by Richie Drenz
Oddly though, the secretary noticed a pattern; it was whenever Portia would announce a new tax, that Dr. Kemp would lick his bearings the hardest. Dr. Kemp shouted again,
“Tax on books! Is Portia for real?”
Nancy jumped in fright in her chair, he was so louder than before and he hadn’t answered her call. He had never been this loud twice. Again she contemplated handing in her resignation letter before things got worse and he beheaded her or something. She was not fretting about unemployment now; she was scared for her life. All the indications were bright. He could snap at anytime. She wasn’t going to work with a madman as her boss. She opened a blank page in Microsoft Word to type her resignation. She had not hung up. She still had the phone by her ear; the dial tone was sharp in her ear. She redialed his extension waiting for Dr. Kemp to pick up.
The phone was ringing inside Dr. Kemp’s small office. He slammed the newspaper down on his shine mahogany desk, flipping both sides of his gray jacket. He shook the knot of his black and white stripe tie under his throat, keeping his debonair suave intact.
“Portia a gwaan too bad now wid the tax.”
He didn’t shout this time but Nancy heard it from where she sat. That was the other thing Nancy noticed though. She noticed that whenever his mad side seemed to chip in, he spoke in Jamaican Patois. It was the first sign to her that something was wrong because Dr. Kemp was an intellect, a philosopher and one who dabbled in economics and always spoke like a well-scrubbed and an affluent professional. So it sounded so obviously strange when she heard him speaking patois. His wife had to notice. ‘Why wasn’t she doing something about it? She should at least take him to see a psychiatrist or institutionalize him.’ Nancy thought.
“Who’s gonna stop Portia from doing all of this to our economy, can’t she see we are enslaved to the World Bank!?”
He said, without having the guts to read anymore of the article but said it with enough conviction as if he personally wanted to put a stop to all these taxations being levied on Jamaicans. He answered his ringing phone. Nancy was professional at the other end of the line. He could not pick up how scared she was.
“Dr. Kemp, Clive McFly is here for his appointment Sir.”
“Clivey? Sweet; give me five minutes and then send him in. I need to finish cursing Portia.”
She was silent, she had no clue what that meant. But she knew that it had to do with the tax again. His poor bearings probably lick by now again. She was sure Dr. Kemp was close to his breaking point of delving full-on into lunacy. From time to time he’d say stuff concerning tax that she had no idea about or his proclamations made no logical theory, so she replied as she always did when dubious about his ill-logical rampant verbosity, “Ok Sir.”
Dr. Kemp hastily called to her before she hung up.
“And oh…oh… Nancy, please cancel my meeting with Dr. Arnold at the gym today. Gonna go home early and surprise Marj. I know exactly what I’ll cook for her today.”
Dr. Arnold, who was also a psychiatrist and a colleague of Dr. Kemp was into fitness as much as Dr. Kemp’s wife was. He worked out five days of the week and his diet was high-protein to keep up with his muscle building, which he flaunted in sleeveless shirts when he rode his ninja bike.
“Dr. Kemp, how you never cook for me yet?”
Shantoya who was behind him wiping down the glass window said, looking through the window from the third floor they were on down onto the slow moving traffic to avoid his eyes and hide her blush as she usually did when she made a pass at him.
Shantoya was sexy and persistent. Dr. Kemp knew her passes at him and the inappropriate short tight skirts she wore to work were all about the Benz he drove.
“Because you’re my office attendant, not my wife.”
There was an awkward silence hanging around.
Nancy on the phone said,
“Dr. Arnold won’t be pleased. It’s your third time cancelling on him.” Nancy liked Dr. Arnold. He had muscles and rode a fat black ninja bike.
“That’s his business. Dr. Arnold is about competing with me from the first day we became friends at Calabar. He only went to major in Mental Health Psychology because I was doing it. I do a radio program he does one too. You think it’s coincidence?”
“Well I . . . I . . . I . . . thought . . .” Nancy fished for words and caught none.
“He drives the same S Class Benz as me. Think he wants this meeting to uplift any Psychology Alumni as he claims? He just wants to pry in my life and know my next move. If I was studying guinep trees he’d follow too. And if I wanted to be a guinep seed, he’d probably want to be the skin.”
“But I thought you two were friends why you did everything the same.”
“Friends, yeah. But what type? And no we don’t do everything the same. I’m married he’s not. He has a ninja bike, I do not. You see, you have to know your friends, Nancy. There are friends and then there are so called friends whose only desire in life is to have everything their friend has and compete. It’s an internal method to boost their self-esteem and grow their egos, outside of our psychology realm they refer to it as ‘red-yeye’ at best, and ‘badmind’ at worst. Dr. Arnold is full of the last one.”
“Oh, I see. It’s kind of strange though. He’s always with your wife everywhere she goes; at the gym and smiling with her and speaking very highly of you. People always think that they are wife and husband.”
Dr. Kemp was an Aquarius, who was born on January 29. An Aquarius is the least jealous zodiac sign of all the signs. He had never felt insecure or jealous over Marj, until Nancy just said that. To be honest, just by physique he wasn’t a match for Dr. Arnold. If you could choose only one word from the dictionary to describe Dr. Arnold, it would be Buff. Dr. Kemp tried to cover up his jealousy. He switched the subject saying,
“Hmm . . .You can send in Clivey . . .I mean, Mr. McFly when you hang up. Ok.”
Though Dr. Kemp knew Clivey, as he called him, he always only had fifty dollars in his pocket so he couldn’t afford to pay for the therapy sessions and he had seen Clivey just yesterday morning, yet he was still happy to see him.
CHAPTER 2
GONE BUY TWO PATTY AND PROBLEM NOW
“A lie! A when tax go pon patty?! A di dead one twenty mi have enuh…”
Dr. Kemp felt for Chinese at lunch time. He decided that he’d just buy two juicy beef patties. He could polish off three but he was watching the weight on his chubby belly. It didn’t matter that much to him, but because Marjorie was a fitness freak and health fanatic, he tried to at least stay in some sort of shape or try to manage his shape and watch his weight. That’s the only reason he had signed up to the gym with Marj too. Dr. Arnold as expected joined the gym the next week when he found out that Dr. Kemp had signed up to Spartan Gym. But unlike Dr. Kemp who didn’t like the gym, and was only interested in stretches, yoga and flexibility, Dr. Arnold grew obsessed with bulking his muscles and working out with Bert’s wife at the gym.
Dr. Kemp had the newspaper in his hand waiting in the line at Juici-Beef Patties. He glanced at the newspaper and got completely crossed about the tax article all over again. It was eating away at his brain. He cursed and argued with himself internally and the more he argued, the more he began to sweat like a hog in the line.
A young girl stared and pointed at him, tugged her mom’s finger and said,
“Mommy, Mommy, a mad man in good clothes and tie.”
Dr. Kemp was sharply attired and looked quite sensible to the little girl’s mother, except that he was mumbling; no rather rambling to himself. Dr. Kemp stopped talking to himself and stared at them staring at him.
“Oh dear. Sir sorry, sorry, she’s a bit talkative sometimes. Kids, you know how they are.” The mother struck the child on her hand. Her hand was raised to put on the second strike of discipline.
“Dr. Kemp grabbed the mother’s hand in mid-air and said, “No. Don’t hit her.”
“She’s too rude she needs to know to keep her mouth shut t
o strangers. She’s going to get me in trouble one of these days.”
“She’s my little friend. I know her. I told her to call me Mad man.” Bert lied.
The mom felt guilty for hitting the little girl. She rubbed the side of the little girl’s hand and said,
“Sorry Man Bonne, I didn’t know he was your friend.”
Dr. Kemp’s eyes glanced the word tax on the newspaper again and said,
“A bet seh dem soon all start tax people fi poor.”
The lady was taken aback by his tone; from his professional look she didn’t expect him to be speaking patois.
“The tax, the tax, the tax, aww boy.”
Dr. Kemp shook his head.
“Tax this, tax that, tax this, tax that and the end of the year we can’t even get a tax refund. You know seh wi inna the top highest and most heavily taxed country in the world. You did know that? This tax thing out fi mad people.”
Dr. Kemp’s loud frustration drew some eyes to him. Some people tried not to look at him in fear of and uncertain if he was sane.
“All mi heel-back dem a hot mi to how mi upset.”
He took off his shoes and put the left foot in his right back pocket forcing it down to fit.
“Mi tired a Portia and har tax Man.”
The lady behind him stepped back a little. The two cashiers at the top of the line exchanged a hushed gossip to each other then looked at him. When Dr. Kemp reached at the top of the line, the cashier looked at each other and fought the giggles to remain trapped in their mouths. Dr. Kemp searched for his wallet. He took out his Nokia 3310 from the inside pocket of his jacket, placed it on the counter, then dug his shoe out his back pocket still searching for his wallet. He found it. He placed his shoes upside down on the counter so the heel was up in the air while he opened his wallet and ordered.
“Three cheese patty and an orange juice please. Put one in a separate bag.” He was buying an extra cheesepatty for the little girl.
The cashier tabulated it on the cash register, then said,
“That’s six hundred and fifty dollars Sir.”
“Fi three little patty and an orange juice? How comes?”
“Remember tax on patty now enuh.”
“Portia put tax pon patty?! This can’t right!!!”
Someone at the back of the line shouted,
“A lie! A when tax go pon patty?! A di dead one- twenty mi have enuh. Uno nuh see how time hard.”
“That’s the last straw, mi personally a go fi Portia, mi ago train and go fi har.”
The cashier stared at Dr. Kemp waiting to be paid. A couple seconds went by without Dr. Kemp making an effort to pay. He was just frozen and stiff; ‘six hundred and add dollars’ for three cheese patty echoed inside his head. She flipped over her palm and said,
“Cash or plastic?”
“Cash, Cash.” Bert said fumbling to pull out a thousand dollar bill.
The cashier held it in the light above her head and looked for the line and the pine in the money.
“Mi money good, weh you a test it fa?” Bert said.
He handed the little girl the cheese patty and smiled She smiled back at him and her mom shrugged her and said,
“What you must say Bonne?”
The little girl smiled showing her small spaced teeth and her baby voice said,
“Thank you, Mad man.”
The next morning Dr. Kemp was on his roof top improving his flexibility.
He wanted his flexibility to be epic. He knew women loved flexibility so he wanted to be the ultimate flexible husband for his wife. He was stretching and training on top a red bath pan, preparing to go and murder Portia’s crown.
CHAPTER 3
WHY BERT A SEARCH UP MARJ DRAWER?
“So what if the blouse couldn’t fit properly, Bert thought. No matter what he was going to force in that blouse because God said so.”
Marj’s husband’s situation always was on heavy rotation inside her head. It’s not something she could ease her mind of not thinking about. They’ve been together for thirteen years, married for eight months. As a matter of fact, last night she tried the hardest to not think about it and had the worst nightmare since her series of nightmares about Bert’s blooming insanity. This time she dreamt that he was so mad that he was wearing woman’s clothing in public. She lunged out her nightmare for breath, sweating, gasping, suctioning for air, thanking God it was only a dream, nothing more. She wouldn’t be able to stand such embarrassment if this should ever happen. What would people say of her? She was in denial that Bert was going off even though she saw some clear signs. Anyone asked her she would not admit the facts. She would say her husband is quite fine. But was he?
The next day Dr. Kemp, or Bert as his wife called him got up early and made breakfast for his wife as he usually did but he didn’t go to any work. Instead, as soon as his wife stepped foot out the house for work, he ran off to her drawer. He was about to ransack it but a clever instinct told him to wait a couple of minutes, or else his wife would catch him red-handed. He knew since lately his wife would always return to pee, even if she had just pee before leaving. So said, so done. He sat on the bed in front the drawer whistling the song that they use to start NYPD Blues and acting like he was innocent, he had nothing up his sleeves. As soon as she drove off to work, he ransacked her drawers looking for the perfect leggings or tights. Portia had to die. No joke about that.
Tax on patty was taking it too far and needed to be warred over. And everyone knows the first part of becoming a deadly ninja to take off the head-crown off the Right Honourable, was to get a proper tights. If it was even a cotton leggings with just say about thirty percent spandex in the material that would be good. It didn’t have to be straight spandex, as long as it was stretchy.
He sat on the short edge of the bed and dug and dug into the drawers; mostly blouse and shorts and underwear were flying up. He chucked them towards one side on the bed.
Bert wouldn’t give up, he had already made up his mind that he would not take off Portia’s head-crown in no jeans, it had to be in tights. Pretty and smooth tights, soft and stretchy.
Being professional and very ardent on how he presented himself as a dangerous fat ninja, he had to get the looks of a ninja down pat, or else when he invaded the Parliamentary House to put on the rush on Portia and the rest of the battalion, they wouldn’t take their deaths coming to them seriously. He couldn’t have that.
Maybe they would even laugh at him. He definitely couldn’t have that. The tights were surely a must to make the ninja look professional and murderous. Big time.
Plus when Bert researched history, he had never seen a ninja killing the government in jeans before; never, nowhere in history, and that must be because all ninjas always wore their proper tights. He wasn’t going to break the tradition; he was already bending the rules with being a little overweight. His belly had put him on the plump side. He may very well be the first fat ninja with skinny foot, so it was of dire importance he got even a leggings before he could go to the Parliamentary House and take off Portia’s crown.
Hopefully she wouldn’t put up a resistance.
He dug and dug through the drawer, still no tights. What kind of obeah is this? He sees his wife wearing tights every morning when she’s exercising before work. How comes now he can’t find one single tights. Satan must be working against him.
He stopped throwing the clothes on the bed. He dashed them away on the floor, all the way over to one corner of the house. Where are the damn tights?!! Then finally --- BAM!
He hit the jackpot. A super-soft, smooth, spandexy tights. Bert had no doubt it would hug nicely around his contours, his thin hips and small, short bottom. Nothing else in the world sweet Bert so much. He found his tights!
The tights were a Labourite green. It looked a little smaller than he liked. He had to squeeze to go in it and he’d stretch it out badly, especially the waistband, but the stretch out never mattered to Bert. It was a spandex tigh
ts it could manage the stretch out. It will be under a little pressure yes indeed, but nothing too severe. But a suh it go, Bert though. He held up the green tights in the air, some of the sunlight coming through the four squares of glass window passed through the tights. He spun his treasure around smiling gleefully, as he checked the seams of the crotch if it was tightly knitted together. He checked it because he may need to bust a lot of splits in it. He was on a deadly mission. The crotch was secured and good enough to split in it. He smiled to himself and said,
“Perfect colour this! Perfect, perfect . . . It pretty eeeh Man . . .A now mi ago get fi hold Portia neck, it nuh matter how much scarf she wear, mi want har neck.”
All that consumed Bert now was to get some pretty decent ninja training.
He began heaping up back the clothes he threw one side, and WALLAH!
Like a gift from Lord Jesus our Saviour himself, Bert caught sight of Marj’s long sleeve green blouse and it couldn’t fit him. Bert had too much gut. That didn’t matter to Bert that it couldn’t fit, it had stretch in the material and the green matched the tights. The same Labourite green like the tights. This must be an holy act of Jesus giving him a sign.
‘So what if the blouse couldn’t fit properly’, Bert thought. No matter what he was going to force into that blouse because God said so.
Obviously, it was like a destiny for Bert to be a ninja all these years of his life and he didn’t know. Look how easily he got his suit from one draw.
It was training time now.
And it has to be extreme. It has to.
Bert snatched up a bottle of Marj’s Nair hair removal cream, used it, then got dressed in full green and jogged out his house. ‘All patty taxes must go’, he thought.
CHAPTER 4
FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE
“Bert why you getting so black? You ptomaine poison?”
