away I looked at the room and wondered about the tenant. Paintings adorned the walls and flowers were fresh and gay on little tables. A man's voice in argument came through a louvered door.

Tom returned with a gin and tonic in a very tall, extraordinarily thin glass. He asked about my trip and tried to reassure me when I told him I was nervous.

A man rushed through the shuttered door; he was small and thin and his dark hair was cut in a “Quo Vadis.”

“Well, that's over. Oh, my God!” He threw himself on a chaise longue and gingerly put both hands to his head. “Oh, God! What do they want? Oh, my head. Virginia!”

A large Negro woman came through another door. She wore the kind of apron I had not seen since I had left the small country town in Arkansas. It was white, bibbed, starched and voluminous. She went directly to the man and began to massage his temples.

“That's all right, Saint honey, that's all right, you hear. Now don't think about it, honey. Everything's going to be all right.”

I could not believe it.

Neither had taken notice of me and I was so enthralled I frankly stared, recording the scene.

Tom and I could have been an audience while two actors performed a scene in experimental theater.

It was decidedly too new, too strange. I started laughing.

The man sat bolt upright. “Who are you?”

“I?” I held the laughter. “I'm Maya Angelou.”

“You can't be.” He was still sitting straight.

“But I am, I am Maya Angelou.” I was willing to swear to it.

“Well, my God, how tall are you?”

“I'm six feet.”

“But you can't be!” He seemed sure.

“I am, I am too.”

“Stand up. I don't believe it.”

I stood up, hoping I had not shrunk in the plane or in the taxi or in the elevator.

“My God, it's true, you're six feet tall.”

I laughed because I was happy that at least my height had not betrayed me and because he was funny.

“And a great laugh, too. Oh, my God, I know, you're a Black Carol Channing.”

That made me laugh again. He stood up and came to me.

“We'll do your hair red. Will that be all right? Red or blond?”

I said, “I don't think so.”

“Oh, you wouldn't like that?” It was a sincere question.

“Noooo.” I pictured myself