DI TAXI RIDE AND OTHER STORIES
BY
BRENDA BARRETT
CONTENTS
Di Taxi Ride
The Intruders
The Wedding
To Keep Her Man
Moses and The Whale
The Job Hunt
The Next Door Neighbour
Love Letters From Yard
The Date
The Electrician
Aunt Bev's Return
The Haunting
Other Books By Brenda Barrett
Di Taxi Ride and Other Stories
By
Brenda Barrett
Published by Jamaica Treasures at Smashwords:
Copyright 2010 by Brenda Barrett
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Discover other titles by Brenda Barrett:
Private Sins (Three Rivers)
Loving Mr. Wright (Three Rivers)
Unholy Matrimony (Three Rivers )
If It Ain't Broke (Three Rivers)
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Di Taxi Ride
Dear Patsy,
I just got back from Jamaica.
Girl, it was a wonderful experience; I especially loved seeing the family after so many years. Twenty years was indeed a long time and the Jamaica that I once knew, is not the same.
Everything is so modernized, everything but the transportation system.
I was staying with Aunt Bridgette and her family in Savanna-la-mar, the capital of Westmoreland, when I decided to go see Grandpa; who is now living in Santa Cruz.
My cousins wanted to take me, but I said, “I know where Santa Cruz is, all I’ll have to do is just grab a cab.” After much arguing they acquiesced.
Besides, I wanted the experience of traveling this scenic country alone. I did not want to feel like a tourist in my own country. So they dropped me at the bus park in Savanna-la-mar.
It was a balmy Monday morning. The bus park was very busy with the hustle and the bustle of passengers as they alighted and boarded the buses and taxis.
I straightened my spine and adjusted my dark glasses as I entered the foray of human activity.
There were ‘booths’ lined up at the side of the park and extending as far as the eye could see. They advertised and sold food, drink and clothes. It had all the makings of a grand market.
The buses and taxis were lined up according to the places they were going, while the drivers lounged at the side of their vehicles. Some of them were talking, eating and even shouting at each other.
The ‘packers’, as I later heard they were called, coerced, begged and even forced people to go into the various vehicles.
Girl, I was not even in the park for half a minute, when I saw a fight over rights to a passenger. One packer was enticing a lady to go into his bus, while another tried doing the same. They each grabbed the poor lady’s hand and started to pull her in opposite directions.
“Let mi guh,” the lady shouted, “mi seh fi let mi guh.”
They totally ignored her, while they quarreled and cursed each other.
Then one of them said, “Lady, nuh Mobay yuh going?”
“No,” the poor lady replied angrily. “I am just coming from Mobay.”
They both dropped her hands abruptly and the lady fell, cursing and swearing.
“Yuh old hog yuh,” she shouted, “why unnu can’t leave people alone.”
“Montego Bay!”
“Santa Cruz!”
“Black River!”
The packers shouted, as they rushed toward anyone entering the park.
Sometimes up to six of them surrounded one passenger; shouting the names of places in the passengers face. There were a few passengers who refused to tell where they were going and suffered for it, as the packers would start to curse and call them names. Girl, I don’t know how I was overlooked for as long as I was, probably because everyone was watching the debacle with the passenger who fell.
That was not my fortune for long, as a Rastafarian man in a soiled white shirt approached me. He was shouting place names as he approached, “Montego Bay!?” “Santa Cruz!?”
Completely forgetting that I was told by my cousins not to talk with my accent, I said, “where are the Santa Cruz taxis please?”
It was as if the entire park came to a stand still.
The guy, in the dirty white shirt, immediately grabbed my hands and snarled at the other men, who were advancing on me as if they saw the Holy Grail.
“Mi si har fus,” said my new companion, as he pushedand prodded his way through the crowded throng.
I clutched my purse for dear life as they shouted unintelligible names of places at me. Meanwhile, I struggled to take my hands from the vice-like grip of the packer.
“Let me alone,” I shouted to the man, but he only gripped my hand tighter, it seemed as if he had suddenly developed a hearing impediment.
“Lady,” he said turning to me, his dirty locks almost brushing my face, “yuh want to hire a car or drive wid others,” he finally took his paws off my hands.
I felt humiliated and just wanted to go back to Bridgette’s house and wait until my cousins returned, to get a lift with them to Santa Cruz.
What made me think that I should travel alone?
“Si di taxi dem deh,” he said, as we approached a group of taxis. “Travel wid Gussie, him drive good,” he said pointing to a middle-aged man with a wide smile, “all ‘im want is one more passenger.”
The taxi men, like predators, started advancing and shouting in a chorus when they saw me.
“Two more to go!”
“Mi want one!”
“A ready mi ready!”
I looked from vehicle to vehicle.
Gussie already had one person in the car, other taxis had three or four, so I chose Gussie’s vehicle, anticipating a comfortable ride. Besides, he said he was ready.
“Yuh naw give mi something fi help yuh out?” asked the packer, as he walked beside me.
“Something?” I asked incredulously.
“Yeah, bout ten US for dem service ya.”
I was about to question this, when Gussie walked up to him and said, “guh weh, yuh tief yuh,” the packer slunk away.
“Go to the front,” he instructed me, smiling.
“Would you like a charter?”
“No thanks,” I said, wondering what a charter was.
The sun was shining directly in the front seat when I sat down and I anticipated that the driver would be coming after me.
However, I was surprised when I looked around and he was nowhere to be seen. The sun continued to pelt me and I glanced at my watch.
Where is the taxi driver?
The lady in the back seat started to hum. Here I was, toasting in the front seat of a taxi, with off key humming in the back; I was irritated to the limit.
Then the taxi man returned with four people, he must have been gone for more than twenty minutes.
Where was he going to put the four people, plus the two of us already in the car?
“Small up unnu self,” he said grinning.
“Oh No, Oh no,” I said to him, as he flung himself into his seat and slammed
the door.
“Lady,” he said, as if speaking to a mentally impaired person, “I ask if you want a charter, you said no, so just small up yuh self so we can leave.”
I was undecided, should I take another taxi and wait for another half an hour or should I just stay. I waited a fraction too long; the passenger door was yanked open and a lady, bordering on obesity, looked inside.
“Mi can’t hold, Gussie man,” she whined to the taxi driver.
Gussie put a cushion between the seats, over the emergency hand brake and instructed me to, “dress up.”
“Dress up?” I asked him, clueless as to what he was talking about.
“Siddung pon dis,” he said pointing to the cushion.
By now I was speechless. The man was serious; he wanted me to sit with the overweight lady in the front.
As he instructed, so I did. I discarded all dignity and self-preservation and sat on the cushion, while the larger portion of the woman was parked on me.
I could not put it any other way; she was sitting in my ribs and I could hardly breathe. She smelled decidedly fishy; each time she moved her body, a fresh scent of fish would hit me, while I struggled to inhale.
Gussie roared out of the bus park and I clutched the dashboard for dear life as he turned a corner. The lady in the front with me, just rolled with the corner. It’s as if she wanted to crush me to death.
Turning to her, Gussie asked, “What’s up Miss Ellen?”
“Nothing much; yuh hear seh Trevor tief the pardner money and gone a St. Ann, gone hide out.”
Gussie looked shocked at this statement and the car swerved in the road as he seemed to gather his thoughts.
Obviously, they had a common pool in which they saved their money and the banker ran away with the lump sum.
Gussie was so shocked that his feet went straight to the floor and the gas pedal under it; we were well over 100 km by now. He swerved from potholes and with tires squealing he took the corners.
My life flashed before my eyes. I started thinking about you, the kids and how I’d never get to see grandfather again, even after being so close to him.
Then miraculously, Gussie slowed down long enough to say, “is twenty thousand dollars in the pardner fi mi yuh nuh.”
“A tell yuh,” Miss Ellen replied. “A me did have di last draw, so mi nuh si a dime of dat money, and the fish business not so wonderful right now you know.”
Gussie swore and swore and Miss Ellen swore even more.
I clutched the dashboard breathlessly; as Miss Ellen was not in the least bit concerned that I was practically dying under the weight of her bulk.
Then just when I thought that things could not get worse, Gussie turned on the radio.
What started as a taxi ride quickly became a dancehall session, the passengers in the back seat started to sing along with the music.
Gussie and Miss Ellen were obviously determined that they would forget their woes in this manner, as Miss Ellen said to Gussie, “tun it up some more nuh Gussie man.”
Girl, the car was reverberating with the heady sound of reggae music. Miss Ellen’s fish scent was killing me and the driver was speeding as if driving an emergency vehicle.
“Gussie yuh nuh have no Elephant Man?” A young man Di Taxi Ride 17
on the back seat asked.
I was perturbed.
Who or what was Elephant Man?
And where would Gussie have this thing?
I was soon to find out that he was a popular dancehall artiste.
Gussie pushed a cassette into the cassette player and yelled above the music to me, “this is yardie style, nutten nuh sweeta than yard music” and then he started bobbing his head.
Everybody in the taxi was energized, including Miss Ellen, who had no business rocking and pushing me closer to Gussie, while he changed gears and rubbed my legs raw.
I was livid. Though packed like sardines, everyone else looked like they were enjoying the ride.
When I requested that Gussie slowed down a bit, the cheeky taxi man slowed to a crawl. Everyone snickered at my expense.
Probably slowing down was not such a good idea, I thought to myself, as I inhaled big whiffs of Miss Ellen’s scent.
Thankfully, the rest of the passengers protested, so he switched again to race mode.
The Elephant Man, who was singing on the radio, started singing, ‘Signal Di Plane’ and Miss Ellen waved her big meaty hands in the air, imitating the signal that is given to a pilot when an airplane is about to take off.
I almost lost my life, my hearing and my sight. I closed my eyes tightly, my fear increasing, as the passengers with flailing arms, threw their arms to and fro in the confined space of the car.
Oh my God, are they crazy?
Mercifully, the song changed and Miss Ellen’s elbow was once again firmly planted in my ribs.
I tried to see the beautiful Jamaican landscape in the sleepy fishing village of Whitehouse and to take in the green lushness of the St. Elizabeth countryside, but what stands out most about that ride was the pain.
When we reached the busy town of Santa Cruz, Gussie offered to take me where I was going in Santa Cruz, ‘for a small fee.’
“No way,” I emphatically told him; “I’d rather walk”
Girl, my knees were weak and my ribs felt like they were cracked. The sounds of Santa Cruz seemed to be coming from a distance, when my taxi ride came to a grand finale.
Thankfully, some of my family members came to the bus park to meet me, I was doubly glad to see them.
Gussie charged me twice the normal fare, I later found out. I often wonder if it was my complaining about his speeding why he punished me.
Girl, coming to Jamaica was a great experience, and next time I come, I want us to travel together. Who knows? We might even take one of those taxi rides.
Sincerely yours,
Ruth
The Intruders
He was a good husband and father, I could not complain, but lately I am not so sure that everything was all right with him; he must be working too hard at the investment firm he owned.
There is just something I could not put my finger on. His sudden outbursts of laughter in church and his jumpiness at everything that moved indicated that everything was not as it should be.
I know he has a family history of insanity but he has gone by for forty-five years without a problem. Probably I am just an over concerned wife, especially since I have nothing much to worry about.
I stared at the hibiscus garden, my pride and joy. The graceful flowers extended as far as the eyes could see. Our backyard was lush and green and I wondered, not for the first time, why with all the beauty that surrounded me, did I feel so restless, redundant and useless. I read and slept all day and had lunches with my similarly unemployed friends.
I wanted more, I wanted to make a difference in society; the charity dinners and club gatherings seemed so regular; I wanted to do something worthwhile.
I heard heavy breathing, like the panting of a dog and when I opened my eyes, Winston was standing in front of me, his tie askew.
“Winston… you should be at work,” I chastised, “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you?” He slurred drunkenly; then staggered inelegantly and snorted.
“Winston?” I was alarmed; my husband has never been drunk in his life.
“It’s all gone Daisy, all gone.”
“What’s gone Winston, I don’t understand? Are you drunk?”
“Drunk… she says,” he wavered and then slumped in a lounge chair beside mine. “I am not drunk… just beaten, battered and fried.” His features were downcast.
“Is it work?” I asked, clueless as to what to say.
Winston suddenly looked like his normal self in the blink of an eye.
“Daisy,” he shot up out of the chair, “it’s not over till the fat lady sings and you are not singing. Everything is okay then; I will be alright!”
“I am not fat,” I sputter
ed, too angry to notice that his behavior was not normal.
“You are fat,” he pushed out his tongue and put his fingers in his ears, “na-na-nana-na, Daisy is a fat girl, na-na-nana-na, Daisy is a fat girl…”
My husband started to make funny faces at me and in the process was removing his clothes.
“Daisy isn’t it perfect for a swim? Look at how inviting the pool is.”
I looked at the hibiscus bed and shook my head.
“Winston we don’t have a pool. Stop it this instant!” He turned around and looked at me, by now he was down to his boxers.
“Daisy,” disappointment evident in his voice, “you don’t have to swim if you don’t want to, just sit there with your fat self and let me get all the exercise.”
He ran and made a big leap into my hibiscus bed.
“Winston!” I screamed, thinking that he was hurt, but he was determinedly paddling his arms for all he was worth.
I could see where the jagged branches had scratched him all over his body and welts were already forming on his skin.
“Rosy, call the family doctor,” I said urgently, looking around to see my shocked helper.
“Hurry!” I hissed, as I realized that she was standing paralyzed on the back step.
“Winston,” I whispered, “come out of the pool now dear, its lunch time,” he looked up at me, his face filled with welts and bruises.
The doctor came pretty quickly; and found me standing in the backyard crying as I clutched the butchered remains of my yellow hybrids. I love my husband, but my hybrid hibiscuses were ruined and I knew it would be a Herculean task to get back the varieties I had spent years acquiring.
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