moms. I suppose to be picking her up later for a movie lime.
And yet she standing there waiting on the corner like she frigging selling. Only she dressed up like I ain never seen her. She ain wearing makeup and her hair tie up in scarf. Arms bare and clean for everyone to see. And she ain in a tight pants that makes her ass look juicy. She in a dress down to her ankles, the kinda thing my moms wears around the house. I want to get out and scream to her that she look like a sweetheart, because really she does. I want to hear her mampie laugh. But I don’t move. I wait. Like I’m waiting for a hit. Like I’m doing those things we don’t talk about. An old Volvo drive up. She walk around and get in. I turn away when the car drive by.
I know how to tail a car. I know how to hold back. How to cut into a gas station and let them get way ahead. I know how to take a parallel street and keep an eye on them at the crossroads. I track the Volvo way to the next side of town. I park in the small lot, because we already here. If she see me now it don’t matter. Let she see me.
The spot is a Rasta restaurant. Ital smelling up the place. Making me wish I had bring a beer or eat some meat before I come. I never sell in this part of the island. These cats grow their own ganja. They say it religious and the cops leave them alone. I think that’s bullshit. So, if I just grow some locks then I’d be legit? I don’t want weed to be legal, anyhow. Then the feds would control it and the profits wouldn’t be made on the streets. You don’t change a good thing, you keep it so.
It’s a small place but I squeeze in the back. I order a sea moss. I ain had one of these local drinks in years. I don’t use the straw because that look punky. I sip it from the cup itself. Sea moss does strengthen the back, they say. I don’t mind the extra boost because Yolanda does keep me spent.
I drinking down all the nutmeg and coconut as I stare at the back of Yolanda’s head. I know my girl, she sitting way in the front there like she must do in school. The restaurant has a stage with a mic and even this announcer guy who’s telling crap jokes and singing. A dread is up there now scatting like a fool. There’s a pickup band that keeps repeating that it will do backup for anyone who want.
They introduce her as Landi. And I cringe cause I never know she go by this name. I always tell her I think her whole name is sexy. She say she love to hear me say it. “Yo-lan-da.” And I say it for as many times as she want. She say that it’s a symbol that I love all of her, but now I don’t know. The crap announcer take her hand to help her onto the stage, even though I can see she don’t need no help.
The guy next to me point his chin and say something bullshit like “Is she I come for.” When I just watch him hard he suck his teeth and say “Wait and see” then turn away to sip his energy drink from a tiny can. As soon as Yolanda up there she holding the mic like it my dick or something and she whispering into it and shouting into it and everybody pumping up their fists. She controlling the backup band just by moving her wrist or nodding her head, like they know her body and her ways. There’s a spotlight on her and I wondering if she can see me. I the only dude in the place with a ball cap on; without dreads or a nappy fro.
Then I realize that Yolanda ain wearing my hand chain. Maybe she lost it. Maybe it slipped off somewhere outside. Maybe it home safe in her drawer. I leave my sea moss. I thinking I just going check the small parking lot and see if the hand chain dropped out there. I get into Fish’s car and turn it on so I have a light. But then I don’t look for the hand chain at all. I press the clutch and the gas. I driving away. And I hear Yolanda’s voice in the mic, screaming something messed up like: “Change, nigger, change.”
THE SAVING WORK
1.
A church is burning down. On a Caribbean island, in the countryside, up a road
And yet she standing there waiting on the corner like she frigging selling. Only she dressed up like I ain never seen her. She ain wearing makeup and her hair tie up in scarf. Arms bare and clean for everyone to see. And she ain in a tight pants that makes her ass look juicy. She in a dress down to her ankles, the kinda thing my moms wears around the house. I want to get out and scream to her that she look like a sweetheart, because really she does. I want to hear her mampie laugh. But I don’t move. I wait. Like I’m waiting for a hit. Like I’m doing those things we don’t talk about. An old Volvo drive up. She walk around and get in. I turn away when the car drive by.
I know how to tail a car. I know how to hold back. How to cut into a gas station and let them get way ahead. I know how to take a parallel street and keep an eye on them at the crossroads. I track the Volvo way to the next side of town. I park in the small lot, because we already here. If she see me now it don’t matter. Let she see me.
The spot is a Rasta restaurant. Ital smelling up the place. Making me wish I had bring a beer or eat some meat before I come. I never sell in this part of the island. These cats grow their own ganja. They say it religious and the cops leave them alone. I think that’s bullshit. So, if I just grow some locks then I’d be legit? I don’t want weed to be legal, anyhow. Then the feds would control it and the profits wouldn’t be made on the streets. You don’t change a good thing, you keep it so.
It’s a small place but I squeeze in the back. I order a sea moss. I ain had one of these local drinks in years. I don’t use the straw because that look punky. I sip it from the cup itself. Sea moss does strengthen the back, they say. I don’t mind the extra boost because Yolanda does keep me spent.
I drinking down all the nutmeg and coconut as I stare at the back of Yolanda’s head. I know my girl, she sitting way in the front there like she must do in school. The restaurant has a stage with a mic and even this announcer guy who’s telling crap jokes and singing. A dread is up there now scatting like a fool. There’s a pickup band that keeps repeating that it will do backup for anyone who want.
They introduce her as Landi. And I cringe cause I never know she go by this name. I always tell her I think her whole name is sexy. She say she love to hear me say it. “Yo-lan-da.” And I say it for as many times as she want. She say that it’s a symbol that I love all of her, but now I don’t know. The crap announcer take her hand to help her onto the stage, even though I can see she don’t need no help.
The guy next to me point his chin and say something bullshit like “Is she I come for.” When I just watch him hard he suck his teeth and say “Wait and see” then turn away to sip his energy drink from a tiny can. As soon as Yolanda up there she holding the mic like it my dick or something and she whispering into it and shouting into it and everybody pumping up their fists. She controlling the backup band just by moving her wrist or nodding her head, like they know her body and her ways. There’s a spotlight on her and I wondering if she can see me. I the only dude in the place with a ball cap on; without dreads or a nappy fro.
Then I realize that Yolanda ain wearing my hand chain. Maybe she lost it. Maybe it slipped off somewhere outside. Maybe it home safe in her drawer. I leave my sea moss. I thinking I just going check the small parking lot and see if the hand chain dropped out there. I get into Fish’s car and turn it on so I have a light. But then I don’t look for the hand chain at all. I press the clutch and the gas. I driving away. And I hear Yolanda’s voice in the mic, screaming something messed up like: “Change, nigger, change.”
THE SAVING WORK
1.
A church is burning down. On a Caribbean island, in the countryside, up a road
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