“If I miss this bus you’ll just have drive me all the way to Ocho Rios,” I grumble to my nephew. He is late picking me up for the last bus that would take me to the beach town and to a party that promises to be lots of fun.
It’s 4:45 on Friday afternoon and Lady Musgrave Road is a rush hour parking lot. He raises his eyebrows, the only sign he’s worried. His dark skin is moist and his mostly-bald head shines slightly with a light mist of sweat. I want to say, if you’d picked me up when I asked you to, we wouldn’t be in this situation, as though I could tell the future.
I’m annoyed for about a minute. The fact is that although I really want to get to Ochi, I don’t want to be in a bad mood.
“I need one of those," I laugh, trying to lighten the moment. I point to a couple motorcyclists bobbing and weaving through the traffic, swishing their behinds with a “Take that!” attitude.
“What? A motorcycle? Or a rastaman?”
“Not one of those motorcycles,” I laugh, “I don’t want to catch the bus that bad! However, I wouldn’t rule out a rastaman.”
Not only is it January, the month of resolutions and I’ve made many, we have a Black person in the White House and the year promises change and hope. Besides, I’ve just entered my 50th year and though I tell myself that it’s just a number and that fifty is nifty, the truth is fifty is scary as hell and I’m searching for answers. I’m in Jamaica to consult my roots and contemplate my future, not to take unnecessary risks.
The motorcycles that populate Kingston tend toward putt-putts, neither powerful nor good-looking. The machines probably need ingenuity to get them started and coaxing to keep them going. They hesitate and sputter and some surrender altogether, breaking down on the side of the road.
“Hey, I know this dread coming along!” my nephew exclaims, looking in the rearview mirror. “He can give you a ride.” He bangs on the outside of his door to get the Rastaman’s attention.
“No! Yuh crazy!” I protest loudly.
“Don’t worry, Auntie Pam, it’s okay!”
The dread pulls up alongside the car. My nephew quickly explains the situation, and in a matter of moments, while cars wait patiently, he jumps out and places my bag, a three-foot stuffed duffle in the dread’s lap, and fans his hand calling me forward. I’m fumbling to remove the seatbelt, and feel a twisting and tightening in my belly. Why had I bothered to wear it when the second half of my trip was about to be belt-less and helmet-less, on a motorcycle that was hardly meant to carry one person, much less a sturdy woman and her not too small bag that’s now partially blocking the driver’s view—he’s straining his neck to see the road in front of him.
The bike sinks noticeably when I climb aboard.
“Jesus! I never ride on motorcycle yet!” I complain although that’s not true. As a teenager a friend’s dad would give us rides on his big, powerful machine. This is quite a different experience from that Harley.
“What do I do?” I whine loudly over the engines, begging my nephew to rescue me. Instead he hugs me to say goodbye.
“Just hold on tight, Auntie Pam!” he shouts as we pull away.
I’m holding on so tight I worry that I’ll cause the slender man to pass out.
“Wha yu name?” he asks. He has to turn his head so I can hear—his dreadlocks stick out beneath his helmet and brush my lips.
“Pam,” I say stiffly. I didn’t want to encourage conversation. His name is Campbell. I pull my knees in tighter against his thighs, worried that they’re jutting out into the path of cars. He slows way down and puts his foot out to keep us balanced as we maneuver around an open backed truck that’s puffing toxic looking blackness into the air. As a child I’d weirdly loved the smell of exhaust and the coal tar preservative of telephone poles but today the smoke from the tailpipes is intolerable. Two young men, shirtless, are standing on the bed of the truck looking down at us. The spaces between the cars seem to be getting closer. I squeeze my thighs harder.
For a moment I think Campbell may be enjoying the ride. The thought horrifies me. He’ll probably take his time and I’ll miss the bus. For a moment, I inch my knees away from his and loosen my arms, but that doesn’t last long as fear makes me shift back into Heimlich gear. I close my eyes and pray, feeling sheepish that it’s something I only think of doing when the going gets rough.
I see my bus and soon hear its engine, poised to take off. We pull up in front of it and I slide off the seat, glad that I’m wearing pants but sorry that they’re white. I wave to the bus driver as I run in to buy the ticket. He’s shaking his head and probably cussing since they’re proud of their on-time departures and they’re now six minutes late.
Ticket in hand I see Campbell is still parked in front of the bus, preventing its departure. I stop to hug him and pass him a big bill. It’s a generous reward for the less than two mile trip but he looks almost displeased and doesn’t want to accept it. I insist and as we embrace I understand that for Campbell it has been a welcome challenge—an opportunity to help someone in need. As the bus pulls out he waves, a warm smile on his lips. We were strangers on a short journey and his mission was accomplished.
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