Sic Transit Wagon by Barbara Jenkins

Author:Barbara Jenkins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peepal Tree Press Ltd

IT’S NOT WHERE YOU GO,

IT’S HOW YOU GET THERE

It’s my own fault really. Who send me? Early morning still and your girl already full-on into her mea culpa ritual. How so? Well, try this for starters: Boyfriend is waiting for her in Belmont; they have to be at UWI by nine for the workshop; it’s eight, she’s late and Boyfriend, no punctuality slouch himself, is I-rate.

And, where she went wrong? Just the usual sins of omission and commission. Up at six-thirty and, time-starved, first omission – no power-walk; no oats and oat bran – another omission – only weak tea and just a sliver of time to shower, do teeth and dress; and all this hassle because of a commitment – not a commission, she reminds herself – although she increasingly wonders whether what she has going with Boyfriend doesn’t qualify for the self-inflicted sins of commission side of that debate.

For instance, last night, hear him:

“Why you going home so early?”

“I want to be in my own space.”

“So, you don’t like being here?”

“What does that have to do with my wanting to be in my own space?”

So, this morning, ten to seven, your girl throws on standard uniform for going somewhere nice and undressy in daytime, at least that’s predictable – fawn pants, white long-sleeved blouse – all-cotton, soft and easy, made in South Africa, gift from youngest babe – brown leather push-toe Rasta sandals, brown-cotton embroidered Indian shoulder sack – where the cellphone gone? Afro-picking to lift hair – Jah, this going to self-rass soon if I don’t do something, and with Gros Michel in hand – eight dollars a pound – organically grown in un-chlorinated water, assured the farmer when they met at SunEaters a week before. “I’m also opening up a quarry on the estate – blue limestone.” Wait nuh, something environmentally ambivalent here, not so? But she voiced nothing – tact or cowardice? Does that count as omission? She’s never quite sure about these moral dilemmas. Now into white Corolla – only two and a half years hers, after being pre-loved somewhere across the globe, Singapore? Japan? Malaysia? JeezU, we Trinis have the same attitude to sexual partners as we have to cars – you’re looking nice? Matters not where you been and with whom. It’s the detailing that counts: nice body, nice smell, nice upholstery, nice sounds, and nice shiny bling.

She calls out, “Auntie, you know where I’m going.” No answer. Should have read the signs. Maybe they said she was the one who didn’t know where she was going; but, nah, no time even for Calvin & Hobbes, Modesty Blaise and Brenda Starr – another omission, but not a sin of – and off, up Royal Palm over the speed bumps, waving to Manmohan at the guard booth and on to Victoria Drive. And then – uh-huh, so this is how it does be? – nosing into a stagnant stream of vehicles. Waiting for fifteen minutes to call Boyfriend and leaving a voice mail to say, “Still in Victoria Drive and all’s still.

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