Tag: Caribbean Fiction

NY SLIDE LIII: BULLDOG DRUMMOND

 

         "You would not believe what happened to me today," Lightbody announced to the carpool. "I got a visit from the new morals police chief, you know her?…Burton?"
     "Haliburton."
     "There you go. Well, she knocks on my door, this is five minutes before the bell, the lesson's over, I'm bubbling in my attendance sheets and the kids are doing what they usually do, throwing paper balls, goofing off…anyway…she knocks on my door and walks in, and she's looking none too pleased with what she sees…and I say to her, Yes, can I help you? …and she asks me if I know a Mrs. Drummond, who is a crossing guard, she's at the corner of Myrtle and 105th…"
     "I thought you parked at the gas station," Meier said.
     "Well, I used to but it's beginning to add up, how much I'm paying this guy. I figured if they're going to get to my car, they can hit it there just as easily, then with the snow and everything…anyway she asks me if I knew this Mrs. Drummond, and I said, I know who she is, I've never spoken to her, and she says one of the kids complained to her I had made offensive remarks about this lady."
     Everyone threw quick glances at Lightbody, listening for the slightest ripple of guilt and trouble in his voice.
     "I said, Madam, I've hardly exchanged two words with this lady. Truth be told, I did once, when she flagged me down. She came up to my car, knocked on the window with her knuckles, and told me she's going to report me the next time I ignore her and cross the zebra lines. And I said, Madam, what are you talking about? Apparently, the day before, I'd passed in front instead of waiting for the kids to cross the zebra…I mean, I didn't even see the woman signaling, and in any case I was running late that morning… anyway this Haliburton lady says she'd received a complaint that I'd referred to the Drummond lady as a dog." 
     "You did what? Called the crossing guard a dog?" Brebnor said.
     "I did no such thing. Actually, that's what the kids call her, the bulldog. I'd asked the class if anyone knew who the crossing guard was, and someone, I think it might have been Ramos, said, You mean the bulldog? and I said, That's the one. Any of you come across this woman?"
     No one had. Everyone seemed amused.
     "I had no idea at the time the woman's name was Drummond, the crossing guard I mean, so when this Haliburton lady tells me I'd insulted this Mrs. Drummond I tried to lighten up the situation by asking her…I mean, the thought just popped into my head… I asked her if she'd ever heard of Bulldog Drummond, you know, the detective in those novels? I said, Did you ever read those Bulldog Drummond books when you were a kid?"
    The carpool thought they knew where Lightbody was going with the story and erupted in laughter.
     "She didn't know who I was talking about. She said she'd read many authors but she hadn't heard of any Bulldog Drummond, and in any case she didn't think it appropriate for me to characterize – now listen to this – it was inappropriate for someone like me to characterize anyone, and certainly not this Mrs. Drummond, who lived in the community, whose job was just as important as any teacher's job… to characterize her as some sort of animal. So I started to explain, Madam, I did no such thing, and she just walked off."
     For awhile they drove in silence. Then Brebnor, returning to Lightbody's attempt to lighten up the situation, muttered the words 'Bulldog Drumond'; unleasing a fresh outburst of laughter.
               (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)




NY SLIDE LII: WORLDS APART

 

     All the signs indicated that Amarelle was moving away. After the first weekend absence, when she met her sister in Manhattan, there was the evening she phoned to say she would be spending two weeks at her sister's place. The reason? Sammy D. had flown back to his island on vacation. Aschelle was all alone in the house.
  She arranged to come to the Bronx for one evening. She cooked a pot of food and a tray of chicken cutlets which was stored in the refrigerator; all he had to do was heat it up in the evening, make sure he bought fresh vegetables; and he'd be fine.
  She stayed that night with him, fussing, asking questions about the neighborhood as if she'd been away for months: did they catch the crazy man with the gun? you mean, he's still out there waiting to shoot at people in their doorways? And the Spanish people – still hanging out on the stoop at night? In bed her hips hinted at readiness; then the following morning she was off to work; and that evening she was back at her sister's in Peekskill; leaving him his books and his silence; not understanding why anyone, give a chance, would prefer to spend more days and nights in the Bronx.
   Radix didn't complain. He'd been self-sufficient ever since his college days.
   Living with him in the Bronx was at first a daring modern move for a girl from the islands. Back home her parents were telling islanders their daughters were having the time of their lives. One lived in a nice house in upstate New York; the other had chosen to live with someone in rather dangerous circumstances in Harlem. ("Daddy thinks you've moved in with someone in Harlem," Aschelle announced, delighted at the stir the sisters were creating back home.)
  One Saturday afternoon, unusually bright and mild for mid-October, Radix went into a store and bought a bicycle. It was a slender-bodied American bike with multiple gears and bright colours. The store owner gave him a reasonable price since summer biking was over, and the young man spent some time inspecting the frame as if it were a horse. He tried to persuade Radix to purchase trimmings and accessories. Radix settled for a helmet. He rode out the store into streaming traffic which to his delight treated him fairly as another road user.
    The following morning he stepped out his building; fellows on the stoop made room for him to pass. They commented on the bike and watched him, curious and respectful.
    He thought they'd be less traffic to contend with so early in the morning as the city still slept. He crossed a bridge and rode all the way into Manhattan.
           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

NY SLIDE LI: WAYS IN THE WORLD

 

     Amarelle was on the line, speaking loudly, for apparently she was using a pay phone. He kept asking her to repeat what she'd said, so obtrusive was the background noise. She kept saying, "Can you hear me?" She seemed to be listening for signs in his voice that he was annoyed or worried she had not come home.
  She explained she'd met her sister Amarelle in Manhattan; they'd had a girls' night out
doing the town; she didn't think it made sense to come back to the streets of the Bronx at that late hour; instead they would go to Aschelle's place in Peekskill; she'd spend the weekend there.
  Radix let her gush through the background noise which transmitted a sense of the great churning fun she was having right then; which, she seemed to imply, he was sadly missing.
This was what they ought to be doing – getting out more often, especially on Friday nights; away from their wretched neighborhood; amidst the neon and headlight flow, the traffic and sidewalk strollers, clubs and restaurants.
   "I have to go, they're waiting for me in the car. We're parked near a fire hydrant."
   She didn't say where off Fifth Avenue they were, who "they" were; but he imagined her hanging up the phone and stepping back into the world she'd found; wanting that now more than she wanted him.
    And as if to confirm what world it was he had elected to live in, the dog at the back of the house next door started barking. Ark ark ark. Then a seven-second silence, then more arks. The dog could be hungry or angry or bored with its chained status, he couldn't tell. Only its owner understood its language.
    He heard another sound, someone bouncing a basketball on the sidewalk outside his front windows. Bounce bounce bounce, some conversation, then bounce bounce.
    He peered through the blinds. The streets had the usual derelict look. The baskeball bouncer, tall and narrow-faced, apparently returning from team practice, a duffel bag slung on his shoulders, had stopped to talk to his homeboys. Carlos and the crew were camped out on the stoop; they passed around a marijuana joint and a large bottle of beer in a brown paper bag. They talked in their fierce crotch-reaching way, shifting from foot too foot, walking away to dramatize a point; struggling to make sense of their world.
    A full moon was out in the clear night sky. He hadn't seen the moon in a long time. The upper regions of the universe seemed to vanish as night fell, leaving him to contend with indifferent street lights, obscuring brick buildings.
   This life in the streets – its underground runnings, the corner businessmen - had a way of absorbing the unexpected and carrying on. A man is shot in a hallway; stains on the walls get washed away, the body goes off in a black zippered bag; grime and debris swept up. The roadway clear again, everything prepares to forge ahead.
   Radix turned back to his bedroom. He had a long weekend in front of him, and no one to bounce his thoughts off like a human backboard. But like the barking dog next door he'd find a way and language to engage the world.
              (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

NY SLIDE L: CAUTION// MEN AFTER WORK

 

          Lightbody and the carpool were stuck in traffic on the New England highway, Ghansam at the wheel, crawling along on a day they wanted anything but clogged roads; just to get home. And since they'd had a jumpstart on heading-home traffic, leaving John Wayne Cotter H.S. at 2.30, it was reasonable to hope roadways would offer smooth uncluttered passage.
     But there was road work to contend with. The orange cones and road signs warned there would be over a mile of slow going in the weeks ahead. They should be prepared for at least twenty minutes of agony each afternoon.
     Brebnor was slouched in his corner of the car; he stared out the window and wished he could by some feat of kinesis lift the car he was in up and over all the obstructions ahead. He also wished he had not got out of bed.
     He'd got in the car that morning, saying, "I think I'm coming down with something", to which Lightbody had remarked sharply, "Why don't you stay home then?" Brebnor coughed a mucous-stirring cough, then blew his nose to show he didn't give a spit what Lightbody thought.
    Meier for his part was staring at the huge tires of an 18 wheeler running beside them. The truck shuddered whenever it moved forward, its vibrations giving off what felt like hegemonic roadway tendencies.
    He wished Ghansam would speed up. The man drove hunched forward, his hands gripping the wheel. If only he could be a little more aggressive, they'd be past the truck with its hissing airbrakes. Crawling beside the massive tires – he could reach out and touch them if he wanted – made him anxious. A lapse of concentration at the wheel, and before you know it the truck could veer into their lane, smash right into his side of the vehicle.
    "You know what's amazing?" Meier said.
    "What's amazing?" Lightbody said. They'd been traveling for awhile in silence.
    "On the side of the road, have you noticed…? bits and pieces of tire, curled up, lying there like they'd been bitten off or something…? and bolts and screws that must have fallen off vehicles. Makes you feel there are creatures on the road just waiting for slow traffic like this, so they could reach up and tear at the insides of passing vehicles."
     No one seemed moved by Meier's amazed observation.
     Driving cautiously, three car lengths away from the vehicle in front, Ghansam had not yet passed the 18 wheeler. Meier sighed and shifted in his seat.
     "Which reminds me," Lightbody said, "has anyone noticed the fluorescents in the hallway on the second floor? Some are broken. You feel you're in a dungeon somewhere
… all dark and depressing."
     "So why don't you report it to the custodial staff?" Meier snapped.
     "What makes you think I didn't?"
     "Where is the Custodian's office?"
     "It's on the first floor. You go in and there's this secretary lady who stops you and asks what is it you want, while the guy who's really in charge sits there in a blue suit and this weird polka dot tie – have any of you seen this guy? – like that's all he's paid to do, just sit there looking like the man in charge. And the secretary lady tells you to fill out a request form. So I asked her, why do we have to have to fill out forms? why can't they just send someone to fix it rightaway? And she says, Well, you aren't the only one with problems in the building… you'll have to fill out a request form. And I said to her, Madam, do you have any idea how much paperwork I have to deal with every day? And she says, If you want your hallway lights fixed. You have to fill out. The request form."
     Lightbody did a sneering high-pitched imitation of the lady's voice that was so good, it raised a laugh from Ghansam. He picked up a little speed and slipped past the 18-wheel truck.
      (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE XLIX: ANOTHER YEAR OVER AND OUT

 

     The D'Arizon matter was playing out just as Bilicki launched his campaign for the post of Chapter Chairman in the Teachers Union election. He decided to make it an issue. He pointed to "corruption nesting in high places" and the school's double standards; he spoke of the need to insist on high academic achievement for all students.
     When he dropped by to solicit Mrs. Haliburton's support they sat in her office after school and chatted for about an hour. The conversation was cordial, she told Noreen. Bilicki went on and on, outlining his philosophy; he told her his aim was "empowerment" for students and parents in the community.
     All in all she was convinced he was a decent man; she could see how his motives could be misconstrued, how determined he was at all costs to do the right thing. Still, she'd said it before and she'd say it again: though his heart was probably in the right place, in her heart of hearts – and given what she had heard about the D'Arizon affair – she could not give him her vote.
     The issue spurred rancorous debate in the teachers' cafeteria, dividing the faculty. Bilicki won considerable support from the Math department but lost the election. The tensions generated by the issue and the elections left a sour atmosphere that hung about right to the end of the school year.
     On the very last day before everyone took off for vacation the principal held back distribution of summer checks until every department had reported the satisfactory completion of grades and paperwork. It was an emotionally soggy day. Teachers milled around the hallways, the cafeteria; some had afternoon flights to catch out of the city; everyone felt exhausted and irritable: swearing that for the next eight weeks they wanted nothing to do with the Bronx, nor their mean-spirited principal and his fucking school; and the hopeless students they'd tried to educate all year.
                               (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

NY SLIDE XLII: EVERYBODY LOVED MR. BILICKI

 

     You couldn't ask for a more committed teacher at John Wayne Cotter H.S. than
Brendan Bilicki (English) even if he didn't live in the Bronx. He hardly missed a day; he was
rarely if ever late. On the other hand he had a reputation for storming out of department
meetings or faculty meetings, declaring his dissatisfaction with some point of procedure.
    Bilicki had already done nineteen years in the system; he had secured tenure; he was
respected and reviled as a curmudgeon.
    Primary among the targets of his loathing were the supervisors, the oldsters in jackets
and ties who ran the school; he called them "the good ole boys" and he joked often that they sat in the principal's office "drinking whiskey and rye", formulating procedures that
so far had failed to turn the school around. He had it in for his assistant principal, Pete
Plimpler, whom he considered a perfect example of what was wrong with the running of
the school.
     In the morning, he'd observed, Pete Plimpler was viperish until he'd had his cup of
coffee. No point running to him with problems at the start of the day. You'd find only a
cranky old man sitting at his desk, watching his coffee maker bubble, while his radio
played low-volume classical music in the background.
    Pete Plimpler was also part of the white establishment which refused to embrace the
need to revise the curricula in the light of demographic shifts in the city. Bilicki, who was
white but always at pains to remind everyone of his Irish-Jewish roots, became
contentious at department meetings, pointing to the outdated reading lists, the books assigned to students over the years, many of which ended up lost or unreturned or "found" later on the lawns outside, wet and unusable.  
    And why were there no African-American authors, no Hispanic authors on the lists?
"Wake up and smell the coffee," he'd shout at Pete Plimpler, who sighed, wearied but unbowed, and tried to move the meeting on to the next item on the agenda.
   (Later in a deft move, and in deference to the general mood of unhappiness in the
department, Pete Plimpler offered the electives program to Bilicki; this pacified him for
awhile. He introduced his seniors to James Baldwin and Gabriel Garcia Marquez; and he
vigorously suggested that money be set aside to order at least one class set of Chinua
Achebe's "Things Fall Apart".)
    Mr. Bilicki was loved by his graduating seniors. He was the only teacher who greeted
students with a chaste kiss on both cheeks. Some of them had had Mr. Bilicki in their
junior year when they read "Streetcar Named Desire" so they signed up for his elective.
    Pass any room where his class was in session, you couldn't fail to notice a pony-tailed
teacher like an aging rocker in blue jeans sitting on his desk, the class leaning forward
in rapt attention. They liked the the "free form" tempo of his classes ("free form", a
phrase from the 60s took on fresh meaning for his students); they listened enthralled
to accounts of his college days, to his casual confession one day that he'd smoked
marijuana. ("You did drugs, Mr. Bilicki?" the class gasped.)
     When he revealed, looking out the window and stroking his beard, that he'd married
too young, that he had a teenage daughter and was divorced from his wife, they shook
their heads in shock and disbelief.
     They wanted detail, postmarital insights. Mr. Bilicki waved the matter aside. He
explained that he and his wife were very good friends. Which prompted someone in the
class to declare, "Marriage sucks."
             (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)



   


NY SLIDE XLI: MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY

 

   "I've been drafted into hall patrol," Radix told her.
  "Drafted? What do you mean, drafted?"
  "Actually they were asking for volunteers to patrol the hallways, you know, during
periods when we're not teaching."
   Mrs. Haliburton was suddenly fierce-lipped and silent. Radix reined in his fervour. He
thought she might be impressed with his readiness to help in the running of the school.
   "See, this is when you realize the administration is running out of ideas."
   "I don't follow you."
   "You're going to be walking around…with clipboard and handcuffs…taking down
names like you're arresting people…what does that say to these kids?"
  "Yes, but, we're trying to get them back in the classrooms."
  "Which is where the problem is in the first case. Maybe we should ask ourselves, why
are they wandering the hallways? What's driving them outside the classroom where they
should be in the first case? Hall patrols!"
   "Well, I'm new here, still feeling my way around," Radix said half-apologetically.
   "You strike me as a man without a country," Mrs. Haliburton said, looking directly
in his eyes. 
  Coming out of nowhere the remark jolted Radix. He fidgeted and glanced at his
watch.
   And Mrs. Haliburton, sensing she had touched a nerve, leaned back and said:
   "Now there's a problem for you. We have people coming to these shores, some of them
from faraway places. We have a Russian, did you know that?…from Russia…and this teacher in the Math department, from India, they say he was a university professor back
in India. Well, honey, he's having a hard time here. I have kids come to me complaining
they don't understand a word he says. He speaks this strange English. Put him in a
classroom with kids from the Bronx, what kind of learning environment are we talking
about?"
   She held her chin up and she stared at Radix as if her insights were unassailable.
   The bell rang; a swelling roar spread through the building as the hallways filled up. Radix sprang to his feet, uneasy but relieved. Mrs. Haliburton smiled and said she was pleased
to have met him; conversation with him was quite stimulating; her door was always
open; he could drop by any time.
                                           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)