90 Days of Violence

THEY ASKED Mouse only because he was there; not because they cared for his input. His answer was expected: “Woman? I don’t know nah boy.” He was the silent type who had, through his quietness, developed a reputation for being a misogynist. Four of the five men snickered at his response but, unbothered, he continued sucking voraciously on an orange. Patsy, his dog, lay comfortably at his feet. Ricky Lo, the Rastafarian, was critical of Mouse, “Boy, you is a real hen you know that? Always have something bad to say about woman when you do talk.” He took a long, hard pull on a marijuana joint and blew a heavy burst of exhaust in Mouse’s direction. “You understand!” Amrit piped in. He agreed with Ricky, and on the topic of women thought himself a specialist. The notepad below his mattress contained enough names to prove the point: from Alana to Zelda, all the way back to Abigail. Even Raj, his cousin, who fussed over a pot of bubbling dumplings, dismissed Mouse’s lack of enthusiasm with a grunt. With each turn of the big, blackened iron pot the scent of curried crab intoxicated the shed. “Boys, you have to respect women,” Lucky said perspicuously. He was closest to Raj, fixing himself a drink. Lucky was the eldest among the group, an old boy from Tunapuna. He continually boasted of high moral values, unaware of the sin of vanity. He was a great card player and had a golden tongue which often landed him in women’s beds – and in trouble with their men – so on his comment no one disagreed, except for his preference of black women, which only the Rastafarian endorsed. “Lucky, tell them what is the best kind of woman!” Ricky Lo exclaimed, jumping to his feet excitedly and upsetting the All Fours game. Amrit, his opponent, began arguing about the matchsticks which fell off the makeshift table. “Boy, how we will keep track of the points now? Look how you drop the match them!” He looked at his teammate for support, but Navin said nothing. “Relax yourself nah Indian!” Ricky exclaimed. Lucky staggered over to the table and, with some effort, sat on a bit of wood balanced dangerously on an overturned bucket. Ricky adjusted his dreadlocks and took a hard drag. The marijuana had burnt out. He flicked the funk at the iron bars which secured the structure. The cigarette didn’t make it through; Ricky cursed. Lucky, annoyed at Ricky’s language, placed his drink on the edge of the table while a mumbling Amrit shared matchsticks to and fro until his opponents had eleven points and he had seven. He cursed. He took his game seriously, but Lucky was a brilliant card player, a poor gambler, but a wizard with the deck. Involve money and he was certain to lose. “Buddies,” Lucky said, bobbing his head, “let me tell you something. The sweetest woman it have is the African woman, the darkie.” He spoke from the corner of his mouth, stretching the last word in the sentence, as he always did. He was from the era of Lancaster movies and had long mastered The Grin. He was a peculiar man whose full name was unknown to most. Ricky folded his fist and gave Lucky a bounce, but Amrit disagreed adamantly, “Nah boy. Spanish is the best!” Placing his cards on the table he shaped an hourglass, the universal outline for sexy women. “They have it here, and here.” He motioned towards his buttocks, then cupped his hands like a pair of breasts, all in synch with his description. “Raj, you could speak Spanish ent?” The question was irrelevant, but Raj answered positively. He had a contribution of his own: ”Boys, I feel is Indian yes. Them nice smallies, them is the best!” He left the pot and walked over. He viewed each player’s cards and whistled when he saw Ricky’s hand. Instantly, Navin knew his jack of hearts (trump) was hung. With three days – as points are called in All Fours – for claiming the card, the opponents would win, having a total of fourteen. He wouldn’t wink (the signal for jack) at Amrit though. Of the six cards the game had started with, two remained and his teammate would wish to cheat; he was always quick to. Navin, on the other hand, was indifferent due to the lifeless nature of the game; he played only to accommodate the need for a fourth person. “No dread!” Ricky said, as Raj walked back to inspect the food. “Spanish and Indian? Them does wear too much makeup on they face, man. I doh like that at-all-at-all. Look at Isabel. She does have more foundation plastered to she face than a house.” Navin looked up at the mention of The Boss’ woman, but said nothing. “A little white thing now and then is alright,” Ricky continued. “They not that bad. Them does be more natural. They does be mount up nice too!” He played a king of hearts on Navin’s ten and secured the lift on a pile gathered at his feet. Navin waited impatiently, not experiencing the spicy tension an avid player would. Ricky played an Ace, the highest card in All Fours. Amrit groaned when his teammate casually threw in the jack. Had his partner been someone else, he would have cursed. Ricky jumped to his feet and gave Lucky another bounce, “I hang a man jack, boy!” He slapped the cards to the table which toppled over. Lucky was smoking a cigarette, with the entire palm of his hand wrapped around his face, the cancer-stick low between his fore and middle finger. He smiled, showing Amrit brownish-yellowish teeth. “I see that coming,” Raj laughed. “You could of tell me he had jack,” Amrit said, annoyed at the cook. Lucky, who was about to touch a strong drink to his lips, paused. “How the ass he go tell you that? That is cheating!” Ricky flicked his dreadlocks behind his shoulder. Something bothered him. “Talking about Isabel,” he said, in a low whisper, “Them breasts… they real or that is implants?” Amrit scoffed. He knew the answer, but said nothing. Later, when Navin wasn’t around, he would tell Ricky. Navin was about to speak, but Lucky interjected: “Buddy, don’t talk about The Boss woman like that…” “Fellas, food ready!” Raj announced. He sat next to Mouse who was adding orange skin to a neat pile and playing with Patsy, the stray dog he had adopted. Raj’s plate sizzled with curry-flavoured steam. He had no intention of dishing food. He said so. No one moved to the pot and the cook cursed. He began eating with his hands; the food lacked some flavour. It missing something, boy, he thought, hoping the others wouldn’t notice. Navin was weary of cards. He stood and left. Amrit said something but no one responded. Lucky pointed his cigarette at Ricky. “Buddy, minus the comment on The Boss’ woman, what you say is true. Nowadays they so fake you can’t tell who is Indian or who is African. Who hair straight, they curlying it, who hair curly they ironing it. Not only they looking different they moving real left. You not getting any woman to cook and clean for you. Why you feel I is a bachelor all these years? I is a one-shot man. I not greedy. I don’t want to get tie up with any woman.” Amrit laughed. “You like to play bachelor eh old man?” Raj hoped the conversation wouldn’t swing to him. He was newlywed – two years must be? – and had just played chef. Tonight, he was lucky. No one said a word, but Mouse looked at him with small, twinkling eyes. A brooding Ricky stood and walked to the pot. He dished out. A delinquent vegetarian, he took some of the curried sauce and five large dumplings which he thought were heavy enough to sink a small boat. He reclaimed his seat on an overturned bucket. He dug in, chewed for a while and, still concentrating on the plate, said: “Good food boy Raj, but the curry could have do with a little more salt.” A few bites later: “But it have real pepper!” Ricky sucked air into his mouth in an attempt to cool his sizzling tongue. It didn’t work; it was milk he needed. Salt! That is it! Raj agreed. It had been hard to detect, eating with hands that had been pinching the ingredient. “It have in the white bag by the pot there. Take if you want nah.” Amrit, although not hungry, helped himself to a small se