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       < 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

       < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

       Locket # 17

       My "office" is in Georgetown.  You want to contact me, you call a number. 
       A voice tells you to leave your number. I call you back. 

       You tired waiting for "justice"?  you want somebody gone? a husband, your boss,
       somebody you consider "a very bad person"? I take care of it.

       When I get back to you I arrange to meet on the seawall. Not face to face. 
       You sit on the old iron bench near the bandstand, stare out at the sea, and
       we talk business on the phone.

       Next day you return, drop off an envelope with a photo of the target. And 
       $5000.00 US. First installment.

       I don't have the time, and I not inclined, to play games. You can't play games
       with me.

       My work method? 100 percent effective. Snake encounter. Once the element
       is "delivered" (through a breach into the system) the target is on his way into
       the clouds. No guns and blood, no getaway motor cycles.

       Your life scales jangling out of balance?  my office can help set them level
       and straight again. Quiet and perfecto.

       So far my clients are happy with our results. They like to think the "bad person"
       suffered his last hours on earth in hopeless, slow motion. Gives them some
       "payback" satisfaction. 

       My system? Okay, once I have the target photo. I select the location. Next, I
       have to arrange the moment of delivery. Which means scouting the target's
       routines, where he works, what time he leaves his house, to jog, meet with
       friends at a restaurant. His morning or afternoon stroll, if he's an old man.

       All of this takes time (it consumes my weekends). Sometimes clients get anxious.
       They call to find out what's going on. I tell them straight, if you change your
       mind and cancel the agreement, you can have the first installment back (minus
       expenses). Otherwise be patient. And don't contact me again.

       When everything is finally set, my delivery man steps in. His name is Jonathan.
       He is an Amerindian from our Northwest District.

       A few years back I went with a television film crew following a Government
       Minister around. We arrived at Morawhanna and I saw this man moving and
       rolling diesel drums toward the stelling for boat loading. Short, stocky, bare
       chest young man, like me in his early thirties, pushing these drums.

       I was about to roll film on him but he gave me a look that said STOP. And mind
       your own business.  Unusual behavior for a "bushman".  

       Later that afternoon I saw him standing outside a bar like he guarding the air
       around him. I offered to buy him a drink. The man can hold his liquor without
       getting loud.

       He said he was a snake expert. Knew which snakes dangerous, what to do if
       you make contact. I ordered another round and listened.

       He told me once he got rid of a man, a soldier who came up to the Northwest
       with our Defence Force for military training. The man started stopping by his
       house, kept "troubling" his daughter, a girl of seventeen.

       One morning the man was found dead. Snake encounter. Everyone assumed it
       was by accident. In the bush.

       We looked out at the river, at canoes pushing off and quietly gliding away.
       Jonathan sat not twitching or glancing around or staring. But he notices every-
       thing that moves. Behind his smile you can't really tell what he's thinking. He 
       might seem docile, but he's not an ordinary man.

       The thing about snakes, he says, there's no problem once you go about your
       business and leave them alone. The law of the forest. Jonathan is my delivery
       man. He has come face to face with snakes.

       How our partnership got going is not important. When I have a client agreement
       signed up, I summon him to Georgetown. We discuss the where and the when.
       I leave the execution part to him.

          How he completes the agreement I honestly don't know. Once I confirm mission
       accomplished, the target stiff and departed, Jonathan takes the next steamer
       back to the North West. Quiet and perfecto.

       I used to wonder how he operated.  Once I joked with him, You have your blow 
       pipe ready? He gave me that look again, STOP. I don't know if he felt insulted,
       or maybe he was saying some things are not in my interest to know. And I didn't
       want to appear to be meddling in his side of the business.

                                                        *

         Let me advise, I prefer working with "high-end" clients. People with financial
       resources. Who understand the importance of discretion. 

       My first client was a lady who flew in from New York. Her husband was "giving
       her problems". She tried easing her conscience, explaining about the man.
       About property in his name that should be in her name and some outside woman
       he had.

       I stopped her right there. I not interested in client anger and history. Five
       thousand now, Five thousand later. Nice clean US currency, thank you.

       She dropped off the package at the designated spot by the seawall and went
       back to New York. I told her, Next time you coming, bring clothes for a funeral.

       She was really impressed with my work because I got a second call, and a third
       call saying I had been "recommended". Next thing I know the business rolling.

       Jonathan isn't paid in cash. He is not interested in "money" per se.  He would
       send word about things he needed. Tools, boat equipment, household items,
       spare parts.

       [And "The Magnificent Seven", an old Western movie I came across. We watch
        it every time he comes to town. Rocking in the chair and laughing when at
        the end Eli Wallach, the bandidos leader, shot and dying, asks Yul Brynner,
        the gunfighter hired to defend the Mexican villagers, "A man like you, why?
        A place like this, why?"]

       So I make the purchases. Arrange for the goods to be put on the next Northwest
       steamer. That's how tight we move and anchor.    

       You shouldn't think of Jonathan as a cold, heartless person. He's a good man.
       He assumes the targets I chose had done something really bad and deserved
       what he got. I don't think he'll forget how that Defence soldier from Georgetown
      "troubled" his daughter.

       When his wife Sara came to Georgetown for dental treatment, I arranged
       everything. Took care of the accommodation, the bills. I told her not to let
       the dentist do any extraction, no matter what he says. Jonathan was truly
       happy.

       The business makes him feel there's someone in this world who knows him and
       respects his "bush" knowledge. In matters of life or death this man knows how
       to read the tides.

       When he's boarding the Northwest steamer for home, we do our "Magnificent
       Seven" routine. "A man like you, why?" I shout and wave. "A place like this,
       why?" he smiles and shouts back. Partners for life, yes.

                                                      *

       Lately, I have to admit, things have been bothering me. A few niggling things.
       No, I'm not having "qualms", or second thoughts.

       You watch people going about their normal, innocent-looking lives, you can't
       tell what bad things they really responsible for. Sometimes I wonder: what if
       the target didn't deserve his abrupt departure? Was it something he did, or  
       was it something he refused to do?

       I stop. I stay focused: scouting the right place for "delivery", trying out best
       times for Jonathan to make his move.

       So far we've made no mistakes, no second attempt. Done! like clockwork, with
       all-clear midnight chimes.

       I still curious, though, about Jonathan, how he operates. Like, how does he
       make "the insertion"? with a jook or a nick? some kind of brush past cat
       scratch? And what is his equipment?

       I remain in the dark about these technical aspects. When you've in his
       company long enough, you sense deep inside an unforgiving capacity, put it
       that way. Makes you keep a little distance. People assume an Amerindian in
       Georgetown, fellow so quiet, no harm could possibly come from him.

                                                        *                                                                                                                                                     

      The other day this Georgetown businessman who I will not name somehow got
      my office number, and called wanting to "hire my business". Insisting we meet
      person to person.

      I told him no, that wouldn't happen. He got angry. Threatened to "expose" me.
      I told him go ahead. If you know me, expose me. And I told him, Watch your
      step, in case something real bad suddenly happen to you. I throw away the cell
      phone.

      So for the time being, I practicing a little caution. Not accepting any and every
      call. Limiting myself to three, four "agreements" a year.

      I had a photo of Jonathan, bare chest, his hair pulled in a warrior knot behind
      his head; and he's holding up a bushmaster like it's a trophy or his favourite
      house pet. I deleted it. Just in case.

      When I feel ready to proceed as per normal, I'll resume. And if things get
      personal and threatening again, or if suddenly I find I can't sleep at night, I'll
      close up shop.

      People like that businessman, all threat and no class, don't qualify for my
      attention. Plenty young men looking for work, playing Jamaican Gangsta with
      guns  ̶  is them he should call. They always ready for "good money" and next
      day front page news.

      You see this place? Always some big man, with a patch on one eye, and one big
      solution  ̶  the only solution  ̶  for every problem. Poisoning this land with
      delusions and wrongdoing. So I say, yes! bad eye for bad eye, snake tooth with
      snake tooth. 

 
      (Name Withheld)
      Georgetown, Guyana

        < Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >

       Locket # 16

       I have to get this off my chest, and out my head. About this Pundit who arrive
       in our district, set up shop in our district, and carrying on as if his presence
       is the biggest news since they discover oil off our shores. He claims he's from
       Essequibo, and went to India, and now he's back home with a "life philosophy"
       to save the people.

       Carrying on just like the Mormon boys in white shirt and tie. And people
       believe in this man.

       There's a hunger all cross this country. People want peace, people want 
       answers. They want someone to explain what has happened to their lives.
       This Pundit behaving as if he is the Explainer they been waiting for.

        Is amazing how word start spreading: that this man have special health
        curing powers. This paunchy fellow, bald and wifeless like Gandhi, wearing
        Gandhi spectacles, talking slow like he born with a talent for slow speech,
        has brought new "spiritual knowledge" to the District.  

        Pa was in hospital, he has this problem with diabetes. But ever since my
        mother start "consulting" this Pundit, she swear Pa doing better. Even he
        start believing, swearing that his new "meditation" exercise really working.
        Sometimes ignorance does put a jacket round your shoulders, your only
        friend.

        I argued:  if he was a real Pundit from Essequibo, why he didn't go back
        and set up shop in Essequibo? Why start up here in Canal District?"

        The answer was the same. "Hush. You don't understand the man, so hush."
        All of a sudden he's like some important secret we mustn't ask questions
        about. So I hush. 

        First, he was just an ordinary Pundit, in his fifties I would say; riding a
        bicycle. This bicycle come like a humble start-up project, because
        within two months he invest in a car.

        I argued again: how come all of a sudden he trading up from bicycle to
        motor car? just like that?

        Well, the car is supposed to be for business transactions in Georgetown.

        Business transactions in Georgetown? Why he can't take a minibus like
        everybody else? squeeze up inside like everybody else?

        To which my mother answered, "Which pundit you know, which parson in
        Georgetown for that matter, would "squeeze up" in public transport?"

        So I hush. After all, I can't spend the rest of my life asking questions about
        other people. Speculating about other people. As if I don't have difficulties
        of my own to speculate about. 

                                                  **         

        And I hush again at the news about the bicycle ride to the hospital. He rode
        the bicycle in his pundit garment all the way to the hospital to give blood.

        This lady's daughter got in an accident and needed blood. Guess who heard
        about it  ̶  claiming he felt "felt summoned" to donate  ̶  and took off to the
        rescue. On his bicycle.

        Bicycle to the hospital. Bicycle back. Some people say they saw him on the
        road. Was late afternoon, Phagwah festival. People walking about, face and
        clothes powdered and coloured. And he down the road, using hand signals 
        and riding like the bike saddle and pedals made by Rolls Royce; his garment
        wrap tight and starch white with knowledge.

        That could never happen. The hospital too far. You have to be an Olympic
        pedal pusher defying the heat and the dust; eating up miles and hours to
        get to the nearest medical facility. Not to mention vehicles on the main
        road pelting past with no respect for anything on two feet or two wheels.

        And wouldn't it make sense to take the motor car and rush to the hospital?

        The stupid car, which somebody "donate" to him, just sitting in the driveway,
        because once he got the car, he needed a driveway. Which meant he had to
        move from his old house with the bridge cross the trench, to this new house
        with driveway and shiny metal gate.

        The owner of the new residence was his friend from school days. Now a rice
        mill owner. A mean son of a bitch as far as I'm concerned, who telling every-
        body that now he is a "deeply spiritual person".

        The morning after Pundit move in, they say he was outside blessing the
        papaw trees at the back of the friend's house To keep away poisonous snakes.
        That's what they say.

        Whoever heard of blessing papaw trees to keep snakes out the yard? And 
        where you think the snakes gone after the blessing  ̶   to the backyard of
        the house next door, how you like that?

        This is the sort of nonsense we dealing with in this District.  Even Ma had to
        admit that the story about chasing away snakes was kind of hard to swallow.

        And when you pass the house somebody always washing the car; or sweeping
        the driveway; or weeding and keeping the premises clean. Because now he
        has a little canopy outside, like an outdoor office, where he does "consul- 
        tations": listening with his eyes closed, and talking slow.

        Something as simple as hot flashes, or somebody contemplating suicide,
        got people, who born right here, running to the house for words of healing.
        As if he alone now responsible for their existence.

        When it not raining, he outside under the canopy; in a wicker chair, 
        polishing his spectacles; and his clients there, clutching their bags, like cows
        in the front yard swollen with distress while he there milking and milking.

        I'm telling you, this man playing games people don't have names for yet.

                                                     **                        
                                             

        The other day the neighbor was telling Ma, The pundit don't wear anything
        underneath. He don't wear shorts.

        So now he like the Scottish bagpipe men marching in their kilt. No life
        support underneath. As reported, the neighbor said, by the nurse at the
        hospital where he went that afternoon to give blood. And confirmed later
        by another lady, the house cleaning lady.

        You hear the kind of laugh we bussing? You see the level of "development"
        coming to Canal District?

        But I don't blame Canal people. The streets are narrow, the grass high; crab
        pots does boil over under the hot sun; every night mosquitoes raiding your
        sleep net. How else to cool and cleanse the blood each day?

        There used to be comfort in having a little, knowing a little, but working
        and observing and learning more about the world. Was you in control of
        your life, not fear and foolishness.

        Now this man! like ringworm lodged in the head and stomach; so generous
        with his "knowledge", and expecting generous donation in return.

        But our 6 o'clock is not his 6 o'clock.

        You watch: soon they going start inviting him to a function here, function
        there, just to "say a few words". Then what you think going happen next?                                                 

                                                        **             

       I have to say: over the years I have noticed all kind of people showing up and
       settling in this country. From all parts of the world. Brazilians, Nigerians.
       People like they bypassing Europe and America to get here.

       And the human traffic speeding up ever since they find oil off our shores.

       The oil rigs not even pumping yet and people running coming. And this
       Pundit acting like he too is a run come. Went to India, didn't find it there,
       so now he back here (with a little dysentery, the house cleaning lady say)
       waiting for the flow of milk and money. I sure is that.

       He should have settled in Georgetown, not in Canal District. Near the seawall
       is the perfect place. Set up his little canopy there; watch and wait with 
       snake blessings for the oil platform to rise and float like a castle on the
       horizon.

       Anyway, I done.

       One day somebody else will see through this Pundit and expose what really
       hiding underneath. I may be just a young adult (that is how I see myself)
       but from this point on, my mind gone blank to this man.

       Alright, alright, I hushing.

       M. Ghose
       Canal District, Guyana

        < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
  
        Locket #15

        My name is Oviola Baptiste, and I was born in Linden. I moved to George-
        town, and lived for awhile with a good for nothing man, who I had to chase
        away 'cause he wasn't doing anything for me; only waiting for me to come
        home from Stabroek, where I had an umbrella stall. Never stop to think I
        would be tired and only want to fall in the bed and sleep. 

        I had to ask him over and over, "Which half of Not now! you don't understand?"
        I had to restrict him to early mornings, which was not my best time. He
        think because since he stiff and ready, dark or dawn I should open up my
        stall.
       
        I just let him have his two minute merry-go-round ride, and remind him
        I had work to do.

        Anyway, I used to be a Stabroek market vendor. Now I am an entrepreneur.
        Darling, you know how long it take me to learn to pronounce that word.
        Aunt-tripen-noor. I stop using it now. Is easier to tell people I own a
        restaurant.

        How it start? Went up to New York to buy a big set of Polo Shirts. At
        wholesale price. The plan was to bring them back and sell them outside
        Stabroek.

        Was real horrors going and coming. You have to pass through Piarco,
        Trinidad. Nosy like Rosie, they give you and your luggage real hell.

        Anyway, this time  ̶  was in December, Christmas coming up  ̶  I land in New
        York, staying at a lady in Brooklyn who I thought was a family friend. She had
        her front room shiny furniture with the plastic wrapping on it, like she want
        to preserve it in showroom condition.

        I ask her, Why all this plastic cover on the chairs? Who want to come in your
        house and sit on plastic?  You can't preserve furniture like fruit in a glass jar
        for Christmas cake.

        I don't think she appreciate my comments.

        Anyway, on my way down town to get the Polo shirts, somehow I lose my US
        dollars. Had it in an envelope in my bag. I reach in the bag only to find my
        purse gone, the envelope gone. To this day I still don't know how it disappear.
        Must have been on the train, all the jostling and squeezing.

        I was so embarrassed and confused. Standing there, searching the bag over
        and over; looking around, wondering what to do now.

        This is when the good Lord intervene. I tell you, strange things does happen
        in this world, but if you're a good person, the good Lord does look out for
        you.   

        I was passing this Wendy's, and my eye catch this man sitting at a table
        looking out through the glass. I swear was someone I knew from back home.
        I turn back, went inside to him: I was just passing and saw you through the
        window. I know you. From Linden in Guyana, right?.

        He didn't say a word, just sat staring at me. Making this big slurping sound
        from his soda cup, like he down to the ice cubes but he still hoping to
        drain up more soda.

        I explain how I came up here to purchase merchandise, but couldn't find my
        purse; like somebody pick pocket it on the subway. And I was wondering
        if he could help me out.

        To which he took one last big slurp from the soda cup and said to me in a
        Jamaican accent, Yes he was Jamaican! and he says, "I have a little propo-
        sition for you."

        And before I could turn away he said he would give me five hundred dollars.
        500 Dollars. All I had to do was stand outside on the pavement and hold a
        big shopping bag. For four hours. Don't ask no questions. Just stand on the
        pavement holding this bag.

        Well, first I thought he was crazy. But he was well-dressed, gold rings on his
        fingers (looked like they worth more than the Polo shirts). And he sounded
        real serious.

        To make a long story short I said okay. It was a deal. And guess what? I got
        the 500 dollars.   

        Four hours I out there in that cold, holding this big shopping bag; near a bus 
        stop, like I waiting for the bus. Wind in my face, fingers icing.

        Every now and then he'd come outside with a cup of coffee. Sometimes he
        took the bag, reached inside, pulled out a package, and walked off.

        The packages were gift wrapped, with Christmas holiday paper, and the bag
        was heavy, really heavy. He told me keep holding it, don't rest it on the
        ground. I didn't ask no questions.

        When it was over, almost all the package gone, he came outside for the 
        last time; gave me my money, in hundred dollar bills, and he said, "You did
        well, you are a good soldier."

        I didn't waste any time. Headed straight to the subway, came back to Brooklyn.
        Next day catch the plane and flew back to Guyana. My running Polo shirt
        days were over.

        But hear this: standing out there in the cold, people and transport hurrying
        past, not knowing what to expect, two things pop in my head. Stayed in my 
        head up to this day.  

        First, this is not the reason you came into this world, Oviola, to stand here
        holding a bag. You could faint and drop down right here and nobody would
        care. And second, you could own your own place, your own restaurant, just
        like the Wendy's across the road.

        Yes, my future was in my hands. I always liked cooking, and food preparation.
        That was what I know to do. 

        Well, now you see me here, I have a really good business going. Start up
        first with a little shack shop, but I'm here now. I doing okay.

        People like what I cook, specially the taxi drivers. They tired of lo mein
        fried rice. I have a good take-out box system for lunch time specials.
        They dash in and pick up, motor running outside. You could also phone in
        your order, and get quick bike delivery. 

        My secret recipe is what bringing the customers back. My sauces, the
        way I use onions and garlic. And my homemade ice cream is a winner.

        Got my girls working, got my suppliers of local seasoning. Nice, clean
        entrance. Everything modernized and organized. And I ready for any
        gunman who think he can just waltz into your establishment and rip up all
        the lettuce you grow.

        Yes, PickiPicki restaurant in Georgetown. Best service, best quality food.
        I have plans to branch out: soon you going to hear about PickiPicki in Linden.
        PickiPicki in Bartica.

        Because, look, I not saying I understand everything what going on in this
        country, and to be honest I don't expect much from anybody here; but at
        some point you have to clear your space and arrange yourself.

        If you find you just there waiting and waiting, make your move  ̶  put your
        porcupine on and watch your numbers. Don't ask me what that mean. I
        heard somebody say that on the subway, I know what it mean.

        I have one daughter, yes. The father gone his way long ago. She's doing 
        very well, thank you. Still going through her frisky filly stage. I tell her
        already, is twenty four hours in a day. Men does blow hot and cold. When 
        they come with their feel-feely fingers, wanting to ripple your canal,
        slide them in but only if the timing is right.

        Now, you have to excuse me.

         Oviola Baptiste
         Georgetown, Guyana