“No,” said the congregation.
Aunt May played a scale on the organ as Fred stood there clueless looking off into space.
“Because…Because…” Fred stammered, then he remembered Aunt May’s counsel, “Because there are backbiters in this place, fornicators and adulterers.” Fred got animated once more as he strutted on the stage.
“Some of you borrow your neighbours new set of plate that come directly from England, and one year later dem still nuh get it back.”
“Ouch,” said Miss Cassandra pointing at Ann.
Ann slouched in her seat, as the rest of the congregation shouted amen loudly.
“Some of you,” Fred shouted, pointing in all directions, his face screwed up as if he was in pain. “Some of you,” he said again, struggling to remember Aunt May’s hasty brief, “won’t leave school girls alone.”
He sighed and wiped his face.
Everyone turned to look at Maas Jack and shouted ‘amen’, they were enjoying the sermon.
“That’s why you must give a liberal offering, so that the Lord can bless you. Give an offering to help the poor, suffering and unemployed.”
“Like me,” George mumbled under his breath.
Aunt May started playing ‘Give it in love, store it above, give it with a willing heart.’
George immediately went into the congregation with a huge offering plate, an old flowers pot he repainted.
The congregation gave their money freely and Fred sat down for a spell, trying to gather his thoughts. He was wondering what to do next, as he could not think of anything more to say to the congregation.
George finished collecting the offering and came up to the pulpit and whispered to him, “end it now, while yuh can, yuh hear.”
Fred nodded, he felt less nervous and a sense of confidence was seeping into his bones, his voice was noticeably stronger, when he cleared his throat and approached the pulpit.
“The children of Israel were no different from you or I, and that’s why a whale had to swallow them and spit them on the other side of the Jordan. Don’t take my word for it,” he shouted. Read it, it’s in Genesis to Revelation, from Matthew to Mark and Luke to Exodus.”
“Amen.” The congregation shouted, sounding satisfied.
Fred took his seat and wiped his sweaty face, he nervously turned to George.
“How was it?”
“Good, Good,” George whispered before he stood up. “I never knew that making money off a church business would be so easy, we made twelve thousand dollars this Sunday. Imagine what will happen next Sunday, when more people come; I can’t wait.”
George finished off the worshipping session by giving an elaborate prayer; he wholeheartedly thanked God for his blessings that knew no bounds.
After his prayer, Aunt May belted out the song ‘We are marching to Zion’ and the congregation slowly filed out of the church in high spirits.
One by one, they paused at the door where Pastor Brown stood, his face beamed with pride, as praises were heaped upon him for the lovely sermon preached.
“Pastor Brown, never have I heard the crossing of the Red Sea told like that before,” said a wizened old man, one of the last persons to leave. “And to think for all my eighty six years on the earth, just because I can’t read, they have been telling me that it was Jonah that the whale swallowed. Thank you, thank you Pastor Brown,” he said with gratitude, tears streaming down his face.
“Who is Jonah?” Fred asked George curiously, after the man left.
“I don’t know,” said George unconcerned, “the poor old man is probably senile.”
“We need to make some plans,” George announced, when the entire congregation had filed out and only Fred and Aunt May were left, “we need to expand the church.”
“What! Dis is di firs’ day, and yuh want fi expand already?” Aunt May asked, as she gathered her song sheets from the organ.
“Yeees,” George said, a beatific smile crept across his features. “First, wi have to get a video camera and get di program pon cable TV.”
“Next ting yuh know wi sell shares inna di church and list it pon di stock market,” Fred piped in excitedly.
“Hold up,” Aunt May held up her hands, “mind God strike unnu. First mi guh along wid dis because mi want some money, but mi naw do it again.”
“What?!” Both Fred and George exclaimed.
“Unnu know seh mi husban’ Henry, whofa clothes a hang pon yuh like sheet, was a church man?” Asked Aunt May, pointing at Fred.
“Yuh know how ‘im dead?” she cocked her head to one side and looked at George, “lightning strike im dung. Lick im dung a grung wid di yam dem pon im head in di broad daylight.” Her eyes closed in pain as she contemplated the event,
“Yuh know why?” she jabbed George in his chest with her fingers, “cause ‘im used to run round wid Miss Elma, di school principal wife.”
Fred and George both gasped.
“While mi was playing today, mi wonder if lightning a guh strike yuh, Fred.”
“Well, ahem,” Fred cleared his throat, “I…” his voice faded away guiltily.
“Is either yuh start prepare fi di sermon dem, or mi let di puss outta di bag; as fi mi and George wi is going to put back some a di money inna di community and do some missionary work, starting wid Miss Cathlyn, shi old and nuh have nobody fi teck care of her.”
“But, but… Aunt May!” George let out a high-pitched squeak.
“But nothing George, a church will neva be a business unless it’s God’s business, yuh want lightening strike di whole a wi in ya.”
Fred shook his head sadly and George looked everywhere but at her.
She grabbed up her song sheet, straightened her hat and marched through the door.
“She’s right yuh know,” George whispered, “why wi nuh open a bakery instead and sell twenty different varieties of bulla,” his face lighted up at the thought.
“A bakery?” Fred asked baffled, “ so who will be the baker?”
“You,” George said looking at Fred with a mercenary gleam in his eye “if yuh can preach, yuh can bake, here is the plan…”
The Job Hunt
After months of sitting at home and doing nothing, I decided that I was going to start job-hunting systematically; I did a chart and listed my strategy.
First on my agenda was to join a professional club. I borrowed some cash from my parents to pay my club dues, which were a bit on the expensive side and joined the Rotary club of Kingston and St. Andrew, after getting my friend’s mother to invite me as a prospective member.
I rubbed shoulders with some of the ‘big wigs’ in the corporate world and smiled politely with the right people. When asked by the curious club members about my profession, I hinted that I was on a sabbatical trying to find myself. The truth is, I just graduated from university with a bachelors degree in marketing and was having it hard finding even the simplest job in my field.
The Rotary club networking was taking too long and I always found it difficult to bring a conversation around to my unemployed state. I think they were beginning to regard me as fortunate because I did not have to work; on more than one occasion, I was referred to as one of the ‘idle rich’.
So I joined the Lions Club and after that the Optimist Club and then Kiwanis. At which point, my parents decided that they were not going to pay anymore club dues; my unemployment was costing them too much.
My next step on the systematic job hunt was supposed to be soliciting job offers at the gym. I packed my bag every evening and headed to a very prominent health club. This time I borrowed money from my Aunt to pay the gym expenses. I learnt the names of all the right people, I exercised beside them, sweated with them in aerobics classes, but alas, I learnt that there are many people who do not like to talk about their jobs during their relaxation time. Once more, I was back to square one and in debt to my family.
My third step, when all else failed, was the good old-fashioned sidewalk pounding.
I got ready on Monday morning and dressed as if I was going to work. I started with the Red Hills area. After dropping off my resumes and getting the clichéd answer, “I’m sorry ma’am but we are not hiring right now,” I was rapidly getting discouraged and hungry. Then I saw a dull brown building with the name Baker’s Marketing Inc. painted on the side in light blue and green. It was inconspicuous.
Interestingly, I had never seen the building before, despite the fact that I had lived in the area all my life.
I entered the building and paused for a moment to enjoy the air condition.
It slowly dawned on me, how odd the interior design was. The walls were painted black with white stripes; I felt dizzy just looking at it. The lobby area was huge, a round oval desk stood in the center with black and white chairs scattered throughout. Apparently, a zebra made a good impression on the designer.
The receptionists’ desk was empty, but when I approached, a young man sporting dreadlocks and a goatee stepped through the door and into the lobby.
“Aha!” He said loudly.
I jumped, his exclamation was so unexpected.
“Are you used to frightening everyone who comes in here?” I asked flustered.
Probably this business was not where I would want to work; it looked a bit tacky with its black and white décor and a frightening receptionist.
“May I help you?” He asked, scanning me from head to foot, with a faint sneer in his voice.
“Is it possible for me to speak with someone from Human Resources?” My voice trembled.
He had this vague look of contempt in his eyes that was disconcerting.
He started to laugh. “Hee heee heee”
I was astonished. I have never had that kind of response from a receptionist before.
He sobered up, then wiped his eyes.
“Do you see those doors?” He said pointing to three doors leading off the lobby.
I nodded.
At this point, I was just ready to leave this bizarre situation, and then he said “that’s the extent of the staff.”
Now, how was I supposed to know that, when I had just come into the place?
“Oh…” I said, “Can I speak to one of them?”
“Sure, what’s your business?”
“I am job hunting.” I said reluctantly, I was unwilling to divest any information to the weird receptionist.
“What’s your name?” he asked, scribbling on a piece of paper.
“Amelia Cleary,” I said.
“Follow me,” he said seriously, a smirk still lurking behind his eyes.
I walked behind him, fuming all the way.
How do these people get customers with a receptionist like him?
He knocked on the first door, and then went in, closing it in my face.
What cheek? What a rude man?
I fumed silently, until he opened the door.
“Amanda you may go in now,” he said, his voice excessively polite, obviously he was putting on a show for the person inside.
“The name is Amelia.” I said acidly, as I stepped into the office.
My first impression when I stepped into the spacious office was astonishment.
It was painted a bright rose pink. A short, rotund, man stood behind a wide mahogany desk.
“Miss Cleary,” he said, extending his hand and grinning as if we were long lost friends, “I see you are surprised at the brightness of the room,” he laughed. “I am Jonathan Baker, the Managing Director for our little business.”
I shook his hand and instantly felt comfortable; he looked so much like a life size teddy bear.
“Have a seat; have a seat,” he gestured to an ugly looking rose pink chair as he sat in his black swivel chair, the only sober looking furniture in the room.
I sat down and he folded his arms. “How may I help you Miss Cleary?”
“I am looking for a job Mr. Baker…” I did not get to finish.
“Oh the old job hunt,” he chortled, “I remember those days, it’s like a scavenger hunt huh…” he pondered that for a minute.
“Well Mr. Baker I have…” I was about to tell him about my resume, when he interrupted again.
“I had to struggle so hard as a child and after high school, I was in the deep end. No job, no money. So what did I do? I left for England on a banana boat.”
Mr. Baker was obviously warming up to his story; he had a far away look in his eyes.
“Oh Ms. Cleary,” he said with feeling, “if it was not for the willingness of friends to help, I would not be where I am today” he shook his head in gratitude, “friends are better than family Ms Cleary.”
“Yes Mr. Baker” I said nodding, faintly puzzled.
Obviously, this was going to be a one sided conversation.
“My brother and sister are helping me with the business Ms. Cleary, and between you and me,” he leaned over conspiringly, “they are robbing me blind.”
He leaned over the desk toward me; his mouth was twitching to tell me more, when the phone rang.
I sighed in relief as he answered.
“Bakers Marketing Inc,” he said cheerfully in the handset, “Oh no Miss Lawson the cheques are ready.”
He spoke on the phone with Miss Lawson for a minute or two, while I devised strategies to escape the pink office. The paint was just too bright; it was making me dizzy.
“Ah…Miss…Miss,” he seemed stumped, as he hung up the phone and looked at me quizzically over his glasses, as if he had not seen me before.
“Cleary,” I said loudly.
“Oh yes! Miss Cleary,” he said excitedly, “how may I help you?”
“I was telling you that I was job hunting Mr. Baker…”my voice trailed away as he interrupted.
“Oh yes, yes, the old job hunt,” he steepled his fingers and then looked off into space.
“I remember back in the days, it was like a scavenger hunt…” he sighed. “I used to beat the pavements and sweat and cry, they refused to hire me, said I was too young, not even to pack shelves Ms Cleary. They thought I was too slim and slight- looking.”
I looked at him in disbelief; obviously those were long ago days.
I was frustrated and ready to leave.
Was this a new tactic to frighten the prospective employee away?
Well it was working.
“How old are you Miss Cleary?”
“Twenty one, Mr. Baker.”
Finally, he wanted to talk about me.
“Ah…” he sighed, “beautiful, beautiful,” he sniffed and his eyes filled with tears.
“I was twenty one when I married Maisie.”
He grabbed a fistful of tissues from a container on his desk. “I was so young then, and full of spirit. I met her on the banana boat going to England, she was a beautiful flower in the scourge of misery,” he blew his nose loudly. “Now Maisie is gone, just when things were going to get better and we were ready to retire.”
“I’m sorry sir.” I said deeply sorry for the poor man who obviously had no head for business, his family was robbing him blind and his poor wife was dead; he must be going through a rough time.
“Don’t be sorry Miss Cleary; the gardener was obviously more her style.” He sniffled, “So young and handsome; she wanted somebody who planted things.”
“The gardener, Sir?” I asked totally convinced that I was in the twilight zone.
“Yes, she ran away with the gardener, to be his concubine.”
He bent his head and wailed in the tissue, his face seemed to swell and all his hairs were quivering.
I tried to leave, quite happy not to leave a resume at this business place.
“Mr. Baker,” I said gently, I did not want to seem too heartless t
o the poor man. “I seem to have come at the wrong time. So I’ll just take my leave now.” I got up hurriedly; I could not wait to reach the bright pink door.
“Don’t go Miss Cleary,” he said in mid- sob, “Stay, Stay,” he gestured back to the chair. His face was streaked with tears, and sodden tissue fell in all directions.
He hurriedly dried his face on fresh tissue and blew his nose. I sat down reluctantly.
Probably I really should have done counseling; this type of scenario called for a professional, at least I could have charged him.
“Let me see your resume,” his voice was husky and low.
I reluctantly relinquished it at his insistence.
“Ah!” he exclaimed as if he saw something brilliant and unusual on the page. “You did Business Administration and Marketing,” his eyes lighted up and he clapped his pudgy hand.
I thought in my head, Oh No, Oh No, if he offered me a job I would definitely have to refuse it.
I would go crazy working in this environment; I would most certainly have a fight with the receptionist before the week was ended.
“Let me call Roger.” He picked up the phone and gave Roger, whoever Roger was, the details of my resume.
“Oh beautiful, beautiful,” He said then hung up.
Here we go again, I thought.
“Miss Cleary,” he said, “You have an appointment with Roger Baker, president of the Jamaica International Bank tomorrow at noon.”
“But…but…” I was stumped.
“Roger does these favors for me now and again, and besides there are no vacancies here. For some strange reason, prospective customers never come back,” he shook his head, puzzled.
“Do your best Miss Cleary, I have no doubt that you will get a job. You are a polite person and an exceptional listener; Roger knows a good prospective employee when he sees one.” He paused, obviously pleased at the thought of his son.
“By the way, what do you think of the paint? Maisie was doing an interior design course when she painted the office. She said that pink would stimulate the mind.”
“Mr. Baker,” I said gratitude making me lightheaded. “This is the ugliest color I have ever seen in a building.”
“I agree, I agree,” he said nodding, then his eyes welled with tears once more, “Maisie is such a smart woman, but not too good with the decorating. You should see our home, its painted in red and white, Maisie said it was for love…”
Di Taxi Ride and Other Stories Page 5