< Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >
Locket # 18:
Most of my working life I spent in the Georgetown Public Service, trying to
maintain standards of order and civility. Retired now, or forced to retire, as
per requirement you should step aside at age 55 years.
I am not a bitter man. There is so much here that would make you bitter. But
I like a life guard watching over the tides of my years. I try to avoid bitterness.
Fellows like me must find pastures of comfort and security. You can't stay
locked away in gloom and resentment till you die.
We're still a wild coast country. We take it out on our roadways and women.
Case in point, two corners away on the street where I live there's a house of
debauchery, I would call it. Run by Brazilians. In my young days it used to be
a nice bottom house lounge, with a bar mirror, glass shelves of alcohol, cool
jazz.
People use to drop by in the evening hours. Artist types and expatriates. Late
at night you might make the acquaintance of a curvy young lady. And there
were rooms upstairs you could retire to with the house-bar owner's permission.
All tidy and discreet.
Now? The noise and unseemly behavior, flaming thigh display, transactions
spilling out in the street ̶ you have no idea.
My wife has passed and our children moved away to America. They send me
cards and barrels. The don't really care what happens here, except what will
happen to the house when I pass. Well, no same old overwashed shirts for me.
And I not ready to pass.
These days my pursuit of comfort takes me to the home of Miss D. That is, "D" as
in D'Urban or Derriere. She's a school Headmistress. Lives by herself in a house
with respectability and a tomato garden. (And not enough quiet from her
neighbors.)
Before any physical contact, you had to pass her tests: a pre-approved decorum,
the books and conversation test.
Most men in Georgetown would be out of their depth. She knows more, so
fellows boasting they read the newspapers every day wouldn't get far.
Miss D. likes to entertain company with stories of her humble origins, how hard
work, prudence and self-restraint helped her rise to her present status.
The derriere is the finest part of her anatomy, more compelling I would argue
than her stern front. She's a little overweighty, but the flesh is soft and
congenial. Her breasts, not ever summoned for infant service, have retained a
young woman's bountiful premise.
She boasts she was "quite a catch" in her adolescent days.
She lived with her mother off the Public Road on the East Bank, and took walks
on Sunday afternoon in her Sunday best. I tried to imagine one afternoon
confusion, drivers slowing, head turning cyclists riding off the road into the
trench.
She could count on one hand the men who got through to the finals. There was
one Englishman who was successful, she said, adding that she had a "fling" with
him, and that "it was nothing."
*
It was only after many late afternoons, chatting at her front gate, that I
managed to receive stage #1 approval. I was invited to come up ̶ past her
watch dog ("No, no! be quiet, Confucius. He's a friend.") Up the front steps, and
out on the verandah for further review.
My first time inside I drifted over to her bookshelf to steal a peek at titles. The
Bible, Pride and Prejudice, a French fellow named Montaigne, Jan Carew,
Shakespeare.
My schooling left me acquainted with some Shakespeare so I felt confident in
the quotation department.
Actually, I stayed quiet, like a maypole, listening, while Miss D. danced round
and round, about deplorable "services" in this country ̶ the postal service, the
commercial banks, vulgarity from civil servants. Radio announcers and elected
officials mauling the official language.
Usually I stopped in on Sunday evenings. Nothing much happened. But I always
knew when I was given the green light.
She would rise from her chair and offer custard cream biscuits from a tin and
something to drink. I was careful to request tea. (She serves only herbal; I don't
make a fuss). We'd come inside from the verandah where the mosquitoes
required too much swatting. Once tea was served, I braced.
She would stand up, and say, looking over the rim of her glasses, Would you like
to come inside my chamber?
It knocked me flying over the seawall. Come inside my chamber! So direct, so
straight to the cave entrance.
I learned quickly to match directness with directness.
I followed the derriere's lead, uttering melodious random thoughts ̶ "Who knows
what the future holds for us?" "Had we but world enough and time." ̶ dramatic
words, so she won't make a sudden about turn, changing her mind.
Inside the chamber, well, I really shouldn't go into detail. Out of respect, you
follow.
I will say this, though. That first evening, Miss D. took as much time undressing
for bed as she probably does dressing for church. Meticulous sweet time.
Removing the pins from her hair, the glasses on her nose. Lowering the
buttocks, swinging the first leg in under the sheet.
I not joking. No man in his birth clothes should have to wait so long for a
Georgetown headmistress to Finally, finally! arrive at bare readiness.
I was tempted to hurry her along (worried about new lift and hold issues in my
activity department) but I managed to stay in the blocks, so to speak, and avoid
dismissal for false start, you follow.
After the brief fury of our fulfilling, I encountered withdrawal trouble.
I had decided already not to dwell too long in the chamber. Too many objects
choking up her space, inviting your eye to take notice; her at home preferences,
the mirror; a shoe box near the bed with no shoes! but something shiny inside.
And, this. When receiving pleasure Miss D. does scream the house down. Her
face buried in the pillows. As if worried the dog outside might hear, or the next
door neighbour might hear. When it's over, she gathers herself quickly ̶ under
the covers (traces of powder in between the big twins), glasses back on the nose
̶ getting cozy and ready resume conversation. Inside the chamber.
Our bodies, near and past 50, side by side ̶ hers, from a quick survey, preserved
better than mine ̶ I sorry, this is not Hello, young lovers.
Consequently, I had to gauge the right moment to completely disengage and get
dressed. Without causing offence, you follow.
Only to discover later! that Miss D. carries forward no memory of previous
proceedings. Not a scratch; not one little Hello, again! leg shake. Even Confucius
the dog don't remember, and has to be told to stand down, outside the door.
So it look like I always starting over, starting over with the vetting for bedding
process. Hell of a thing! Time after all is of the essence. I too old for this.
*
Some of you probably thinking, all this is pure sinful! libidinousness. I should
be ashamed of myself. Well, that's very virtuous of you. Pillar of society.
I am saying, this is wild coast country. Some of us in declining years doing our
best to live a life of dignified vitality.
Because let me tell you, as I get older, I make it a point to stay clear of the
younger generation. The rabbit, the hen and sly mongoose generation. Those
school girls today in their school skirts, the older ones in employee skirts.
There's a patience with raising and caring for children we never really mastered
over the years in this country. So now we have generations who don't care, who
have no time for "old people".
They don't appreciate sacrifice. Rules and procedures carry no meaning. They
just doing whatever they want.
Some very clever at situating themselves, shall we say, in the lives of "the elderly"
when it's to their advantage. I hear too many stories of older men who couldn't
just by pass the under pants advertisement. You pay a price for that.
My house cleaning lady from Mahaicony comes in twice a week. Before I started
visiting Miss D. we had the occasional (what you might call) consensual moment
at the end of her day. Amicably settled and sealed away.
One day her daughter, who normally phones to say she's outside waiting in a taxi,
rang the doorbell. Claiming she just wanted to make sure everything inside was
"nice and spiffy" and under control.
I noticed the way she looking around, checking the windows, the furniture. Her
limbs restless and drawing attention to her road kit ̶ bangles, cell phone,
tight pants, heart tattoo on the bubby; her jangling empty headery.
Right away my climate alarms went off.
I told her straight not to ring my doorbell again. Call from the car when she's
ready, but don't come inside this house.
As the years go by you learn to defend your little heaven on earth; you recognize
the scent of fortune hunters at the gate with their snare traps and wedgies. Nip
their presumptuousness.
Marcus Pompey Jr.
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 