He had no idea how to read a balance sheet.
He liked to know a woman’s measurements, and although he otherwise had a problem with numbers, he was good at accurately guessing them.
He hated his mother.
He liked Black women—“a little chocolate”—but his father was a racist, so he had to keep that desire carefully under wraps.
He was afraid if he took a drink he’d instantly become an alcoholic.
One night at the China Club, a 90s celebrity night-scene on the Upper West Side, he pushed up behind a waitress at the bar, pinning her there, and, without her protesting or anyone in the place being any the wiser, entered her—or so he said.
The only vegetable he liked was a potato.
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