September 25, 2011

      Sunday – 1am

 

It was summer 1992, the last day of school to be exact. I was standing at the bus stop waiting. He was leaning nonchalantly against the wall out at Jerry’s supermarket in Falmouth, across the road directly in front of my view, a lone figure standing out and away from the crowd. He wore a black baseball cap, white T-shirt, stone wash jeans and white sneakers. The cap hid most of his face and the beard that he sported covered the rest. Someone beside me asked me for a pen and when I looked up, he was walking towards me. I looked at him, expecting him to know me as I knew him. Besides, I was sure that he had been checking me out from across the road. I waited. He looked straight at me and through me as though I wasn’t there. My sixteen-year-old heart fell. His stare had been so cold and aloof. Immediately, I felt as though I had bumped into a brick wall. The pen that was being handed back to me fell to the ground; I quickly stoop to retrieve it and hid my face in shame. The blaring honk of the bus horn brought me to my feet. I was carried along with the crowd rushing to the bus doors before they were even opened. And before you knew it, I was inside the bus, seated and staring out the window at the back of the man that didn’t seem to notice that I existed.  

 

 

Tristan Davis dialled his ex’s number for the third time and listened.

  “You have reached the voice mail box of 811 0255,” the automated service lady intoned,

     “Please leave a message after the tone.”

 

        There were no messages to leave.

 

          “Davis, yuh a mis every ting man!” Bryon slapped him hard on the back, handed him a Guinness and grinned.

          “Me seh dat gyal khan WINE.” he declared; his eyes fixed on the girl in the red lingerie dancing on the board makeshift stage. 

            “What a go-awn man, yuh leaving?” Clay shouted over the loud music as Tristan brushed against him, near the club exit doors. Tristan nodded, swaying on his feet. 

 “Yuh, a go miss someting.” Clay shook his head in regret and pointed to the two women walking towards them. 

        “Tomorrow!” Tristan shouted and scuffled out of the club. 

 

He had been to this club before, he knew couple of the women there and most of the men.

 It wasn’t one of his favourite hangout spots, but he had promised the guys he would go out with them. This was where they had ended up.

In Bay View Heights of all the places!

At a sleazy go-go/dance club called Goodaz where you could drink as much as you want, easily fuck ah gyal right here and now if you knew the right lyrics and then go home.

Tonight, he wasn’t in the mood for a casual fling.

Yes, the women were as free as the drink in his hand and the men were nuff.

To be fair, they weren’t free at all, he mused, and neither were the beers he had been donning for the entire night. 

 

 It took him twenty minutes to make it to her door.

She hadn’t answered any of his calls or text messages he had sent her in the past two hours, but he knew she was home.

She was always home.

He pounded on the door and called out her name.

She opened the door.

His heart skipped a beat.

He resisted the overwhelming urge to pull her in his arms.

God, he wanted to kiss her so bad. 

            “It’s four O’clock in the night Tristan,” She peered out in the night, looked at him from head to toe, shook her head in disapproval and step aside.

“What are you doing here?” His heart sank a bit as he walked sheepishly into the house, lock the door and inquired.

          “Alex, why yuh naah answer your phone,” his words were slurred and he swayed a bit as he asked, 

“You ton di phone off again?”

“No, it’s on.” Alexandria replied wearily.

He was standing so near to her that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and the… the… what is that scent! 

            “Yuh start smoke ganja now!” she accused.

His heart sank even lower. If she had known him, she wouldn’t have asked such a question.

Tristan followed Alexandria into her bedroom.

She hadn’t cleaned! At least the place didn’t look as bad as it used to… she didn’t seem as bad as she use to… 

            “Where are you coming from?”

 

 He slumped down on the bed, began to undress as Alex hovered beside him, waiting for a response. 

          “Me, Clay and a couple more guys went to a club.”

 He failed to mention that it was a go-go club.

 He didn’t see the need to. 

            “D club is in Bay View Heights, actually down di road,” He continued.

 Alexandria didn’t know the clubs in her area, actually she no longer knew many clubs in any area for that matter.

But then did she ever know a lot of clubs, she asked herself. 

           “I didn’t want to stay, so I came here.” Tristan was saying. 

Disbelief, suspicion and distrust immediately rose up in Alex’s heart as it often does when she spoke to Tristan.

She didn’t believe a single word he was saying.

Chances are he’s here because he doesn’t want his family to catch a whiff of the scent of ganja on his clothes. He doesn’t want them to know he’s smoking, she decided.

As though reading her mind Tristan said,

            “They were smoking in the club,” as he continued talking, he pulled his yellow shirt off, revealing the white crewneck undershirt beneath. With his undershirt partially covering his head, his words came out muffled, 

          “That’s why me clothes smell soh.” He stood, kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt and slipped out of the rest of his clothes.

 Once undressed, Tristan grabbed his clothes along with the others and dumped them on the chair nearby. With the bed cleared, he stretched out on his back and closed his eyes.

His dick was hard and erect.

           “Yuh a cum from a go-go club, noh true.” Alexandria stated, not really asking a question. 

   “Alexandria! I am here instead of there what is that telling you?” Tristan barked angrily. 

              “Can yuh stop with all di questions,” He turned his back to her.

            “From me walk in a di house you ah nag me!” His voice raised an octave.

 Alexandria stopped talking she knew where this was headed.

She glared at him instead and marched into her brother’s room.

 She wouldn’t be sleeping in the same bed with him, no way!

             “Mi shouldn’t have cum,” he bemoaned.

             “Soon yuh a go start tell me all di fucking tings whey you claim seh a happen to yuh,” 

 “A noh claim,” Alexandria interjected, her voice raising an octave. 

         “When me a tell you seh it all” Ignoring Alexandria’s outburst Tristan continued his tirade.

       “In a yuh damn head.” 

“A noh only in a mi head,” She immediately defended.

 “It is happening!” She declared emphatically. 

“Yuh noh know wha just happen before yuh come eeen,” Alexandria began to explain.

 “Bumboclath Man!” Tristan let out the expletive, grabbed the sheet and covered himself from head to toe.

As though shielding himself from a blow, he curled up in the fetal position and shouted, 

“Fuck, Alex just leave me alone.” Thumping the pillow angrily, He placed it under his head and barked,

“Me noh whawn live in a your world, leave me alone!”   

  

Alexandria Prescott did not know why it bothered her so much - the fact that Tristan did not believe her.

 It did not matter much that no one seemed to understand what she was going through or seem to understand what was affecting her. But it mattered much that the man she loved did not believe her.

That he refused to even listen to anything she had to say about the things that were occurring in her life and what had become her focus – her struggle - for the past five or so years.

 It hurt that he did not understand or even want to. 

 

          Alexandria looked down at the sleeping figure on the bed and began to cry.

Alex angrily brushed away the tears and wondered when she had become this woman that gave in to tears.

So much tears.

But she could not turn the tears off, they kept pouring out of her like the water often does from the broken faucet in her kitchen. 

 

Tristan looked so small and frail in the bed.

She felt like a giant towering over him.

Where is the man that she had fell in love with?

Where is the woman that had loved him?

 Why does he always respond the way that he does when she tried to tell him what’s happening with her – to her?

Why did she feel the need to tell him? 

 The phone beeped, signalling that someone had sent her a text message.

          “Hey, what’s up… how are you?”

Alexandria smiled as she noted who it was from.

           “Hey Mark I am good, Tristan is here” Alexandria text back.

           “mmmhh, thought u 2 weren’t together no more..lol..”

          “Yes, we aren’t together …but he drop by” Why had she felt the need to tell Mark that bit of info. Alex wasn’t sure. Was it a warning to him to watch what he says?

         “stop by huh…LMFAO”  

 “u 2 still fucking”

“yes, on occasions 😊 it’s complicated” 

“what does lmfao mean?” 

“@LMFAO - laugh my fucking ass off…just saying…I don’t understand u 2 relationship”

“yea, me 2..lol”

“mmmhh, you staying with him. What does that say about u…deal with u.”

“Any how, just checking up on you. txt me when you can.”

        “Ok, will do”

 

Alex deleted the messages.

On the off chance that Tristan should choose to look in her phone, she didn’t want him to see them. She sighed and wondered why she felt the need to delete them anyway.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong, was she? Hell, I didn’t even tell Mark about the robbery, Alex thought; then decided not to.

 What good was it in saying anything? 

Yes, what was that saying about me, she wondered.

How many times had she told others in subtle ways and not so subtle ways, the very thing that Mark was telling her now? Then, she couldn’t comprehend why those women choose to stay with their men. She still did not understand why women stayed with those “kind” of men.

But Tristan was not those “kind” of men, was he? And she was most definitely not those “kind” of women who stayed with that type of men.

At least he never used to be.

And in Alexandria’s heart Tristan Davis was still the good decent man she had met and fell in love with so many years ago.

 He’s just going through something, as she is.

Eventually, he will be the same old Tristan I know and love, she thought.

 

 

September 25, 2011 

Sunday - 11 am

 

Where am I in this account of my past that I am trying to re-count to you? Yes, I was at the part where I saw him for the first time. After that first encounter, I didn’t see him again until I was twenty-one. 

          I remember that night so clearly. It was a week before the general election, December 1997. That day everyone seemed to be having a good time – carefree, having fun. That December, the energy and vibe in Falmouth was so high. Then, it had seemed as though most of them – the Falmouthians were happy and doing well, enjoying their lives. Of course I am talking about those people I was around or let’s say exposed to, I don’t know how the others feared. 

    You remember that was the year that the reggae boyz qualified for the world cup football – France 98. Jamaica – well Jamaicans everywhere on a whole was in high spirits because of that win. The “Reggae Boyz” – Jamaica! was the first English speaking Caribbean nation to qualify for the World Cup soccer finals.  And you already know that as a result, the boyz gained worldwide fame and millions of fans and was voted one of the most “colorful” football teams of the tournament which wasn’t a surprise to us Jamaicans. Walter Boyd and the other “boyz” was always wearing red or yellow boots and creating antics on and off the field. I remember the excitement and patriotism then just like how we are with Usain Bolt and the rest of the track team now. Ok let me see, Portia Simpson (that was her name at the time – she wasn’t married yet) was the sports minister then, the Brazilian Rene Simones was the coach that had brought the “boyz” to the world cup. Theodore "Tapper" Whitmore wasn’t the football coach yet, but he was one of the boyz. So they qualified for the world cup in November and P.J. Patterson the then “first real black Jamaican Prime minister” had declared a holiday in November for pure celebration. Think that was on November 17. Well, P.J. called election right after the boyz “win” to capitalize on our celebrating mood. There was no way P.J. wouldn’t win the election that year. So Election Day was December 18 and the Christmas celebration had just kept on after P.J. – PNP won the election of course.

     Let me see, on the other side (the opposition), Bruce Golding had an argument with Seaga about leading the JLP which lead to Bruce and five others moving over to a relatively newly formed unknown political party of their own called the National Democratic Movement (NDM). Think Bruce wanted Seaga to step down, while Edward Seaga thought he was still “young” enough and “strong” enough to stay as leader. Basically it was a power struggle between the two, Bruce thought that Seaga should step down because “him ole now” and give him Bruce a chance. Seaga didn’t give in, so Bruce walked away from the party and joined that party who was willing to make him President. They ran that year, but Jamaican politics has always been between the two major parties, red (PNP) and green (JLP). Blue (NDM) had no chance of winning, though they were the first/third choice if the other two didn’t show up/exist. Well, you know that eventually Bruce and Seaga “made up” and Bruce and most of his five merged once again with the JLP, deserting the NDM and eventually Bruce finally got his chance at running the country. 

          While everyone else seemed to be having a good year mine wasn’t all that great. Come to think of it I have had many bad years. Anyway, two weeks before that day, I had packed up all my belongings and returned to my hometown, Falmouth. I wasn’t happy living in Kingston. With the exception of my cousin to keep me company, I had no one to turn to when things started going wrong. And things were going wrong. So I made the decision to return home to my family, with the hope that my life would work out better than it was doing thus far. 

 

 

Alexandria Prescott stopped writing, leaned her head more to the right listened, frowned, glanced at the television on her left and then unconsciously nodded her head.

She searched for the remote control and flicked the t.v. on. T.V.J.’s Michael Sharpe came on the screen.

Alexandria listened in surprise, hesitated, then grabbed her phone and dialled her mother’s number. 

            “Mom, you hear the news yet?” she asked,

  “What news?” Rosalind shouted loudly over the other loud noises in the background. 

       “The Prime Minister resign” 

Rosalind laughed as she said,

          “Bruce always ah resign, Adonia yoh soon hear seh dem beg him fi stay an him change him mind and noh resign.”

            “Oh, this isn’t the first time?” Alex asked a little bit surprised. 

          “Mi wee call you back, the bar a get busy” Alexandria stared at the television and wondered why it was important for her to see that news flash. She pulled the sheets over her head and went to sleep. She no longer had the energy needed to get up out of bed. 

 

 

Tristan Davis heard the news in the cafeteria at lunch.

He was seated in the middle, between Monica and Pauline.

They were discussing the news over his head as he munched on the KFC chicken leg he was eating.

He was not really paying attention until Monica asked him if he had heard the news that the Prime Minister had resigned then he started paying attention.

His first thought was to text Alex but decided that was not wise.

She often texted him, sometimes in one of her crazy stints she would text him even more than ten times within the hour.

So, he would just wait for her to call or text. 

He waited.

Alexandria did not call.

So, he texted this message as he walked out the gate of his workplace that night. 

                 “Your Prime Minister resign.”

                  “Yes mi see.” Alexandria text back.

                  “I am passing by your house, should I stop” 

                   “Yes”

 

 

Alexandria was surprised at how quickly he knocked at her door.

Was she loosing time again? She wondered. 

He stood at the door.

She peered at him from inside the doorway.

Tonight, he was happy, feeling in control not stressed or angry at all, she sensed.

He pulled her in his arms and said,

 “I miss you, no arguments tonight ok”.

 “Ok”.

 

“Mama Rosa!” Rosalind handed the red stripe beer to the man standing before her, glanced over at the man who had shouted out her name and answered,

“Yes Bola, wha u a call out mi name fah?”

“Turn up the t.v. mek mi hear di news” the bar was getting busy.

Rosalind reached for the remote, turned up the t.v. and got busy serving the usual drinks to her well-known patrons.

 “Wha dem a seh about mi Prime Minister now?” Mikey pulled a chair closer to the t.v and sat, his eyes glued to the tube. 

 “Him should a whey resign long time” Mama Rosa couldn’t help but saying, which resulted in loud raucous laughter from her patrons.

Mickey nudged Bola and said to Mama Rosa, 

              “Wha u a seh true he give up Dudus?” 

    “Mi nuh business wid Dudus but him nay hav fi kill off the 70 an add people fi get to Dudus, him no betta dan Seaga”

   “The whole a dem in a them garrison politics even your gal Portia” Mickey declared adamantly. 

“Mi nah get in a dis wid you tonight, the place a get busy. Shorty, di usual fi you right?” Rosalind asked the man walking towards her.  

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