< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket #49:
Waiting to hear from my friend, Simon. I think he’s dying; for all I know he’s
already moved on.
He lives in the Northwest District. As fate would have it we met by pure
accident in Georgetown. He was here “seeking justice”, only to discover
that without money or friends with ‘connections’ an Amerindian with
only 'innocence' is lost. I wish we had known each other earlier.
We in our early sixties. Among the lucky ones, not physically
“handicapped”, having to rely on family and relatives. Nowadays you
can’t afford to even look old and feeble. Helter skelter don’t always see
in time slower limbs crossing the road.
I have a son who has grown and moved away. Simon as far as I know has
sons and daughters.
His eldest son, Matthew, came to town one day, and was stopped in the
market square; punched and forced to hand over his phone, his gold chain
and sunglasses. Poor fellow, he didn’t know where to turn.
He found his way to the police station in Brickdam, where they asked
jokey questions and told him to wait. He waited. When waiting felt like
humiliation he left.
From that day I swore whenever Simon came to Georgetown he wouldn’t
have a problem not knowing where to turn.
I went with him to the Georgetown hospital. He was in a battle with his
body. A quiet, private battle. Internal problems, let's leave it at that. I
didn't press him to talk about it, and I don’t want to make it everybody's
business.
He invited me to come visit him in the Northwest. From the sound of it he
has a nice little farm.
When he came by me he looked around and I could see questions in his
eyes.
I can bolt my doors and rest in reasonable comfort. I have a dog and
friendly neighbours; to date no real problem living by myself. He seemed
concerned. What might happen if, for instance, fire break out and hip hop
from building to building. Or if flood waters creep in the yard and start
rising.
Well, it’s the best I can right now, I muttered, answering his thoughts.
This last visit to the Hospital, he thanked me for the hours I waited with
him.
The lady at the desk in her tight bossy clothes told us, “Kindly have a seat
over there,” the doctor would see us eventually.
Eventually stretched on and on. Now and then her cheekbones tossed
unkindly looks our way. Playing her little dominance game. Just waiting
for anger and frustration to break out on Simon’s face.
I wanted to jump up and raise hell. Other people turned to each other
grumbling, You see what this country coming to? Dog house. Collar and
bone in the dog house. It wouldn’t have helped. Besides, I didn’t want
to make Simon an object of pity, unable to fend for himself. I put aside
my irritation and joined him in patience.
After a stop at a pharmacy I suggested we go to Chinese restaurant.
Two elderly gentlemen having lunch in a fancy restaurant. An odd pair,
yes, in a room of table linen and chairs. Not the regular snake charmers
taking lunch break from public office.
Simon was wearing blue denim jeans; they didn't look tight at the waist
and droopy. Where you get those pants? I poked at him. Who you think
you are? dress up like that? “They feel comfortable”. They should dress
you that way when you die. “You know, that is not a bad idea.”
For dinner I’m sure Simon kill and cook plenty snakes, birds, all kinds of
fish, iguanas, duck. My letter-sorting fingers couldn’t even wring a
chicken’s neck. But here we were, menu and dishes waiting for our
decisions.
I think he liked the idea of the soup served first (which he spooned with
slow hand movement) and somebody watching, deciding when it’s right
to approach and clear away bowls for the next course. Everything Ok?
they kept asking, and he always looked up surprised.
I told him about my post office work, how I started with house deliveries,
moving up over the years to Postmaster (Act.) till they asked me to retire.
He was curious about people I met. Anticipation and gratitude, rain or
shine, I said, even before I dug into my mail bag. They’d read their names
on the envelopes, check the stamps, examine the handwriting. Someone
had addressed them with dignity. In those days we were formal adults,
thinking adults.
In the post office I searched and searched for parcels that hadn’t arrived.
They might show up tomorrow, or the day after, I’d say. Back then
nobody accused my post office of theft or opening mail.
I asked him if it was true people in the forest gave names to birds based
on the sounds they made. Like the Qu’est ce que dit? And were there
water spirits that grabbed hold of canoes and pulled them to the bottom
of the river? He laughed. But that’s what they told us in school, I said. I
never knew what his laughing meant.
He let slip he was schooled by nuns at a Catholic school in the interior.
He still paddles his canoe along the river late afternoons, passing little
stellings, waving to people. As times changed he had to contend with
power boats churning up and down the river.
After lunch I arranged for us to do things. He wanted to see the big rivers.
I’d hire a car and we took trips up the coast, or cross the Demerara. I
paid the driver to stop and wait as long as we wanted, take us wherever
we directed. We stood side by side, ignoring the baking heat, and looked
out with new astonishment at our big rivers; intent on flow, not caring
about our shaky bridge builders.
+
So one day his son showed up at my house. Short, strapping fellow, with
gold-rimmed sunglasses. Following the fashion. He hadn’t been to
Georgetown since the incident in the market square.
What you doing here? His father sent him to work on my roof. My roof?
True, it needed work, but I didn’t know who to trust with the job. The
“estimates” I got sounded like knives sharpening on stone.
All he needed was the materials, he said. He had a friend, they could do
the repairs. Where’s your father? How is he? Not doing too well. In fact,
he didn’t have long to live.
They say if out of the blue something happen to you, you start aging
really fast. You add three to every one year. Medicine don’t help. Simon
might have been dying all this time, but like he decide to say nothing.
Not a grimace, not a wrinkle, not a twinge. And though I could never be
sure what he was feeling, it seemed he didn’t want any sadness to
spoil his afternoons in town.
I used to be a thrifty person. Somehow thrift found its way from my
parents’ bible to my habits. Well, that was then.
I’ve arranged so that everything I own, the house, whatever is left in my
Savings ('cause since meeting Simon I’ve been wondering if there's any
point saving?) it will pass to my son. Wherever he is when he hears I’m
approaching the pearly gates, he’s bound to hurry back here.
Simon said there were places along the river he was told as a child not to
go. Voices fell silent as they paddled past; people thought they heard faint
cries, spirits calling.
I told him about places in Georgetown I prefer not to go. As a postman my
job was to deliver to homes with addresses. I looked out for dangerous
dogs, idle watchers. I didn’t know enough about ‘spirits in the forest’ to
disregard what he said.
But I keep having this one dream, over and over, every Monday morning.
I'm out delivering mail; find myself trapped in a yard; the residents
refusing to let me leave, accusing me of opening mail; demanding I hand
over packages they expecting, otherwise they won’t let me go.
I don’t know much about Simon day to day, but if you ask me, he’s not the
type to wake up one morning, tired of everyone and everything, and just
float away. The Northwest is where he’ll live and die; come back and live
there again.
I could see him in his corial, paddling past one of the Don’t Go There
places his parents warned him about; thinking, with not too long on this
earth, might as well find out what's really going on back there.
When I stop getting message he’s coming to Georgetown, mark my word
that’s where he is; that’s where he’s gone. In blue jeans with cutlass
and crocus bag. Hailing and waving from the bush. That could be Simon.
F.M. John
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 