< Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >
Locket #20
Our family gets together for public holidays here. July 4th, Thanksgiving,
Labour Day. They drive in from New Jersey (my daughter) and Schenectady
(my son). Seeing everybody in the house and in the yard ̶ bright clothes, a
newborn baby, the kids playing games on the television set ̶ gives me a
good feeling. How we hold together all these years.
They have grown to be successful, my children, and respectful to the parents
who gave them life. Which just proves, I always say, in life it’s not where you
start chopping cane.
Last July 4th things got a bit out of hand. My wife's sister came with her family
from the Bronx. They get excited visiting our neighborhood, and the kids can
be a handful.
Soon as it get dark they behaving like they off the leash. Running around,
causing mischief; tossing a football that bounce off parked cars, and have
them running into people’s yard to retrieve it.
They threw stones at the next door neighbour pathway lights ̶ you know those
front yard lights you stick in the ground from the gate to the front steps? They
were aiming and throwing stones at them.
I told my wife not to invite them back, with their "fun" pack behavior. After
all, we trying here not to get entangled in issues with the neighbors. (Italian
people, on the left and right. Polite and waving, but we could tell from Day
one they weren't excited about us moving in.)
Our last family gathering was not too pleasant. As a matter of fact, it got me
really upset. More upset than I have ever felt in my life.
It was after New Year's. Everybody in bright Christmas gift sweaters. We were
at the dinner table, nice and warm, everybody digging in my wife’s cooked
food. My son was looking at a device near him. Reading, smiling, then laughing
out loud.
This was at the other end of the table. My wife asked what was so funny.
He decided to tell, but the way he presented it made it sound like the most
hilarious event ever to happen in his life.
It was news from back home. From Canal District, to be exact, where we lived
and where the children were born. We left when they were still kids.
We were relieved to move away. My son obviously remembered enough of the
place to find this newspaper report amusing.
Report: "The 47 year old linesman was at Belvedere Squatting area working on
a pole when the incident occurred. He was in the area to reconnect the
electricity, after an excavator which was clearing a canal accidentally hooked
an electrical wire causing it to burst."
[My son: "I don't get it. An excavator clearing a canal hits a pole that topples
and kills a linesman while he's fixing the wires? How could that happen?"]
Eyewitness #1: "I see when the thing hit the post and the wire cut and then
the emergency people come and the GPL worker go up the pole. So me turn
and show me daddy how the post bend, and they should get something and
tie the post"
[My wife: "That is so sad. The poor man."]
Report: "He'd been working with the utility company for 25 years. Last year
he was honoured for his long and dedicated service to the company. He was
trying to loose his belt but it happen so quick he couldn't do nothing to save
himself. He fell with his face pointing towards the pole."
Report: "The man's wife said a friend was at the hospital when the injured
man arrived. When I go there, they had him in the theatre. I had to wait and
the doctors let me go in and see him; they were pumping his heart but like it
was too late."
[My Son: "Now, I don't get that part. Did they actually permit her inside the
operating room? while the doctor was pumping his heart? I mean, that sounds
bizarre."]
Report: "He leaves to mourn his two children, ages 19 and 16, and his wife.
Police have since launched an investigation into the incident."
[My daughter, bringing in the dessert: "Launch investigation. You think
anything going happen after that? You watch, nothing will happen. Here in
New York, you should see how fast they arrest somebody or sue somebody.]
Normally on these occasions, I would chip in a little joke to season the
merriment. This time I got up from the table, put on my cold weather jacket
(not the new one my wife bought me for Christmas. The old one was just
fine).
I don't know if they saw the frown on my face. And the agitation under the
frown. I told them I was going out.
"Going out in this cold?" Just for a smoke, I won't stay long. "Dad I told you
about smoking. You have to give it up". Just outside. I don't need scarf and
all that.
The news about this dead linesman, this thing grip and swing me right back.
I knew his father from the District. Not well enough to stay in touch. We
used to exchange news about our children (with a jokey rivalry about whose
child getting ahead.)
He liked old clothes. Always the same washed again shirts. And making
remarks about other people, like he smarter than everybody, and right about
everything. His whole life spent shielding his family from people he didn’t
trust, like Georgetown scruffy yard people.
Twenty five years of dedicated Service at the Electricity Company. Then this
happened. I never hear anything like this.
If I had said something, anything, at the dinner table, my wife would have
jumped in with a story. And everybody would start asking about other people,
bringing up their bad luck stories, their faces flat with concern.
I walked to the end of the block; turned on the main road with the buses and
traffic lights; past the shop at the corner that my wife refuse to enter,
preferring we drive to the supermarket. (She move from saving and saving
to spending and spending here. Is Head and Shoulders now.)
Waiting for the traffic light to signal WALK. And thinking about my family,
about my life. How one minute it flowing alright; then the news at dinner
table, the shock of the news, and next thing you know, I not feeling alright.
Across the roadway was what used to be a gas station, run by a Pakistani
fellow. The sign with the gas price numbers was empty. Construction Hard
Hat fence all around closed off the area ‒ ordinary, everyday space, getting
ready for a different activity.
This city, I tell you. Sometimes you feel you're at its mercy. It can turn on
you without notice.
*
Usually before I leave the house, I pat my pockets making sure I have my keys.
I discovered now I’d left the house without my wallet. Without any
identification. My body felt cold, all the air I had sucked in and ignored. I
stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets and headed back.
I noticed for the first time the house numbers of other people's homes, one
house with a Realty For Sale sign on the lawn. I had no idea belts like beliefs
can keep climbers tied to their poles right to the very end.
The children had adjusted quickly to life here. Canal District was now a tiny
part of what they know. My son, on his own now. So many barriers and cross
roads waiting to test him ‒ men and women, quiet or furious, failure a tide
mark on their lives.
Thoughts like these and other thoughts fluttered around in my head like in a
birdcage.
I could be "found dead". Out on this street. This city so fast and fast, no
witness to explain what happened. I could just hear my son (big ice hockey
fan, now) in the dining room, "I don't understand how this could happen."
Something was happening. Something would continue to happen. I couldn’t
even start a conversation about it with my wife. (Anyhow, everybody don’t
have to know everything you thinking.)
Is some kind of a condition. No, not “you getting old” condition. This thing
goes back, far back to the District. Fear and overcautiousness. It comes in
waves, you worry about everything.
One block away from my front gate, I picked up my step, like I was returning
from a brisk after dinner walk. Heading straight to my bed. Lie down and
clear my head a little bit.
They have prescription for every problem in this place. You can’t hide things
away forever. I don’t think they have something yet for my condition, this
resting and fluttering in the birdcage. I am serious. No drug store tablets can
fix this.
A. Ballancharia,
Canal District, Guyana
New York, USA
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 