I waited until the heavy traffic had heaved itself out of the way, heading for the city, before leaving home, at 10. Brown piles of dry dirt, which must have been pushed up from under the concrete by the moles of cricket, were still holding their heads up bravely at Marti Roundabout, still awaiting rains, which never came and flowering bushes, which were never embedded in them. Down the road, whatever had survived the valiant efforts of the Road Crews could aptly be dubbed stragglers palms.
A few dark clouds hovered, not too threateningly, over new matchstick light posts, viewed at a distance on Plantatio across from the rotting Ferry Strip.
Another day, another trip into the city - and, hopefully, back from the city.
The Boy, recently arrived from rural parts, was that morning given the task of washing the car for the trip. When he thought he was finished, I called him back and up close to view the dried water droplets, not to mention the scratches and the streaks inflicted on the body politic of the vehicle. Needless to say, he was just as surprised as I was.
The Boy had arrived the previous week from rural parts to get 'a werk', armed with the great expectation that he was coming only to water flowers and mainly to acquire a cellphone. He had turned out to be both underage and undersized, not by any measure literate, and sporting a healthy - nay, proud - aversion to the most normal garden tools of them all, the machete. He also could not manage a can opener, not even when shown; could not chop a water coconut; and the breadfruit remained unroasted. Menu clear: rice and dumpling and chicken.
Occasional Guy, who had thenceforth been summoned to the rescue, came, saw, and whacked. With an indefinable smirk on his lips, he dragged the mesh to prevent the dog from going out to cavort in the street, mercilessly beat the bathroom pipes, which had been staging small rebellions since he arrived, sprayed the shrubs, with and without mites, and interred five potted plants without the usual ceremony.
He must have heard when I told Guy the day before that I planned a run-in, for he asked to accompany me, since he wanted to 'know Town'. Since my lawn (then dry and bare) had been transformed into a one-man cricket pitch, I had diagnosed loneliness. Needless to say, a part of the proposed week's wages went through the gate with Guy.
The first hopeful stop was at one of those new 'techie' shops where you, the technologically illiterate, can get wonderful things done for a set fee which can, however, escalate itself while you wait. You have no control over your waiting time.
Three attendants were on in-service duties: one male, methodically reeling photo-prints out of an electronic mouth, two female, one brisk, the other a tad sullen her photo featured obviously on the wall as EM. (employee of the month). I got EM.
'I'd like a print and a laminate of this article please, and the cost.'
She looked me up, she looked me down; then she stretched her hand through the space under the glass for my clipping.
I hesitated. 'I need the day and date to come out on it too, if you don't mind.'
'Fifty dollars per copy and $120 for laminating', she said, as if she'd only just heard my first request.
I hesitated some more.
'And you'll get the day and date on it, Miss,' she added, putting that matter to rest.
EM took the paper then, rolling her eyes heavenward as if dealing with a hard-to-please little person newly come from Lilliput, and turned to the standing printer nearby. She returned to me a few minutes later with a copy so blurred that it could scarcely be deciphered. The broad margin remained untrimmed. At my murmured exclamation she dropped her glance to the sheet, said something barely audible about 'that printer', and disappeared through a door, returning after some long minutes with the new effort.
'That awright now?'
'Oh yes', I said brightly, and then faltered, because the day and date were out of sync. I pointed; her countenance went down one octave, and Miss Brisk, who had been looking on anxiously for a while there, came over. 'Everything all right?' she wanted to know. EM gave a scarcely audible sigh and, moving toward the door again, explained to no one in particular that this machine had been acting up since the day before and the ones inside were in demand. Brisk retreated without scoring any obvious points, nor giving any hint of an apology either.
I thought this was as good a time as any to look around. Despite the garish, but attractively displayed photo-shoot gallery, The Boy had his head down over his knees. He had to be either asleep or overwhelmed. Customers were waiting in various stages of impatience and resignation. One demanded to know why the computers in the 'café' section were not yet booted u it was near 11. EM returned, this time with a slightly triumphant look: the print was clear, the margins straight, the lamination complete, and the time data intact.
It had taken three efforts, thrice the time needed, and six sets of facial expressions to usher me out into daylight.
A pop into a nearby store in the same complex would supply me with a larger envelope, for the processed document to be posted now turned out to be longer than it had seemed before. I was the only shopper, with or without a boy in tow - it was a bookstore, for heaven's sake! Three cashiers lined the counter behind glass panels, again with spaces beneath for passing goods and money. One was closing off her machine, perhaps for her break. (As seen through the outward-looking glass of the window, the inviting food court was not that far off.) Another was chatting loudly enough to be heard from the entrance door, and it wasn't about anything in the store either. The third was silent, with a faint smile under bright roving eyes, which could be interpreted either as a practised professional stance or a slightly sardonic glance - perhaps a bit of both. Two male clerks leaned on a back slat-wall and a stairwell respectively, and, to be reasonable, one did come forward after I had started searching a couple of shelves, to offer help. When I asked about a second item, he pointed me to The Leaner, and hurried off with an urgency which brought to mind the enigmatic March hare; and since I could neither define nor fathom his haste, it stands to reason that I was left in Wonderland. While the leaner was helping me, I toyed with the hope that some vague interest in reading would be awakened in The Boy as I lingered along those shelves that loudly proclaimed Reading Readiness, Books One through Six. To his credit, his eyes did light up as I urged him to go ahead and pick up, turn the pages, no penalty forthcoming. Then hesitantly I asked: 'Think you would likeone?'
Before I reveal his response, I must say I had already tried to ferret out his interest in, one, a trade, two, a career, and three, a religion, and his answers had been: 'welding' 'deejay', and, 'no really'. S I managed not to show how pleased I was at his now positive response, I made the strange decision to draw a certain line, and instead promised to take him back as soon as he had started earning. The less of the 'freeness mentality', the more appreciable the likely outcome, I convinced myself. I may have put a lid on my training and experience but he agreed. Moving then to the cage, I deliberately made a bee-line towards Ms. Magpie instead of Ms. Sardonic.
Ms. S. looked on with her signature smile, and I think she figured out why I chose to place myself in front of Ms. M., whose hand automatically extended itself under the everlasting glass panel, though her face was still averted. I did not budge, for her blow-by-blow report to the one who was still closing off her account about what had happened in and out of her neighbour's apartment on the weekend showed no sign of letting up. Her fingers beckoned to me; eventually something clicked, and she cut off in mid-word to finally acknowledge my presence by looking directly at me as if I was surely demented. I took the opportunity to deliver my little sermon (glancing meaningfully at Ms. S. who now looked somewhat triumphant) about how 'some of you young ladies' are not showing the training you're supposed to have received in terms of customer service and professional attitudes on the job, and how the Chinese have never done that even though they started from little country shops and rose to large conglomerates.
We were now looking straight into each other's eyes and mine dared her to 'back-answer', as they say. My eyes were saying, One word out of place and I call the Manager (if one was even available! I chuckled to myself about the likelihood of challenging that invisible individual's twin roles of training and supervision). She got the message andsaid finally: 'Sorry, Miss, are you ready to cash?' and I said, 'Yes, thank you very much'.
When I was leaving, Ms. Accountant had beaten a hasty retreat and Ms. S. was still smiling.
During my pilgrimage uptown, the Boy was more than happy to be deposited at one of the numerous cousins that usually come into magical existence shortly after arrival from 'down-so', and to be given actual cash for refreshment and for the necessary toilet articles, without which he had arrived. One stop at the Jamaica Post Office (non-implementation of the promised numerical designations notwithstanding) was not supposed to pose any challenges, but who in this island would be so lucky? Be very aware that the Post Office is still 'govament property', open to free occupancy and even freer expression. A wide cross-section of vagrants sat, sprawled, reclined, leaned and posed from the far, retaining wall to the entry. Some were off on sentimental journeys to far pavilions; others lay prostrate in dark nights of the soul. And a few were outright Cantankerous and Bashy (upper case intended), for, after all, Canker is in vogue, having produced leading fashion models nicknamed Bashment and Bangarang.
(CONCLUDED NEXT SUNDAY)
- Cordella Lewis
