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        < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

          Locket #45

         Recently I came close to quitting my job, or getting fired, one or the other.

         I work at this Assisted Care Residence in New York. I’m single, separated
         from my good for nothing husband. My daughter is finishing high school.
         Not that any of that has anything to do with my job. Well, it might because
         I might have problems finding a new job while raising my daughter, who
         would get on my case. I mean, she’s already on my case.

         She's at that stage ‒ on a swing suspended from a big mango tree branch,
         swinging herself and thinking about boys. That stage.

         All these years getting her up and off to school, guiding and shielding, then
         one day she declares she wants to stay out rather late; telling me her best
         friend’s mother lets her boyfriend sleep over, and why can’t I do the same.
         Why do you have to be such a bitch about it!

         See that? First my husband, now my daughter, wanting to have things always
         their way. Well, I’m sorry, my mother never gave me such latitudes. She
         taught me how and when to pause.

         There’s no way I’m going to have my daughter’s boyfriend spending the
         night in my house with her; and having sex, which they will have! My child,
         in the next room, all fired up, rushing into this. I won't be able to sleep
         though the silence, worrying: How does she give herself? why couldn't
         she wait to be noticed, to be found "interesting"?

         Asking me to relax my responsibilities. No, no way. I’m a good parent.

         I had to sublet the basement. I had no alternative. There are bills to pay
         every month. I can’t tell the lady what not to do down there. I hope I
         won’t have problems with her and any man. I had to talk to her about her
         cat. It kept coming upstairs. It had to go.

         I used to think, maybe I’m not a good person. I’m convinced something else
         is going on. Certain men acting childish must always have things run their
         way. They never learnt how to disagree and move on.

         Like this man at the Residence where I work. He’s from Canal District, which
         I only have vague memories of because my mother migrated when I was five
         and I really grew up in New York city.

         How he came to be here I don’t know. Our Residence is an expensive place.
         It costs a lot of money to maintain it. Mostly wealthy white people stay here.
         He must be the resident from Canal District.

         Maybe some rich businessman could start up an Assisted Care Residence back
         in the District, charge a lot of money like they charge to keep him there.
         Who knows? I might go back there in a flash; tell them I was born there, and
         I have New York “experience”; though from what my nephews tell me, the 
         right “encouragement”, under the radar or inside an account, will get you
         results.

         Only problem I see, there might not be seniors rich enough to pay. And they
         might prefer to stay in their homes ‒ call on relatives, behave bad, curse
         and carry on till people get sick and tired and just leave them alone. Like
         Mr. Canal District, resident here.

         His daughter brought him in. I think she’s in the medical profession, or some
         profession. The dignified way she stands, her arms neatly folded, the smile
         that switches off making you a stranger again as she walks away.

         And she’s married, to a white guy who came with her once, so polite and
         curious, and never came again. Maybe he was too distressed, or too
         embarrassed to accompany her when she visits her Dad. She seems the
         stronger partner.

         She calls her father Dad. I can’t think of anybody back in the District saying,
         Daaad, would you stop talking like that, please. Daaad! 

         She's the one who told the supervisor it would be nice if her Dad had
         someone from back home attending to him. Exposing all my background
         information to the supervisor. So now the supervisor (Mrs. Buttafuoco)
         knows stuff about me I prefer to keep personal. Not that I’m hiding
         anything.

         And  now I’m like the hands-on person responsible for him, and I’m
         expected to report to her when she visits.

         Acting so presumptuous. These people, I swear!

         I wanted to tell Mrs. Buttafuoco I didn’t think this was a good idea, but I
         couldn’t, of course. So I made a switch with Petranella, my workplace
         friend. She’s been at this job longer than me. We have a little worker
         solidarity going. We look out for each other.

         But here’s what I think happened. This man came up from the District,
         staying by the daughter. They have some big house on Long Island. Way out
         in Syosset, I think she said.

         It must have been embarrassing, the way he was carrying on in the guest
         room, ranting and cursing, asking for home-cooked meals, like he had
         special family “rights” there.

         They had no idea how long he intended to stay. Maybe they got tired of him
         and decided the best move would be our Residence.

         He has medical issues. Early stage Alzheimer’s, or late Prostate C. He’s in
         and out, calm one moment, agitated and difficult the next, his mind
         releasing fears and resentment kept quiet inside.

         Doctors come and go, I don’t know exactly what they’re doing for him while
         we keep him rested and comfortable. Whatever it is, it’s way above our
         pay grade, Petranella said, cracking me up. She has this way of explaining
         things. Yes, I know! but it still cracks me up.

         His wife (second wife, the first wife died) came up from the District to see
         him. While she was here she visited him almost every day. I don’t think
         they got along well (the daughter and the second wife).

         Whenever she visited, swaying her hips like she’s trying out new underwear,
         she asked for me. I’d escort her to the room, and leave them alone.

         Petranella says Mr. Canal District gets handsy. She said one time she walked
         in and caught him with his hands up his wife’s dress caressing her backside.
         She (Petranella) pretended she saw nothing. Now, if it sounds too quiet
         inside, she knocks, waits five ticks, before entering.

         He kept introducing his wife whenever she visited, forgetting he did it the
         day before. This is my nurse, she’s a good nurse. She looks after me, he’d
         say, sitting up in his bright striped pyjamas. And the wife, shaking an arm
         of gold bracelets, would give Petranella a smile of concern, ready to help
         in any way.

         Petranella does all the meds, the bed and bath assists and monitoring stuff.
         When he’s not erupting, he goes on and on: how back in Canal District he
         has a nice house, and a front yard covered with concrete; about black
         fellows with no ambition, loitering outside on kid bicycles; how his father
         was a canecutter who worked hard.

         Parts of his mind and body might be breaking down, but this buttocks
         stroking thing, Petranella says somehow it puts him in a better mood. He’s
         pleasant and cooperative. She makes sure his hands stay outside her fenced
         -off areas.

         I thank God I switched tasks with her. I don’t know what I would have done,
         probably freaked out, having to deal with this man and his daughter and
         the visiting wife. And the hands.

         It got to the point where I said, You know what? I don’t care. They want us
         to keep him here? let them spend their money ‒ his Canal District money,
         the daughter’s money, the wife’s money, I couldn’t care less.

         There’s a Doctor on standby here. A few more show up on a regular basis.
         I think they treat some patients like they’re part of some private research.

         Mr. Handsy from Canal District must be a real research challenge. I bet
         they never met or examined anybody like him before. No, nothing could
         compare.
                                                            +
                                                                     

        So hear what happened. I had a week off and when I came back his room
        was empty. Mr. C.D. was gone! taken away or sent away; back to Long
        Island with his daughter, or back home to Canal District, I don’t know.

        “What happened,” I asked Petranella. Well, he’s not here anymore. “I can
        see he’s not here. Where did he go?” I don’t know! In any case, the
        Supervisor wants to talk to you. My heart started to sink. “About what?”

        About procedures, and my task performance. And, did I want to continue
        working here?

        Mrs. Buttafuoco, my supervisor, is what the staff here call a tough old bird.
        Keeping all of us on our toes. Her children already grown, so nothing to
        worry about at home. Her buttocks taking strokes from the leather chair in
        her office, her neat little heaven on this earth.

        Petranella says we have to be "intelligent" about our choices. We must always
        be moving forward. See the big picture. And remember, Everything is water. 
        (I don’t know where she got that from, but I envy her. I see how she flows.)

        I listen to Petranella. She once described her man as “a worthless piece of
        shit”. The words shocked me, they sounded so harsh, like she'd wiped her
        hands, she was finished, done! with disappointment, with pain in her life.

        Still, I hope I don’t start talking like her. And I hope I don’t end up like Mrs.
        Buttafuoco and have people calling me a tough old bird; or telling me I can
        be a bitch when I want to.

        Anyway, I told her I switched with Petranella because Mr. C. D. while he
        was here was behaving in ways that made me uncomfortable; threatening
        to get handsy; to the point where it was difficult for me to do my job.
        And Petranella, stepping forward like a trooper, said she knew how to
        handle handsy patients; so we switched. It was only supposed to be
        temporary; we did our best for him.

        Mrs. Buttafuoco ‒ blowing and wiping her nose, she had a cold that day ‒
        said, I’m here to help; and if there was a problem, any problem, I should
        bring it first to her attention, did I understand? The comfort of our
        residents is our first priority.

        In any case we were not likely to have someone like Mr. C. D. here again.
        He’s from your country, right?

        I assured her it won’t happen again. She tugged at the scarf covering the
        creases round her throat, and with a few more ticks of displeasure ‒ with
        her it’s hard to tell when she’s really pleased about anything ‒ that was
        the end of that. Back to work.

        Zareena G.
        Queens, New York.

           

      

      <Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

        Locket # 44

        Well, to start with, I have never ridden a bicycle on the streets of Georgetown.
        That shouldn’t surprise any visitor or resident here. On a bicycle? with all the
        helter skelter pelting down our roadways? I would be putting my body at risk.

        Maybe this country wasn’t meant to modernize like that, with cars and two
        way traffic lanes and traffic lights. Maybe we should have stayed a bicycle
        nation, like one of those Chinese cities you hear about, everybody pedaling
        and even getting stuck in bicycle jams.

        I couldn’t imagine a time in Georgetown when people went around on
        bicycles. Until I met this staring man.

        I was walking down Church Street, heading for the market square to catch
        public transport. He was standing outside the old Astor cinema. Just standing
        and staring.

        He saw me coming and he was like, “Hello, excuse me, you know what time
        they bringing down the cinema?” Pardon? “This cinema. They said on the
        radio it was going to be demolished today. I came here to see it one last
        time.” Asking like if anybody walking past the cinema would be carrying
        that information.

        He was dressed like a foreign Guyanese, you can always spot them. They
        wear clothes that look purchased just for the trip. And the way they walk,
        point A straight to point B., perspiring and worrying about their
        perspiration.

        This one was not much different, though he had nothing better to do than
        stare at an old building and ask when it would be “demolished”. I liked his
        word demolish.

         I found out later he was right. It was supposed to come down.

        "So where you going?” he asked, switching his concern. To the market to
        catch transport. “And why you can’t ride. Back in my day you didn’t need
        to walk for transport. We had bicycles. I rode a bicycle. I used the bus if I
        had to, but we didn’t depend on these sardine body cans they have running
        around now.”

        He was referring to our minivans. Sardine body cans, that’s a good one, I
        said, preparing to move on.

        He reminded me of my grandfather who died when I was a child. I knew
        about him, but my parents never took me to visit. I saw him for the first
        time at his funeral, a big man sleeping in a coffin. I never asked why they
        kept their distance from him. This man was clearly from his time.

        “Let me tell you something,” he said, holding me back. “You see that place?
         It was paradise. We came to the paradise on bicycles.”

         I tried to imagine it. I know the frustration of vehicles on the roads today.
         But streets of bicycles? people pedaling to work, to school, to the cinema?

         “I’m telling you, we left our bikes at the front of the cinema right there.
         You locked the bike, you bought your ticket, plunged through the curtain at
         the door. They had three shows each day between 1.00 p.m. and midnight.
         The best times of our lives.”

         He said if I passed by I’d see stacks of bicycles in neat rows; and when the
         show was over and you came outside, you found your bicycle buried under
         a pile. You waited. Owners emerged and removed theirs one by one. You
         waited.

         Not that everything was always cool. Sometimes a headlight was missing.
         A policeman could stop and walk you to the station for riding without light.
         Which sounded ridiculous, but at least the police offficers did honest night
         work then. 

         He got me so excited, I started to believe in his world of bicycles, his city
         of bicycle lawbreakers marched to the station for silly crimes. A strange,
         long ago world, with “respectable” people, and bandits getting away on
         two feet or two wheels.

         "I don’t live here anymore. I came here to see how they would demolish
         the building. Is not a stone building, so you can’t wire it up with explosives
         and bring it down. I mean look at it, it’s a wooden building.” I didn’t hear
         anything about demolishing this building? “It was on the radio?” Nobody
         listens to radio here. “I travel with a radio wherever I go.” Stuck in his old
         radio ways, oh boy.

         “Can you imagine how long it took them build it? back in the 1940s?” Well,
          it was empty for years, they stop showing movies there. Anyway, I have
         to go. Some conversations you'll never have again.

         I don’t usually stop to talk to any and everybody on the road. I was
         surprised this old man didn’t try getting friendlier, asking about my
         expectations; saying I look like a smart young lady; nibbling away, getting
         friendlier and friendlier; until if you dare crack a smile, just hope regret
         don't come to stay by you later.

         I haven't talked to anyone about him. I was heading home, but my home
         situation isn't exactly friendly. I don’t have too many real friends. How old
         am I? Seventeen.

         There’s a wild side of me, I admit, that has these dreams of a place where
         I part the curtains, go inside, find this big cave all lit up like a cinema
         screen, with people talking and doing amazing things. Paradise itself.

         Maybe that’s why I didn’t just walk away from this conversation. That and
         the look on the old man’s face as he talked.

         I felt a little sympathy for him and his paradise. I’d never seen anyone so
         serious and worried. Who cares that much about an old building?

         Across the country, some people abandon their homes; they give up and
         move away. It might have been their Garden of Wonder growing up, but now
         they want a place somewhere with comfort and peace of mind. Usually they
         move away for good, leaving everything to the weeds or to relatives.

         Anyway, the next day, there I was walking down Church Street, approaching
         the cinema. The roof and wood sidings had been ripped off, how I couldn’t
         tell. I didn’t see any demolishing machine nearby, only a few shirtless men
         poking through the rubble.

         The old man wasn’t there. Maybe he came and saw what was going on and
         he left. This couldn’t be what he was hoping for.

         The rotten wood frame was still hanging in the sky. It was as if a swarm of
         wood hungry rodents had come out of hiding while we were sleeping, and
         ate everything inside, but left as the sun came up. It looked terrible.

         Anyway, it has been over a year now since all that happened.

         I don’t have to tell you, but I’ll tell you: I have a boyfriend now. And I won’t
         have met him if I hadn’t changed my walking route to the Market square,
         avoiding Church Street with the old torn down cinema.

         He has a motorcycle. Yes, like I moving up in the world, joke all you want.
         He brings a helmet for me when we go for rides.  

         You know how sometimes you read in stories, “she felt a flutter in her
         chest”? Well, on the motorbike with him, my knees clutching his thighs
         when we take bends, I feel flutters in my chest. Lots of flutters. There
         are first times, hard to forget, for everything in this world.

         He’s from Brazil. I don’t know the whole story, what he was up to back
         there, and what he’s hoping for now; but he’s adapting. His conversation is
         coming along At least he’s polite, not loud and quick-tempered; or stuck in
         the past.

         He asked me how I got my name, I told him I didn’t know, was the name my
         parents gave me. He said, in his careful speaking way, he is "growing fond"
         of me. I like the growing part. I used to wonder what would have to
         happen to peel me away from this city.

         Yes, he is older. How much older? You don't need that information.

         He is not ripe yet for my paradise. If and when we get there, I’ll know.
         No, I don’t have a plan, I’m not building anything.

         Isabella V.
         Georgetown Guyana

 

 

        <Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

          Locket # 43

          Mr. Flagman, this is about me and Dak Bo. That’s Dak Bo Chin, the Chinese
          Restaurant owner. The restaurant down Sheriff Street outside Georgetown.

          Everybody believed he was Chinese. I think he was from Vietnam, by way of
          Hong Kong, where he hooked up with a Chinese woman, who brought him
          here to Georgetown, where she got killed by some stupid gunman, leaving
          Dak Bo alone and wondering what to do next, if he should continue with the
          restaurant.

          I don’t think considered living the rest of his life here, even with his Chinese
          wife. After she died he wanted more than ever to leave. I could tell he was
          ready to go, but not before making somebody pay for killing his wife.

          I helped him understand, hitting back was too easy. There were other ways
          he could make the country pay. Work, brace, wait.

          So he stayed, he continued on, though not exactly as before. I stayed with
          him until he didn’t feel like a total stranger anymore. Still keeping to himself,
          but brave again. After awhile he got used to my closeness. I became his #1
          reliable partner, the person who could help him deal with unexpected things.

          The business was cooked meals. Our menu was second to none. It wasn’t
          exactly Chinese. People hear frying noise and see flames spitting from the
          pan, they think is just another Chinese food place. My flavourings made the
          difference. I had my suppliers of local seasonings. There were two Chinese
          cooks in the kitchen.

          After a year we had separate partner responsibilities. Dak Bo handled the
          “expenses”; plus he had “residency” problems to deal with. In his little office
          at the back under the hanging light bulb he’d put on his glasses and talk to
          people on the phone. Sometimes he went off somewhere with a briefcase.

          I was like the person in charge of supplies, orders and deliveries. First time
          in my life I had responsibility. Dak Bo got me a motorbike to use. Working
          all day carried us along. Work, save, wait.

          And the business thrived, like the “Thriving Restaurant” we have in
          Georgetown, though from the outside you couldn’t tell.

          You could say we developed our own “brand”. We were ready to serve people
          too tired or lazy to cook at home. Getting like the States, yes.

          I worked and saved for my only child, my daughter. At nineteen her life was
          a ripe grape ready to burst but going nowhere. She didn’t do well in our
          schools. She used to help around the house until she got this job in a city
          mall store.

          I had to pull her back from the shiny floor stuff, her friends there. Make her
          go to school again.

          I made her stand in our kitchen. Slice, stir, taste. Try out recipes. When time
          come, cause you can’t keep them stuck here forever, she left for New York,
          stayed with my sister in Brooklyn. Next I heard from her, it was to say she
          had applied for courses at an International Culinary school. I felt so happy.

          I worry about her, but I don’t let her know. Her time is her own now.

          Dak Bo and me, we were a thriving combination. We tried this and that until
          we came up with how best to serve customers. Good meals, reliable service.
          Midday and after work meals. Special preparation like for when certain men
          visiting their women.

          Our customers were mostly people on wheels. Police, transport people. I
          know how they move, how they think.

          We encouraged the pickup, not waiting and “takeout”. You phone your order,
          drive up, honk, your order ready for “pickup”. With soup as a side order. I
          told people they didn’t need to wash down our meals with beer or soft drink.

          The wife of a Govt. Minister sent her driver. We catered sometimes when the
          Ministry was celebrating.

          It wasn’t a “cook shop” like some bad mind people say. Wasn’t like
          McDonalds either, with customers crowding the premises, which was how Dak
          Bo’s wife got killed, bandits ordering food, then suddenly shouting, waving
          guns and shooting. Saying later, They didn’t mean to kill her!

          I was coming in as they came running out. These violent boys, this one side
         parenting of our country. I don’t know what to say. Is like nobody care.

          The day his wife died Dak Bo stood shaking his head and staring at the blood.
          I was staring at the blood.

          Next day I came back, the blood stains were still there. He hadn’t done
          anything. I could still see the cord strains in his neck. Hurry up with the
          mourning, I told him. You have to wash away this blood.

          He didn’t move. He must have thought this was it, the end of the world.

          Something happened at that point. I can’t explain it other than we felt a
          need to put this loss behind us. I went straight home and came back with a
          mop. Right there and then he understood there were situations he could
          trust others to handle.

          For five years after Dak Bo’s clean new premises became his home address.

          The day he told me he was leaving I didn’t get upset. It was not my business
          to know the reason. But from his muttering I could tell something unexpected
          had happened again, only this time there was nothing I could do.

          I turned away thinking, well, we had been good for each other all these years.
          My cup was filled.

          I went with him to the airport. When my daughter left she took a taxi from
          our home. Like Dak Bo she was taking a risk, making her way through airports
          and Immigration, hoping to start again.

          I gave her a hug. Just go, I told her, you on your own. Watch out for the grey
          baldies with teeth going crooked. And those spider men with quick bread and
          spread for ideas. Show the world what you know.

          In the car to the airport it felt like Dak Bo was quietly slipping out the
          country. I put my hand on his knee. First time I ever touched the man.
          Mr. Fast and Furious, I said to him. And he smiled. First time I ever saw him
          smile. Laugh, yes, but Dak Bo hardly smiled.

          Yes, Mr. Fast and Furious is leaving you, he sighed.

          At forty five you wake up one morning, you study your belly and breast, and
          you realize time is really zipping. In this country wet lands could parch fast,
          men can be crude. You pick and choose your pleasure, you understand the
          sun is never late each calling day.

          There were nights, like on Christmas Eve or Old Year's night, when even I
          didn’t want to be alone. Didn’t want to be with people jumping up or singing.
          I stayed behind on the premises after we closed up.

          We drank soup. We sipped the rice wine I made. Another year had gone by,
          the business getting better and better. We told stories of life growing up,
          and sometimes we got a little carried away.

          “I don’t trust these Chinese condoms,” I’d say when his fingers reached for
          my arm. Chinese condoms good! he’d say. Time for Chinese fireworks.

          Mr. Fast and Furious. At first he didn’t understand what I meant. He didn’t
          watch television. For five years he’d close up for the night and retire. I
          don’t think he slept very well.

          I got him a gun. He said he wanted to be ready for when the next bandit
          showed up. I told him if he shot anyone, call me straightaway, not the
          police. We would move the body far from the premises. “Found dead”
          elsewhere.

          Either from pure luck or readiness, bandits didn’t try us again. We had no
          blood on the premises to clean up again.

          The risk that man took coming here, from Vietnam, via some big boat with
          Hong Kong in big letters at the stern, which was another story he told me.

          He didn’t talk about his Chinese wife, how they met, if he still had feelings
          for her. You can understand why. And he didn’t say much about the other
          Chinese business people, who were suspicious of him but left him on his own.

          In the beginning I was suspicious of him too. His teeth looked perfect. He was
          too quiet, like a man who had fallen from some secret high place, rolling 
          down the side into our country.

          In some men you see no climbing back from a fall. I wanted my daughter
          to face risks like Dak Bo. Find a partner, make her way, thrive. That was all
          I wanted.

          Thelma B.
          Georgetown, Guyana

           

  

 

        <Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

        Locket # 42

        I couldn't imagine what my grandparents looked like, and when they came to
        New York, they didn’t look like how I thought they would look. My father took
        me with him to pick them up at Kennedy Airport. It was a long drive from
        Long Island.

        We weren’t sure the plane would land on time. “And if it's not on time,
        you’ll be stranded in the city with our daughter?” my mother said. I’m
        eleven years old. I can look after myself, I said. “See? she wants to come
        along,” Dad said.

        They’ve been having little fights since Dad lost his job in the city. He found
        another but it doesn’t pay as much as his first job. There are other “issues”
        I’m not supposed to know about.

        It’s usually very quiet round where we live. Sometimes, if I leave my door open
        a crack, I can hear them in the living room in front of the TV set.

        Mom raises her voice, Dad shushes her. For awhile, silence. They start up again
        during the TV commercials, then go quiet again. Next morning I’m getting
        ready for school, and it’s like none of it ever happened.

        Anyway, when we got to the airport, the plane was late. Dad was annoyed
        with himself. He should have phoned ahead about the arrival time. We missed
        the Arrival ramp, so we had to exit and start all over. Then we had to park
        the car and go inside.

        “What do they look like?” I asked. They look old. “They might be lots of old
        people coming off the plane.” One of them looks a lot like me. At least he
        used to.

        It took them forever to emerge. They looked tired, but seemed relieved to
        see us. They complained a lot about the flight and the airport back home.
        Grandpa asked how old I was, and how well I was doing in school and what I
        wanted to be. They seemed nice. Their accent was funny, you just have to
        listen harder when they talk.

        From the first day Grandma took over the kitchen. She brought all kinds of
        cooking stuff in jars, and she prepared dinner. “This is what I cook in Canal
        District. I sure Dhany miss this food bad, right, son?”

        She encouraged me to use my fingers, tear bits of “roti” and dip it in the
        sauce; and try the spinach. It tasted good. “Nothing better than good ole
        home cooking,” Mom said. Dad fussed about not enough paper napkins.

        Mom had never visited the Canal District. She wondered why Dad hadn’t
        thought of taking her there on vacation.

        Grandpa was telling us stories about Dad when he was a boy, riding his bike
        along the canal in the District. It had us all laughing. Dad scowled and looked
        uncomfortable. “Nobody wants to hear about that stuff, Pa?” I do, Mom said.
        I do, I said.

       “Do you have boats in the canal?” I asked. That cracked everyone up. It’s not
        that kind of canal, Nadine, Dad said. “Allyou must come on vacation. Anytime
        you want. We will show you around,” Grandma said. 

                                                             *                        

       It was late September and the weather was getting ready for the slide to cold
       days and nights.

       Dad didn’t like the clothes his Dad and Mom brought with them, his buttoned
       down long sleeves, her plain long dress. “Doesn’t look right somehow up here.”
       I don’t see anything wrong with what they’re wearing, Mom said. As long as
       they feel comfortable.

       Dad said he found them sitting outside early Sunday morning. They’d gone for
       a walk down the block. People might have seen them. The neighbors must
       have wondered who they were.

       Mom and I took Grandma out and Mom bought her a long denim skirt which she
       liked. So now when we go anywhere she wears this blue denim skirt.

       We stopped at the supermarket. Grandma wasn’t too happy in the Produce
       section. She examined the cucumbers. “They not supposed to have these
       bumps." And the tomatoes. “Why they look so red, red?” She was suspicious
       of everything.

       Dad had taken Grandpa to get a pair jeans. At the dinner table Grandpa said
       he’d wanted the cargo pants with the pockets. Dad thought he’d look
       ridiculous in them. “They’ll laugh at you back in Canal District.” So let them
       laugh, is who wearing the pants?

       Dad bought him a bathrobe which he didn’t use. He’d come up from the
       basement, shoulders drooping in bright striped pajamas, hugging his tiny bag
       of bathroom things (I think Dad bought that for him, too.)

       He’d say, Hello, little girl. Good morning. So you getting ready for school.

       He showed me an exercise he said I should do ‒ You too chubby for your age ‒
       punching his arms sideways out and in, out and in. I lowered my head and
       smiled as if I’d already started thinking about what he said.

       Except for sounds of coughing in the basement, he seemed in good health. Top
       of his head shiny, a little white Grandpa moustache; and he is “garrulous”
       (Dad’s word). Grandma on the other hand sat calmly. She had this fixed look in
       her eyes. And she smiled a big smile when everyone told her the food she
       prepared was wonderful.

       She must have said something to Grandpa because he announced he would
       start work on a vegetable garden in the backyard. Dad was not keen on the
       idea. “Now is not the right time to do that.” They had to get tools from the
       hardware store.

       Grandpa dug a nice row at the back along the fence. Grandma promised,
       next Spring if we plant the seeds, we’d have so many tomatoes and greens,
       we could give away or sell some to the neighbors.

       Grandpa said he noticed the little concrete wall by the basement window well.
       There were cracks in it. It needed fixing. It’s not important, Dad told him.
       “I can fix it for you. Clean out the leaves in the space there. Make it look
       nice.”

       So off we went again to the hardware store for cement and masonry tools.

       Dad complained to Mom. “This vacation is costing us. The tools, the wheel-
       barrow, the back garden. When they’re gone what will happen to all the
       stuff?” Just put them away in the tool shed until they come back to visit.
       “They’re not coming back to visit.”

       One night I overheard them arguing again about Grandpa.  

       It was after eleven o'clock, everyone was getting ready to go to bed. Dad
       was going back and forth from the bathroom with his toothbrush. He’s a
       dedicated morning and night tooth brusher.

       It seemed Grandpa had killed someone back in Canal District. The man did
       something nasty to a girl in the District, and for that Grandpa killed him.

       How come he wasn’t arrested? Mom asked. “Keep your voice down. It doesn’t
       always work like that back there,” Dad said. I don’t understand. “Listen!
       People die. The newspaper headlines say: ‘Mystery Surrounds The Death’.
       Besides after what the man did to that girl!” (Mom didn’t want the gory
       details of what the man did to that girl.) So tell me, what is your father
       doing here in our house? Hiding out till ‘the mystery’ blows over? “The girl
       was Nadine’s age. The man had no business violating her like that.” Are you
       listening to yourself, Dhany? Something very wrong happened. Your father
       was involved.

       Dad said not one word more. And that was the end of the story.

       That night I grabbed my phone and under the blanket I sent Josh a message.
       He’s this boy at my school I like, only he thinks I’m a stuck in the house nerd
       who goes straight home from school. He says nothing exciting could ever
       happen where I live. Good looks, but a peanut size brain ‒ that’s Josh. His
       purpose on this planet still unknown.

       "Guess what?” I told Josh. “My grandpa is staying with us. He killed a man back
        in his home country. He’s hiding out here till things blow over.” Rightaway
        Josh answered “Wow”. I thought that would get his attention.

        By the time he was ready to be more friendly, hoping to come around and
        maybe meet Grandpa, they had gone back home to Canal District. And that
        was the end of our story.

        Nadine G.
        Patchogue, New York.

  

 

        <Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

          Locket # 41

 

         I was watching my youngest child the other day. He old enough now to be
         doing things with his hands. Right now he’s hooked on his play station, using
         his thumbs and staring at the screen. It won’t be long before he old enough
         to transfer his finger press to the cell phone.

         How times change. How fast times changing now.

         Back in my Georgetown youth days I had fun rolling a tyre up and down our
         village street. The one dream I had was to drive a fire engine unit. Putting
         on the helmet, saddling up, and driving to the scene of the conflagration,
         my sirens clearing the road.

         When I was done with high school, I promptly sign up to join the Georgetown
         Fire Service. I nearly didn’t get accepted.

         I barely pass the “physical agility” part of the training. The instructor kept
         saying I too “chubby” for the work. A whole house could burn down while
         you still hooking up the hose. He made me run round the block in Alberttown
         with a roll up hose to pass one test.

         But he knew my father, they went to school together. I told him my father
         taught me driving skills. I know Georgetown roadways backward and forward,
         and I always wanted to be behind the big wheel.

         I persevered. I stayed through my probation, till they assigned me as truck
         driver.

         I still on the job, still keep up with the training; but the dream part, feeling
         like an emperor at the wheel, that part gone. Driving though Georgetown is
         breaking my spirit.

         At one point it was the filthiest city in the world. The Stabroek Market, the
         centre of the city, piles of rubbish and smells to high heaven. The city
         cemetery overrun with bush. And at night the cardboard vagrants sleeping on
         the pavement, still there next morning, ragged and sprawled to high heaven.

         I get agitated. Honestly, I don’t know who to blame.

         It would take more than “clean up campaigns” so I can drive and not notice
         wretchedness left and right. More than men with brooms or a machete crew
         with plastic bags. Something like a Garbage Service, a Cemetery Maintenance
         Service is needed. People trained and ready to keep things clean and tidy all
         the time.

         Other people seem to be making ends meet. They use their hands to cook and
         bake ‒ make something, set up a tray and sell! ‒ while I here under this
         “dream”, hands on the fire truck wheel, sirens wailing.

         I thought of asking for a transfer, like to the fire station at the airport. They
         don’t give “transfers” just like that. In any case, I couldn’t see myself
         hanging around the airport waiting for an emergency event as the planes land
         or take off.

         Georgetown is still a wood-frame house town for the most part. Used to be
         people were responsible and careful. They knew what could happen if fire
         break out. Over the years they putting up these three, four five-storey
         buildings. I don’t even think they have sprinkler systems like in New York.

         Besides, our fire trucks not like them big rigs you see in movies. God only
         knows what would happen if our boys try saving anybody from top floors.

         Our truck tank could hold about 450 gallons of water. Once that run out,
         fire fighting from the unit done.

         The last fire we had, we got there late. The owner of the building said he
         called, but somehow the message didn’t get through. It took us 30 minutes
         to get there.

         Sirens does have a weird effect on our car people. I had to wait till traffic
         in front decide to turn or speed up.

         I had to help find a hydrant, clear the thick grass all round it, open the rusty
         hydrant head, and listen. I couldn’t hear anything coming, water pressure
         low.

         We had next to turn to the nearby canal. Thank God it wasn’t silted up.
         All the while pushing back “public spirited” people (so the newspapers say)
         grabbing the hose, wanting to help “quench” the flames. This time the
         hose didn’t spring leaks.

                                                        *

        I was on a plane heading to Trinidad the other day to visit a friend. This man
        beside me from Georgetown was heading back to New York. He living there
        now, works with the city’s Sanitation Department.

        He went on about opportunities there, how his salary was near what our
        Government Ministers making. And if I like driving vehicles so much, I should
        come up to New York, try my hand. Find a better source of income, he said.

        About my chances, I would have problems breaking into the Fire Service over
        there, no matter how much “experience” I bring from Georgetown. Native
        barriers, he said. Still, I could try for City Transport, the big buses; or Airport
        taxi work. Native barriers there too.

        If things didn’t work out I could do some hire car work. Cars passed him every
        day with signs saying DRIVERS WANTED.

        I noticed how he paused, letting his words sink in, so certain what he was
        telling me was big news, since I was getting off the plane in Trinidad.

        Push come to shove, he said, I could apply to pick up and drive school children
        to school in a yellow bus. Rules and barriers and paperwork everywhere, but
        ways could be found to get around them, he said. You have to be bold.

        A part of me listened, not asking questions, wondering if any higher levels
        waiting for me in Georgetown. I was still this hands-on-the-fire wheel person.
        I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.

        Our Fire Service is supposed to be updating and upgrading. According to our
        newspapers, the hydrants overdue for “rehabilitation”. Well, I here driving
        and driving, and I don’t see any rehabilitating yet.

        A building up in flames. Our truck on the way but progress slow on the road.
        My foot shifting start-stop on the pedals. I does just shut off the siren. I tell
        myself, the bucket brigade done reach the fire before me. I can’t save
        everything every time.

        Sometimes I feel like a camel rider bouncing along. Georgetown roadways are
        my desert sands, and I just there bouncing forward. Tight grip on the wheel
        ‘cause these days it feel like the sands drifting and the camel lurching.

        My wife think is some kind of “depression” forming. Telling me I should see a
        doctor, get some prescription pills for the problem. She don’t understand, this
        is not some medical problem, and I don’t need any medication. This thing, is
        like a growing frustration, bothering me inside, on and off duty.

        I know, I should stop complaining. Georgetown people quick to find fault.
        Alright, I done complaining.

        The fellow on the plane, hosing me down with words in the tiny plane space, I
        don't know why but I didn't trust him. He leaned on the armrest toward me,
        and he told me he saw this man on a pavement in New York City, an artist man,
        drawing faces. You sit down for five minutes and in quick time he did a portrait
        of you. The man was very good.

        If you ask me, that portrait man probably reach the end of his line; his unit run
        clear out of turn space. Shove come, and nothing left. At least he not at a
        front window in a rocking chair in Georgetown, looking out.

        Still it set me wondering, as I filled out the immigration form, if maybe I got
        myself in a wrong turn situation, stuck in Georgetown with this one dream, this
        one ‘Occupation’; and what could happen if I move out from under this dream.
        Move some place else while I still have time. Before I get so stuck I can’t start
        over or do anything else with my life.

        Tyrone Armstrong
        Georgetown, Guyana