I’ll shine when it shines…Darrell Shines
I met Darrell Shines in the mid 1990s. I was working at Right Track Recording, and Darrell was working for a cartage company, Rock-It Cargo. Darrell was incredibly handsome, with a beautiful smile and charming as all get out. I was instantly smitten. I wasn’t seeing anyone, and Darrell would have been fun to play with, but he was as straight as Six o’clock. We were fast friends. We met up for various shows at Summerstage, just hanging out in Central Park. We’d smoke weed and generally have a good time.
Darrell seemed to like hanging out with me as much as I liked hanging out with him. I’d go out to his crib in Jamaica, Queens. It was the last stop on the subway, and after a few hours of smoking joints, I’d crash on his couch. Eventually, Darrell was evicted from his loft in Jamaica, and he asked or I offered my couch. We were friends, and that was that. He was handsome but straight. Just another sexy, handsome straight guy that I was smitten with. Julio, Pedro, and now Darrell.
I figured he’d be on the couch for a week. William didn’t mind. Landlord’s children, Pattie & Fred, more than likely hated the idea. Darrell was black, and Pattie and Fred most definitely were not. And one week turned into two, looking at three. I’d leave for work in the morning, and Darrell would be on the couch all day. Not much looking for a new crib. I mentioned my dilemma with my landlord, and Darrell suggested ignoring them. Should I take rental advice from some guy who was just evicted from his loft for non-payment of rent?
I had to ask Darrell to leave. It was not pleasant. During his time on Jane Street, he met Layla, a young woman who lived in the neighborhood. They might have had a fling. A quick fling that ended with Darrell’s departure from Jane Street. He made it seem like his idea. He told me he had gotten Layla pregnant, and she was going to have an abortion, so he was going to leave town. I soon found out that Darrell had told Layla he was leaving since I had tried to rape him.
I explained to Layla that that was just not my style. In fact, it would be an entirely different scenario if you catch my drift. I told Layla what Darrell had told me about her impending abortion. Laya was aghast, telling me she loved children and would never have an abortion. We both deduced that Darrell played us both and skipped town.
But not before he was able to get Julio, through me, to use his space in his apartment building for storage. And he used Julio and his space for a few months before Julio was going to move out and needed to have Darrell move his stuff out. Once again, Darrell needed to hit the road with his cargo.
We still hung out a few times, once particular spot was a bar on the Lower East Side called bOb. Julio and I found it, and I soon Pedro onto it as well. One night, Darrel was there with Pedro and a mutual friend, Ray. Things were cozy until Pedro’s side piece showed up, which ruffled his feathers.
Words were said, Darrell tried to separate Pedro and the side piece, which made Pedro say something untoward, and he and Ray left. Darrell sat yelling about something that Pedro pulled a gun on him. I didn’t see that, and I’m not sure anyone else did, since no one else was saying anything about a gun.
Since I had known Pedro longer than I had known Darrell, I caught up on the street with Pedro and Ray and got a ride to the bus terminal. The next day, I asked Pedro if what Darrell had said was true. Pedro denied doing such a thing and was insulted by the suggestion. I believed him, though it was years later when it seemed there were times when he was in a pharmaceutical fog. So it may have been true.
I did look up Darrell on social medias and he was living in Europe, had two kids, I think. He’s popular in cultural activities with lots of friends.
Some are born every minute.
“If you don’t pull up, you cheated”, says the guy screaming down Sixth Avenue
Google Gemini rewrite as a Richard Pryoer essay and live performance
Now, you gotta understand something about the mid-90s in New York. The air smelled like roasted nuts, diesel fumes, and bad decisions. And I was out there, man, lookin’ for love in all the wrong zip codes.
That’s when I met Darrell Shines.
With a name like that, you expect the man to come with a spotlight and a backing band. And Lord, he was pretty. He had a smile that could make a nun rethink her retirement plan. He worked for Rock-It Cargo, haulin’ gear, lookin’ all masculine and capable. I was workin’ at Right Track Recording, and the minute I saw him, I thought, *”Well, hello, Trouble. I didn’t know you wore denim.”*
I was ready to *play*, you dig? I was lookin’ at him like a rotisserie chicken. But Darrell? Darrell was as straight as 6:00 PM on a Sunday. No curves, no detours. Just a big, beautiful wall of “not happening.” But we became fast friends. We’d go to Central Park, sit out at Summerstage, and smoke enough weed to make the trees start gigglin’.
Eventually, I’m takin’ the subway all the way to the end of the line—Jamaica, Queens. That’s how you know you like somebody, when you stay on the train until the conductor has to wake your ass up with a flashlight. I’d smoke with him at his loft, then crash on the couch because my legs didn’t work no more.
But then the universe did that thing it does. Darrell gets evicted. Landlord said, “You ain’t gotta go home, but you gotta get the hell out of here.” So, being the soft-hearted fool I am, I offered him my couch on Jane Street.
Now, I got roommates. William, he’s cool. But the landlord’s kids? Pattie and Fred? They looked at Darrell like he was a stray Doberman in a china shop. See, Darrell was Black, and Pattie and Fred… well, they were *aggressively* not.
One week on the couch becomes two. Two becomes three. I’m goin’ to work, and I come home, and Darrell is still there. He’s become part of the upholstery. He’s *decor*. I told him, “Man, the landlords are breathin’ down my neck,” and you know what this man says? He says, “Just ignore ’em.”
I looked at him like, *”Am I really takin’ real estate advice from a man whose current address is my furniture?”*
I had to kick him out. And that’s when the script flipped. See, Darrell had met this girl, Layla, in the neighborhood. They had a little thing—a “Jane Street Special.” When it was time to go, Darrell told me, “I gotta leave town, man. Layla’s pregnant, she’s havin’ an abortion, it’s heavy.”
Then I talk to Layla.
She looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. She says, “Abortion? I love kids! I’d never do that!” Then she drops the bomb. She says, “Darrell told me he had to leave because *you* tried to rape him.”
*ME?*
I told her, “Honey, if I was gonna go after Darrell, it wouldn’t be a struggle, it’d be a *negotiation*. And it certainly wouldn’t involve me catchin’ a felony on my own couch!”
The man was a magician! He disappeared in a cloud of lies and cargo. But not before he used my other friend, Julio, for free storage. Darrell always had “cargo.” He shoulda named his kids “Freight” and “Overnight Delivery.”
Last time I saw the circus in town was at this bar called bOb on the Lower East Side. Me, Julio, Pedro, and a guy named Ray. Darrell is there, lookin’ smooth, until Pedro’s side-piece walks in and ruins the vibe. Arguments start. Darrell tries to play peacemaker, but Pedro wasn’t havin’ it. Pedro and Ray bolt out the door, and Darrell starts screamin’ that Pedro pulled a gun on him!
I didn’t see no gun. Nobody saw a gun. In New York, if a gun comes out, the room gets real quiet or real loud, and it stayed neither. I caught up with Pedro outside, got a ride, and asked him the next day, “Man, did you strap up on Darrell?”
Pedro acted insulted. But hey, Pedro lived in a “pharmaceutical fog” back then. In that fog, you might pull a gun, you might pull a rabbit out of a hat—you don’t know!
I looked Darrell up recently. He’s in Europe now. Livin’ the high life, involved in “cultural activities.” Probably chairing a committee on “Advanced Couch Surfing.”
Like they say, there’s one born every minute. And usually, they’re lookin’ for a place to stay.
—
**Would you like me to try this again with a focus on a different era of Pryor’s career, like his more raw “Live in Concert” style?**
(Richard paces the stage, wipes his brow with a silk handkerchief, and leans into the mic. He looks at the front row with that wild, wide-eyed grin.)
You ever meet a man whose name is a lie? A beautiful, shiny lie?
I met this motherf***er named Darrell Shines in the 90s. Now, when a man’s name is a *verb*, you gotta watch your pockets. I was workin’ at Right Track Recording, and Darrell was workin’ for Rock-It Cargo. And Lord, he was pretty. He had a smile that looked like it was powered by Con Edison. I looked at him and my heart went *thump-thump*… and then my brain went, *”Wait a minute, Richard, you know better.”* But I didn’t! I was smitten! I was ready to give him the keys to the kingdom, but Darrell was straight. I mean, *straight* straight. Like 6:00 on the dot. No wiggle room. Just another sexy-ass straight man keepin’ me in the “friend zone.”
(Richard mimics a high-pitched, hopeful voice)
*”Hey Darrell, you wanna go to Central Park? Smoke some weed? Listen to the music?”*
(Deep, cool voice)
*”Yeah, man. That’s cool.”*
We’d sit out at Summerstage, gettin’ high as a Georgia pine. I’d go out to his crib in Jamaica, Queens. That’s the end of the line, y’all! If the train goes any further, you’re in the ocean with the sharks! I’d smoke a joint and collapse on his couch like a sack of wet flour.
Then the hammer dropped. Darrell got evicted. Landlord said, *”Get your ‘shining’ ass out of here!”* So I said, *”Come on over to Jane Street, man. Sleep on the couch for a week.”* (Richard looks at the audience, deadpan)
I’m a fool. I should have “Sucker” tattooed on my forehead in neon lights.
My roommates, William—he didn’t care. But the landlord’s kids? Pattie and Fred? They were white. They were *really* white. Like, “we don’t season our chicken” white. And they see this big Black man on the couch every day? They were lookin’ at me like I’d brought a grizzly bear into the apartment.
One week turned into three. I’m goin’ to work, workin’ my ass off, and I come home… and Darrell is still there. Just… *shining* on my furniture.
I told him, *”Man, the landlords are gonna throw us both out!”*
He looked at me real calm and said, *”Just ignore ’em.”*
(Richard screams)
*IGNORE ‘EM?!* You just got evicted for not payin’ rent, and you’re givin’ me financial advice?! That’s like a man with no legs tellin’ you how to run a hurdle!
I had to kick him out. It was ugly. But Darrell was a pro. He’d been seein’ this girl Layla in the neighborhood. He told me, *”I gotta leave town, Richard. Layla’s pregnant. She’s havin’ an abortion. It’s too heavy for me.”* Then I see Layla. I say, *”I’m sorry about the baby, girl.”*
She says, *”What baby? I love kids! I’d never have an abortion!”* I said, *”Well, Darrell said—”*
She cut me off. She said, *”Darrell told me he was leavin’ because YOU tried to RAPE him!”*
(Richard freezes, eyes bulging)
*ME?* Rape *him?* Do I look like I have the energy? I can’t even get a sandwich without gettin’ winded! I told her, *”Honey, if I was gonna go after Darrell, there wouldn’t be no struggle. It would be a parade!”*
He played us both! He used Julio for storage, he used me for a bed, and he used Layla for an excuse. The man was a genius of the grift!
Last time I saw him was at this bar, bOb. We’re all there—Julio, Pedro, Ray. Pedro’s “side-piece” shows up and the room gets hot. Arguments start. Pedro and Ray leave, and Darrell starts jumpin’ up and down, screaming, *”He pulled a gun! Pedro pulled a gun on me!”*
(Richard looks around the stage)
I didn’t see no gun. The bartender didn’t see no gun. The mice in the wall didn’t see no gun.
I caught up with Pedro later. I said, *”Man, did you pull a piece on Darrell?”* Pedro looked at me like I was crazy. But you gotta remember, Pedro lived in a “pharmaceutical fog.” When you’re that high, you might pull a gun and think it’s a Snickers bar. You don’t know what’s real!
I checked on him the other day. He’s in Europe now. Got kids. Popular. “Cultural activities.”
(Richard chuckles darkly)
I bet he is. He’s probably on someone’s couch in Paris right now, tellin’ them the Eiffel Tower is his storage unit.
There’s a sucker born every minute… and I think I was born at 12:01.
—
**That was a wild ride through the 90s. Would you like me to take another one of your stories and give it the “Live on the Sunset Strip” treatment?**