Lucifer

Another excerpt from my book "David and I"

Lucifer

by Delroy "Nesta" Williams

            “What is the capital of Jamaica?’ I thought to myself. I knew the answer; it was either Kingston or Kingstown. I always mixed up these two but it wasn’t the time to be unsure. I needed that answer to get an A on my final exam. I had already calculated my score in my head. My mother had promised me a trip to Roseau during the summer if I had gotten all A’s. I couldn’t wait to run along the city streets and go to the market with her. I had never been to Roseau, I heard a lot of things about it though, my mother would go there ever so often and always returned with lots of groceries and fine things.

I had imagined Roseau as a very big city, with very tall buildings, wide streets not like the wooden houses and dirt roads of Gros Michel, far from that too. There was no way the capital could be anything like my village. Besides with street names like King George V Street and Great George Street, I couldn’t help but think that Roseau was a majestic city full of business men driving their fancy cars, looking really important in their suits and ties. At least that’s what I read in books about the cities of Europe, I would expect the same of Roseau.

            “Delroy, Delroy... what’s de answer for 12 an 15?” whispered someone behind me, disturbing my thoughts.

            “I doh know ner,” I responded without even turning around for fear that Teacher Roach would see me. She heard and saw everything; I was scared to death of that lady. She was so stern and meticulous, nothing escaped her.

            “Tell me ner before Teacher come back in de class”

            “No boy, I fraid,” I continued.

            “Boy jus say de ting quick before she come back, hurry ner,”

            “No boy, I cyah do that.”

            “Hear de man, boy I doh want to fail that test ner, I doh want to repeat mamzelle class,”

At that very moment, a cold breeze filled the room, everything got quiet and even the mosquitoes that were buzzing around my arms and legs seemed to stand still. The hands on the old class clock, which only worked during exams, seemed to stop too.

            “Delroy and Dwight, what have I said about talking during tests?” Teacher Roach asked sternly.

I stayed quiet; I wasn’t going to utter a word, not me, never.

            “Delroy! Dwight! Who is going to answer me?”

            “I cyah remember ner Teacher,” Dwight responded defiantly.

            “You cyah remember ner Teacher?” she responded mockingly, “We will see who remembers when I take out Lucifer from the cupboard.”

Lucifer was a giant rod that was kept locked up in the class cupboard and only used for “special” occasions. I had overhead the other teachers referring to it as the rod of correction. Teacher Roach used it to perfection, scaring the life out of all its victims. I had only received two strokes from Lucifer before and I didn’t want anymore. I had trouble sitting down on my chair for weeks after that.

            “Who remembers what I have said about talking during tests?’ Teacher Roach asked the class.

            “Teacher, you say we shouldn’t talk with anybody or cheat,” responded Mary. I hated Mary, she was always quick to respond and yearned to be the teacher’s favourite. To say she annoyed me and the class was the biggest understatement.

            “And who can tell me what Delroy and Dwight were doing?”

            “Miss they were talking,” Mary responded again without any hesitation.

            “Is that against the rules?”

            “Yes Teacher,” the class all responded in complete unison.

            “What do we do to students who break the rules?”

            “We show them to Lucifer!” Michael, a boy in the back row shouted out.

            “How many strokes do you recommend Mary?”

            “Me, Teacher,” she quirked, “I would give them five each,” she continued with a huge grin.

            “Delroy, take the keys from the desk and take Lucifer from the cupboard.”

            “No Teacher, no,” I cried out, “it wasn’t my fault.”

            “So whose fault was it?”

At that point I looked over to Dwight and I could see the anger building up inside him. I was caught between a rock and a hard place, but I could always escape Dwight; Lucifer on the other hand was a sure thing.

            “So whose fault was it Delroy?” Teacher Roach asked again.

            “Teacher, Dwight that ask me for answers to questions 12 and 15,”

            “Dwight is that true?”

Dwight didn’t budge, he didn’t say a word but I could tell that if he could have killed me at that time that he would have done it so swiftly that not even the hand of God could have prevented my death. The vein in the middle of his forehead was about ready to pop open; the blood would have splashed all over the walls of the classroom.  

            “Delroy, get me the rod, now!

            “Yes Miss,”

As I returned to my seat I put my head on my desk. I had just sent Dwight to the slaughterhouse but the sad thing is that he would survive and revenge would be his own. Dwight didn’t utter a sound during his five strokes; he was too busy thinking about how he would pay me back for the treachery.

We still had two more exams to complete before the end of the day. I could be sure he or his friends wouldn’t attack me before the bell had rung. I was quickly devising an escape strategy. I needed a plan since my house was on the other side of the village and I had to cross the guava field and pass directly in front of Dwight’s house before reaching Lime Street.

A gift for Junie

by Delroy Nesta Williams

Mr. Lazare kept inviting me over to his house; it had become our weekly ritual. At first, he would simply give me a few chores to do and give me a wage but recently we talked a lot more. He told me about his pursuits in England, how he fought in World War II, worked in a train station and married a beautiful “English Rose” before returning to Dominica in 1975 because he could no longer bear the cold weather.

“I came back to Gros Michel to live out my last days,” he often said. “There was no reason for me to stay in England anymore.” I later found out that his wife had passed away after a horrific car accident a few years before he came back to Dominica and the “rum assisted in his grieving,” as he often put it.

There was a lot more to Mr. Lazare than I had ever imagined, he had become more than just a neighbour to me now. We would often read books together and he even allowed me to play his recorder. But it was his stories of the war, England and his advice that I respected most. I could almost imagine myself besides him in pursuit of the Nazis or taking cover when his camp was being bombarded with enemy fire. He even showed me a bullet wound, in his right shoulder. The bullet had damaged the tendons and muscles in his should which made it almost impossible for him to carry any load. He made the war sound horrific but still very exciting.

He had lied about his age so that he could have gotten recruited, having ended up in England without a birth paper or any documents.

I also remembered him telling me how he won the love of Mrs. Lazare, when he was in the mood to talk. He told me how he would spend hours at the train station just waiting for her to pass by for a few seconds. He would wait at the Southampton Central Railway at precisely 3:00 p.m. every day when he knew she would make an appearance, albeit for a few minutes before the train came and whisked her away.

He would put his pipe in his mouth, draw in some tobacco, take a sip of his drink and commence a dramatic description of her school days and how she looked so smartly dressed in her uniform.

“Young man,” he would say, “she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and I still haven’t seen anyone as beautiful as her in my eighty five years of existence.” He was much younger than that though, as I found out later. He wasn’t one to share his actual age.

“She was a lot younger than me but that didn’t matter at all, I just loved how she looked so positive, so royal in her uniform. It’s almost like she expected the world to lay down a red carpet for her, but not in an obnoxious way, she walked with the grace of the Queen of England herself, but was still very polite.”

“Once, I had deliberately bumped into her and even before I could offer an apology, she was already requesting my forgiveness. She then smiled at me while leaving, I was more in love with her after that,” he continued.

Today, I had my own issues of the heart though and maybe it showed a lot more than I had imagined. But then again, Mr. Lazare could always read my mind.

“Young man, what’s wrong? You seem so distant” he asked.

“Nothing ner,” I replied.

“We speak the Queen’s English in this house,” he remarked, “and I can tell that you’re lying. Talk to me, son.”

I could tell that he was sober, that was the only time he stressed on the proper use of English. He could care less when he was under the influence.

“It’s a girl,” I said softly.

“I can tell, it could only be a girl.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s written all over your face, L-O-V-E: love,” he said pointing to my forehead, “you’re glowing like a firefly on a dark night. But I still see trouble in your eyes.”

“It’s my girlfriend; her birthday is coming up soon.”

“Girlfriend,” he said surprisingly, “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” I confidently replied.

“Oh, that’s the same age that I had my first girlfriend and my first kiss too,” Mr. Lazare said as he gazed away, “I was still in Dominica back then. So what’s the problem?”

“Well………..” I mumbled.

“If you want my help then you need to speak up.”

“I want to get her a gift but I don’t have any money and I still don’t know what she would like.”

“Then you do have a problem!”

“Yes sir.”

“So when was she born?

“June 17”

“And do you know what her birthstone is?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t they teach anything in school these days?” he remarked, “A birthstone is a precious gemstone that symbolizes the birth month of someone in the Gregorian calendar. It is usually associated with character.”

“Gregor what?

“Gregorian Calendar,” he said distinctly, “it is the calendar that we use today, January to December; it wasn’t always the calendar”

“It wasn’t?”

“No boy, no, it was introduced by Pope Gregory long ago but that’s a different story. If she was born in June then her birthstone would be the same as my wife, she was born in June too.”

“Okay.”

“Wait here, I have something that you can give to her.”

I could hear Mr. Lazare rummaging through his room; the chest of drawers I imagined. I had never been inside his room, it was his private sanctuary. Things were been shifted, falling on the wooden floor.

“What could it be?” I wondered, “Did it have to do with the birthstone?

Mr. Lazare spent about ten more minutes before he reappeared, sweat all over his forehead.

“May I have a glass of water?” he politely asked. He looked liked he would drop down dead any moment if I wasn’t quick enough.  

“What was he doing in there?” I thought to myself, “he looks like he just revisited World War II.” The only difference is he had no war apparel, no rifle and he had a big grin from ear to ear.

“What’s with the smile?

“I found it”

“What?” I asked eager to find out.

“Before I hand it over to you, you have to promise me that you will do it justice, give it to this Junie girl only if you truly love her. I gave it to my wife for her birthday over twenty years ago,” He said as his voices continued to break up, “I’m passing it on to you because I don’t have much time left here and I can see you truly like this girl. I can see the same passion I had when I first met my wife in you.”

“Thank you, I promise but what is it?” I asked reluctantly, not wanting to anger him with my impatience.

“I’m getting to that, don’t rush me.” I could see it was hard for him. “This is a necklace, touched with Alexandrite. I got the stone from a villager in Russia when I was fighting the war. I had it formed into a necklace in England for my wife’s birthday. I think she would want me to pass it on to someone I trust. She would approve.”

“Thank you but may I ask you a question?”

“Yes, you may.”

“What exactly is Alexandrite?” I asked reluctantly, “Is it the birthstone?”

“Oh yes, it is. But there’s more to it than just that.”

“More?”

“Yes, put on the light bulb,” he said, “and see the magic as it happens.” To my amazement the rock changed colour from green to red.

“Oh, I see, now I’m sure Junie will like that.” Mr. Lazare just smiled and sat down.

“Something’s wrong?” I asked

“No, no, I’m just tired but you remind me so much of myself when I was a young boy”

“Me?”

“Yes, boy, you… I am sure you will make a fine young man one day, your mother will be proud.” And with that Mr. Lazare leaned back into his rocking chair, put his pipe into his mouth and picked up a book.

“What are you reading?’ I asked.

“Oh it’s nothing, just some Shakespeare.”

“Oh I know Shakespeare,” I replied proudly, “we study him in Literature classes, but he writes funny. I never understand him”

“Maybe you should read it funny then,” Mr. Lazare said as he gave a wry grin and continued reading. I could tell he no longer wanted to be disturbed so I moved to the shelf and picked up a book too.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking a book; I want to read Shakespeare too.”

“Okay, well read then.”

I didn’t really want to read, I was just looking for a comment or two from him but he was so enthralled in his reading that he wouldn’t budge from his rocking chair even if I had caught the house on fire. After pretending to read for about ten minutes, I decided to leave, it was getting late and I didn’t want my mother screaming her guts out at me again; I had heard enough of that to last me a lifetime. I picked up the necklace; it felt so cool in between my fingers, like it was being stored in a refrigerator. The gemstones kept changing colours.

“Junie going an love me for that wii,” I thought to myself. Mr. Lazare made my day, my month, and my teenage years. I would always be a part of her life now; she would remember that moment all her life. It was going to be perfect; she would tell it to her children and her children’s children. I was going to be a part of her history, forever etched in her memory. But almost on cue, I was brought back to earth by Mr. Lazare.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself young man; it’s only a gift,” he said, “but it’s still a special gesture.”

“I know, I know,” I replied, while not trying to give away the excitement bubbling within my stomach.

Mr. Lazare was too smart for that though; he saw clearly what was going on. I was getting ahead of myself but he wanted me to be humble and modest about the gift.

“I have to head home now, it’s getting late,”

“I know, just lock the gate when you are out the yard,” he joked. I had to give a soft laugh because the gate didn’t keep anyone out; half of the fence was missing. I don’t think he worried too much about the villagers entering his yard or his house. It looked dilapidated from the street. The residents of Gros Michel had no idea of the treasures that he possessed within those rundown walls. 

2nd place - not that bad

I keep surprising myself everytime I take a chance with my writing. Firstly, my book has been a huge personal success and i'm not judging based on sales but solely on the positive feedback that I have gotten from the people who have read One Room Shack. Now I find myself getting some awesome news on my way home today.

My aunt told me that she heard my name on the midday news. It's not a big deal to me as I am always in the news but lately I have been quiet, not really in the spotlight as before. She continued to tell me that I had won 2nd place in the short story competition. To be honest, I had even forgotten that I entered the competition. I did so without any thoughts of winning - expecting more seasoned writers to come away with the top prize - but secretly I wanted to win.

Well I didn't really win but I am still happy with what I have managed to accomplish, 2nd place isn't that bad and to think it was my very first submission in the short story competition, my very first short story too.

So here is the short story: Hair On My Chest - it was already available on my blog and I had gotten some positive feedback about it, hope that you enjoy reading it and as always, I would like some constructive criticisms if available.

Thanks again and do enjoy.

Nesta

N.B. the short story is actually an excerpt from my first novel, David and I, soon to be published... I hope

Chapter 1: Cricket in the Streets

Cricket in the streets

by

Delroy Nesta Williams

One of my most vivid memories as a young boy growing up in Gros Michel was playing on The Oval. The Oval was what we referred to a small, paved section of Lime Street where we all gathered to play games. We named it the Oval after hearing of cricket stadiums in Trinidad and Barbados called the Oval too. Dominica didn’t have its own stadium so we decided to create our own in Gros Michel; our own “Lime Street Oval.”

Whether football or cricket, the competition was always intense and even more so if we happened to be blessed by the unexpected but welcomed rain shower. A downpour always seemed to take away all thoughts of tiredness and rejuvenate us. We could go on for hours at a time, as long as we were soaked (drenched) by the blessings of the sky.

I remember getting up very early on Saturday mornings, eating breakfast and then rushing out the door to join my friends to play a game of football or cricket. Another blessing about being a boy at that time, chores were tasks for the girls and we were left to roam freely, just as long as no one reported us for fighting or stealing. These were two cardinal sins at my home.

That Saturday was no different; we had been playing for hours. It started out as a game of football then changed suddenly to an intense game of cricket. Out came the “kaka” rubber balls, bats made from the coconut branches, cardboard sheets as makeshift pads and glory cider branches for stumps.

I always enjoyed batting, never liked to be in the fielding team. Today my batting was on point, I hit cricket stroke after cricket stroke, and the ball seemed to like my bat. I was driving the ball like Sir Gary Sobers, with the occasional exquisite cut and sweep. I felt good and none of the bowlers came close to getting me out. I had only made one bad shot, I lofted a ball towards mid off but Maggie was fielding there, he couldn’t catch a cold even if it was flu season. The ball hit the palm of his hand and scooped out; he almost grabbed it a second time. He really had butter fingers. I could see the disappointment on the faces of his teammates.

I had lost count of my personal score but I was sure I was somewhere in the forties. 50 runs was a significant score for us, the team would have had to buy me sticky tablet from Ma Boyd’s shop for a whole week. I could already imagine licking off the black caramel from my finger tips. Ma Boyd sold everything from alcohol to sweets and we always went there for sticky tablet after the game. It was that or coconut cheese.

“Stop, Stop, I wanna play,” someone screamed from behind me.

“I knew that voice,” I thought as I turned around.

It was Shane. He was the best bowler in the village. He was so tall and strong; he could throw that ball from a mile away and still bowl you out. He was a sure pick for the national team in a few years. I often overheard the old men saying he could make the West Indies team. No one from the small islands was on the team, something about the selectors always favouring the big island boys. But everybody in our village was sure Shane would be the first to wear maroon. He would make us all proud; Gros Michel’s finest.

“I want to play,” Shane shouted as he sprinted towards the wicket area.

“No, no,” I responded. “We done start wi.”

“Why?”

“Because we done start to play and you cyah join.”

“Just throw a coin, heads or tails and I go join any of de teams.’

“No, we start already and dat not not fair.”

“Anybody have a coin?” he asked, with total disregard for me. We never agreed on anything, he always got his way though; he would bully everyone if he didn’t.

“I doh want you on my team!”

“Okay, I will jus play for de other team ner,” he responded as he grabbed the ball from the bowler’s hand.

“You cyah bowl, you just come wii,”

“So? I want to bowl you cause I know you fraid me.”

“I fraid you? Boy doh make me laff,”

“Well let me bowl den if you not fraid,”

“Okay bowl den!” I responded. He had a way of getting us to do exactly as he pleased.

Now Shane walked back to the bowling mark. He stormed in to bowl but I had a plan. As soon as he approached the crease I walked away from the wicket.

“Bat, boy bat! you fraid man?” Dwight, the wicketkeeper, screamed out from behind the wicket.

“Fraid who? Fraid Shane? Joke dat ner boy, a fly was in my eye.” The truth is I was shaking all over; I couldn’t even grip the bat properly because my palms were so sweaty. I didn’t know what to expect from him. He went back to his bowling mark, only to storm back towards me again. This time I could see the anger in his eyes, he looked like he wanted to just rip my stumps from the ground and break them in half.

I could see a river of sweat flowing down his face, right between his cock eyes. I was always troubled by them, I never knew in which direction he was watching and that made him even more difficult to read as a bowler. Cockeyed and bowlegged, he wasn’t the prettiest of sites as he ran in to bowl but he scared the hell out of me. For some reason he hated me and I guess I would have hated me too if I was always mocking my walk, talk and eyes. I could tell that he really wanted to “chikayay” my wicket. Again as he approached the bowling crease, I walked away from the wicket.

“If you doh bat, I will throw a beamer at you,” he screamed at me. I could see the frustration building up in him. He was panting heavily now, as he put a lot of effort into his delivery strides. I was tiring him, my plan was working, I hoped. I was still nervous though, my palms still sweaty and now Junie was watching the game.

She was my childhood crush, the love of my life, back then. The prettiest girl in the neighbourhood and she liked me, well I thought she liked me. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, I couldn’t and I would never forgive myself for that. I had to bat and I had to be brave too.

I would stay in the wicket this time and play a stroke. As soon as I turned my attention back to cricket, I remembered that I was facing Shane, but it was too late now, he was already delivering the ball. I couldn’t evade the bouncer, no time to dock or no room to leave the crease. Before I had a moment to blink, the ball had already struck my left shoulder.

“Ahhhhh!” I shouted out, “I wasn’t ready boy.”

“Your bat was down, you was ready.”

“Something was on my mind.”

“Something, someone or Junie?” Dwight shouted from behind the stumps.

“Shut up ner boy,” I sprayed as I rubbed my wound, it was already swollen.

“Just bat!”

“Just bowl when I’m ready.”

“Okay, you ready now?”

“Yes, now I ready for you wii” I said nervously, knowing that my big mouth had gotten me in more trouble, as always.

“I’m gonna york you, right on your toes, look out eh,” Shane grinned at me.

“I need my toes,” I thought.

Now I was the one who was perspiring with a river of sweat overflowing down my forehead, even into my eyes. Shane looked a blur as he approached me; I was having trouble breathing, concentrating on his delivery. I don’t even know what happened next, all I remember was the laughter of everyone and picking my bat from off the ground.

“Boy, play a stroke ner!”

“Bat boy, bat!”

The bat had been knocked from my grip. So powerful was the delivery that the ball found itself passed the boundary mark; the make belief boundary mark. I didn’t even have any time to realize what was going on but I wished that it would have been a single because I still had to face Shane. I decided the next ball would be do or die, I would swing with all my might.

Now I was ready, I wiped the sweat from my forehead, dried my palms and made sure that my grip was firm. My bat would not be knocked from my hands, not this time. Shane would not get the better of me, not this time, I was sure of it. It was my moment and I would not be deterred. I would not be intimidated, not by Shane.

“Let’s go, I ready now wii,” I shouted at him, “give me your best ball.”

He just grinned at me, as he stampeded towards the wicket. There was a glimmer in his eyes but I hoped that he had also seen the determination in mine too. He sprung into action, leaped into the air and I saw that bright red rubber ball heading straight towards me. It looked even bigger than the full moon of last week, there was no way I would miss it. I was about to hit him for six runs. I smiled, tightened my grip of the bat and swung as forcefully as I could. It was my best stroke; well that was what I had thought. I heard a crashing noise but nothing like I had expected. I heard shouts of jubilation, I saw Shane jumping in the air. I turned to watch my wicket, or what was left of it; broken pieces of wood, only one half-stump still in the dirt road. The others seemed to have disappeared, turned to dust. Something else was wrong, my hands were empty.

“Where de bat ner?” I asked, looking lost and bewildered.

“In Mad Lazare yard,” Shane shouted as he pointed in the direction of the broken down shack.

“How it end up dere ner?” I asked in disbelief.

“How you mean how it end up dere ner?”

“You doh know what you do den?”

“Awa, what happen?”

“De bat fly from your hand and end up in de man yard, you better get de bat eh,”

“Me, why me? Is not my bat ner!”

“You dat batting wii,”

“So?”

The debate was pointless; I had to retrieve the bat. That was one of our unwritten rules; whoever lost anything, ball or bat, had to retrieve it. It pained me when I realized what had happened, a blind stroke cost me my dignity that day. Broken wicket, lost bat was too much for my ego and now I had to venture into the unknown.

Hair on my chest...

For your input...

Chapter 4 from my upcoming book “David and I”

“Stop it, leave the person’s child alone,” Mr. Lazare shouted with all the strength he could muster up from his feeble, rum-drained body. I could smell the alcohol from across the street.

“Old man, check you seen eh,” one of the boys screamed out at him.

“Ten to one is murder but twelve to one and a half; with me being the half and an old man perched up by a cane the one, was equal to genocide,” I thought.

I started to prepare myself for the pain of kicks and punches to my face and body. The odds were clearly not in my favour as Mr. Lazare crept across the dirt road. Even the small gravel in the middle of the street seemed to knock him off his path.

“What chance we have ner?” I thought. “We need a miracle wii.”

“Leave the boy before I take my cane out and beat each and every one of you,” he shrieked.

I was sure he would topple over as he said that. How he managed to get across the street is still a blur to me. All I can remember is Dwight, the leader of the bunch, running away holding his head, and the bunch of lemmings chasing after him. He had collected a solid stroke of the cane, right in the centre of his back, the finishing touches from what was left over from Teacher Roach.

“Boy, how did you find yourself in another mess?” questioned Mr. Lazare, his slight English accent even more evident than before. I could now clearly see his eyes; hazel coloured beads encircled by white, yellow and a deep red. The red, bloody stare seemed to suggest that he had been thru so much, surely had a lot to say, a lot more to his life than the rum-drenched days that I had come to know him for.

“Answer me boy, before I report this to your mother,” he continued to yell.

“I report him to Teacher Roach for cheating on de exam,” I sheepishly replied.

“You did the right thing boy, but nobody likes a tattle tale. It’s a good thing I came along when I did because you would have ended up with a few broken bones.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Thank you, Sir?” he mocked at me, “boy get my bags, you have to earn my security services.”

“Where he get all dem groceries?” I thought. I had never seen him with anything else but bottles of rum. Those bags strained me for the thirty or so minutes that I carried them. Mr. Lazare walked as slow as a snail and he insisted that I walk at his pace.

“You don’t rush an old veteran” he would yell out if I happen to get five paces ahead of him.

Finally, we had gotten in front of his gate. I placed the bags down and started to jet across the street to my home

“And where do you think you are running off to, young man?

“I going home; my moda waiting on me.”

“Nonsense, your job isn’t done until my bags are inside on the kitchen counter. As a matter of fact, you need to place them in the cupboard as well.”

Suddenly I had wished for the broken bones from earlier. An instant feeling as I realized that I now had to venture inside the rat infested sty that I had imagined Mr. Lazare’s house to be.

“Why me ner?” I thought as I tiptoed my way through the gates and stopped at the front door.

“Just push the door, it isn’t locked.”

“Me?” I questioned.

“Who else could I be speaking to? We are the only ones here.”

“Dat I afraid of wii,” I whispered under my breath.

The door creaked open and I got blinded by the light, well actually by the shimmering items all over the cabinet, table, and chairs. There was no place to move, it was like manoeuvring through the crowd at Carnival. I surely didn’t want to break anything, I didn’t want the wrath of Mr. Lazare to come down on me. I barely had a chance to survey the entire living room, with so much to look at, before I heard him behind me.

“Young man, the kitchen is that way,” he said pointing the way.

“Yes,” I replied.

Yes? Yes? Is that how your mother taught you to speak with an elder statesman like myself?” he scolded.

“Yes, Sir,” I quickly replied not wanting to anger him any further. “What is a elder statesman?

“You will find out one day, when I am ready to tell you,” he assured me.

His drunken assertiveness surprised me; I almost thought that he was pretending to be under the influence, maybe just to observe me closely. I finally made my way to the kitchen, squeezed in his groceries in what were already filled cupboards. You would have never imagined the fancy foods that I found in there, things that I had never eaten or even seen or couldn’t remember ever eating or seeing graced the shelves of his cupboards.

“My friends doh never going to believe me when I tell dem, never.” I thought as I finished up.

Almost on cue, like he had a surveillance camera hovering over me, Mr. Lazare called out to me.

“Young man, make haste… and please bring me the green bottle,”

“Yes sir,” I replied, as though practising my newly found love for courtesy.

Upon arriving into the living room, he motioned to me to get a glass in the cabinet.

“Not one, two, surely you would like a little refreshment after working so hard,” he laughed out.

I don’t know what was funny to him; that he got me to spend the past two hours with him or that I seemed to be exhausted and had no idea what was going to happen next. I still wonder if he had seen my frightened expression and only wanted to calm my fears.

“Sit down, it’s time that big men relax and have a drink after a long hard day at work” he chuckled.

I sat there as he wiped the glasses with this barely white cloth and filled the glasses. His glass was filled to the brim; mine just had enough to call it a sip.

“When you get to my age then you can fill your own glass,” he said laughingly as though he read my every thought.

“I wonder what your age be? Because you look like ninety five,” I thought.

He pushed the glass towards me as he breathed in the aroma from his own glass; a smile coming over his face showing how pleased he was.

“It’s been a while since I shared a bottle with anybody,” he said. “You’re not having your drink”

“I doh think my mother want me to drink rum”

“Nonsense, your mother would appreciate you stepping into manhood. The transition from boy to man is a delicate one, and it can only be helped with the right guidance. She would be thankful if she knew I was helping you along the right path,” he uttered as his English accent made a brief return.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Yes son, that’s the only thing I’m sure about, that and my age, I think” he laughed.

It did smell invitingly good; I could smell one of the herbs my mother used in her food.

“Dat must be good, Mr. Lazare doh have reason to lie,” I thought as I gulped down the mouthful that was in my glass.

“Ughh” I coughed up.

Slowly young man, slowly; leave the throw back for the grown men” he laughed.

“It burning my chest wii,” I squealed.

“It is suppose to burn the thirst time”

“Why you doh say dat before?”

“I can’t tell you everything about life, some things you have to experience and find out for yourself.”

I was sure he did that to me on purpose.

“Would you like some more, this time sip it slowly”

“No thanks ner, I going home now”

“Sit down and have a second, then you can go home, he shouted, grow some hair on my chest”

“Hair on my chest,” I said as I looked in my shirt.

“Yes, hair on your chest,” he confirmed as he poured me a second glass, this time a little more than the first.

“What I doing ner?” I wondered as I slowly sipped the second glass. It didn’t burn, just like he said; in fact, I liked it and I wanted more. I pushed my glass towards him.

“Can I have more? I need some more hair on my chest wii!” I laughed.

“Are you sure, young man?” he asked.

“YES SIR!” I confirmed with a firm slam to the table, which set the bottle and glasses jumping in the air.

“Careful now, young man, we don’t want to spill our drinks,” he laughed loudly.

“Our drinks,” I thought, “yes wii, our drinks.”

A lot of time had passed, in fact night was upon us now and I had to be getting home but I could barely move. My head was spinning, the ceiling seemed to be caving in on us, the tables and chairs seemed to be moving, I couldn’t stand up.

“I need to go home wii, Sir!” I said

“After you drank my entire bottle of rum, you just want to run off without as much as a thank you,” Mr. Lazare lashed back at me.

“Thank you, thank you sir,” I said embarrassed even in my drunken state.

“Get out, Get out,” he shouted. “Make sure the next time you bring your own damn bottle,” he shrieked.

I tripped and fell almost three times from his doorstep before I stumbled into my back door. My mother was in the kitchen.

“Delroy, where you come out at dis hour?” she said sternly.

“Mammie, I was by Mr.,” as I fell down.

“Mr. Who? Who dat Delroy, who? And wat is dat smell?”

“Lazare,” I said embarrassingly.

“You was drinking? You smell like a damn rum shop!”

“Yeeesssss, Mammie, jus a sip,” I murmured from my spot on the floor.

“A sip, jus a sip!!!” she shouted out.

By now all my brothers and sisters were standing in the kitchen door mumbling to each other, shocked at my drunken state.

“Joe, help your brother, put him on de bed, lemmie go and deal with Mr. Lazare, I go deal with Delroy when I come back,” she yelled as she stormed out of the kitchen door.

That was the last I remembered of that day. I wasn’t even sure if Joe had actually carried me to the bedroom. I woke up the next morning to find my face sunken in a pool of green, smelly vomit.

“Mammie my head hurting me wii, put off de lights,” I bawled, “my eyes hurting me.”

“Serve you right, get up from de damn bed,” my mother screamed at me.

“What I do ner? I questioned myself.

“You’re just lucky you fall asleep before I come back eh, you just lucky, Getting drunk with Mr. Lazare, you doh have good head boy? You better clean up de bed eh and wash de sheet before I knock you down this morning,’ my mother said still screaming out at me.

It all came back to me as soon as she finished. I remembered it all. I looked at my chest but there was no hair, not a strand.

“He lie to me wii, Mr. Lazare lie,” I thought.