The Austin Clarke Library

by Austin Clarke

  The tune is a calypso, man. “It’s a nice calypso,” Calvin say. “Sparrow, in your arse!” he shout, and he beg the Canadian pardon, he real excited because it is the first time he hear a calypso on the radio in Canada. He start liking Canada bad-bad again. “Look at me, though! New car! A Galaxie, and you beside me . . .”

  The Canadian thing start wukking-up her behind beside o’ Calvin; she start saying how she been going down in the islands for years now, that how she have more calypso records than any white woman in Toronto, and that she wish she had the money to take her boxes o’ calypso records outta storage and play one or two for Calvin. She start singing the tune, and wukking-up some more. Calvin vex as hell. He don’t like no woman who does sing calypso. His Old Queen didn’ even let him sing calypsos when he was a boy in Barbados. And he is a man! Besides, the calypso that the Canadian thing singing the words to and wukking-up bad-bad to is a thing ’bout . . . three white women travelling through Africa!, and something ’bout Uh never had a white meat yet! and look at this nice woman, this simple-looking Canadian girl who know all the words, and she wukking-up and enjoying sheself so, and Calvin thinking that Sparrow watching him from through the AM radio speaker, and laughing at him, and he vex as shite, ’cause the calypso mean that certain white women like black men to lash them, and—“Don’t sing that!” he order the thing, as if he talking to his wife; and the Canadian thing tell him, in a sharp voice, that she isn’ his damn wife, so “Don’t you be uppity with me, buster!”

  Well, who tell she she could talk-back to a Bajan man like Calvin? Calvin slam on the brakes. The motor car cry-out screeennnnchhhhhh! The Canadian thing head hit the windshield, bram! and she neck like it break this time, in truth. The motor car halfway in the middle o’ the highway. Traffics whizzing by, and the wind from them like it want to smash-up Calvin new Galaxie. Calvin vex as shite, but he can’t do nothing ’cause he trembling like hell: the woman in the front seat turning white-white-white like a piece o’ paper, and the blood gone outta she face; Calvin ain’ see no dimples in she face; and she ain’ moving, she ain’ talking, not a muscle ain’ shiver. Traffics whizzing by and one come so damn close that Calvin shut his two eyes, and ask God for mercy. “Look my blasted crosses! And my Galaxie ain’ one kiss-me-arse day old yet!”

  He try to start-up the motor and the motor only coughing like it have consumption. The woman meanwhile like she sleeping or dead or something. The calypso still blaring through the AM radio, and Calvin so jittery he can’t find the right button to turn the blasted thing off. And sudden so, one of the traffics flying by turn into a Police. Calvin hear weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn! Sireens! A Police car in the rear-view mirror. Calvin stop shaking sudden-sudden. He start thinking. White woman deading in his new motor car, the car new, and he is a stranger in Canada. He jump out, and lift-up the hood, and he back his new jacket, and he touching this and touching that, playing he is a mechanic. The Police stop. The Police face red as a beet.

  “What’s holding you up, boy?”

  Calvin hear the “boy” and he get vex, but he can’t say nothing, ’cause they is two against his one, and he remember that he black. But he ain’ no damn fool. He talk fast and sweet, and soft, and he impress the Police: “. . . and officer I just now-now-now give this lady a lift as I pass she on the highway, she say she feeling bad, and I was taking her to the hospital, ’cause as a West Indian I learn how to be a good Samaritan, and . . .” The police ask for the licents, and when he see that the ownership papers say that Calvin only had the car this morning, he smile, and say, “Help me get her into the cruiser, to the nearest hospital. You are a good Samaritan, fellow. Wish our native coloured people were more like you West Indians . . .”

  They lift the Canadian thing with she neck half-popped outta the Galaxie and into the cruiser, and Calvin even had a tear in his eye too. But the police take she ’way, and the sireen start-up again, weeeeeeennnnnnn . . .

  Calvin manage to get the Galaxie outta the middle o’ the road, the traffics still flying by, but now the new motor car safe at the side o’ the road. He put back on his jacket, and he shrug the jacket in shape and to fit his shoulders; he turn off the AM radio thing with the calypso—it was playing now another calypso—and fix the two creases in his trousers, look back on the highway in the rear-view mirror, and try to start-up the Galaxie. The Galaxie only coughing, and stuttering; not turning over at-all, at-all; and more traffics blowing their horn to tell him get the fuck outta the road, nigger, but the Galaxie only coughing. Outta habit, he hold over to say something to the Canadian thing who he thought was still beside him, forgetting that she ain’ there no more, and he say, “You think I should buy the Cadillac?” The Canadian thing handbag left-back in the car on the seat open beside o’ him, and he run his hand through it, and find five single dollar bills, and he wonder how much a taxi would cost, and if one would stop . . .

  DOING RIGHT

  I see him and I watch him. I see him and I watch him and I start to pray for him, ’cause I see him heading for trouble. Making money. “In five or six years, I want to have a lotta money,” he does-say. “Only when I have a lotta dollars will people respect me.”

  I had to laugh. Every time he say so, I does-have to laugh, ’cause I couldn’t do nothing more better than laugh.

  “Look at the Rockefellers. Look at the Rothschilds. Look at the Kennedys.”

  I was going-ask him if he know how they mek their money, but before I could-ask, he would be off dreaming and looking up at the ceiling where there was only cobwebs and dust; and only God knows what was circulating through his head every time he put himself in these deep reveries concerning making lots o’ money and talking ’bout the Rockefellers, the Rothschilds, and the Kennedys.

  I was still laughing. ’Cause the present job he had, was a green hornet job. He was a man who went to work in a green suit from head to foot, except the shoes, which was black and which he never polish. His profession was to go-round the St. Clair–Oakwood area where a lotta Wessindians does-live, putting parking tickets ’pon people cars. Before he start all this foolishness with Wessindians’ cars, he uses to be on the Queen’s Park beat for green hornets.

  A big man like him, over two hundred pounds, healthy and strong and black, and all he could do after eight years as a immigrant, in the year 1983, is to walk-’bout with a little book in his hand, putting little yellow pieces o’ paper on people windshields. He like the job so much and thought he did-doing the right thing that in the middle o’ the night, during a poker game or just dipsy-doodling and talking ’bout women, he would put-back-on the green uniform jacket, grabble-up the peak cap, jump in the little green motor car that the Police give him, and gone straight up by St. Clair–Oakwood, up and down Northcliffe Boulevard, swing right ’pon Eglinton, gone down Eglinton, and swing left ’pon Park Hill Road, left again on Whitmore, and all he doing is putting these yellow pieces o’ paper on decent, hard-working people cars. When he return, he does-be-laughing. I tell him he going-soon stop laughing, when a Wessindian lick-he-down with a big rock.

  “I have fix them! I have ticketed one hundred and ten motto-cars today alone! And the night I leff the poker game, I ticket fifty more bastards, mainly Wessindians.”

  I start to get real frighten. ’Cause I know a lotta these Wessindians living in them very streets where he does-be ticketing and laughing. And all them Wessindians know who the green hornet is. And being as how they is Wessindians, I know they don’t like green hornets nor nobody who does-be touching their cars. So I feel that any morning, when one o’ these Wessindians come home from a party or offa a night shift and see him doing foolishness and putting yellow tickets ’pon their motor cars, I know um is at least one hand brek.

  Wessindians accustom to parking in the middle o’ the road, or on the wrong side, back home. And nobody don’t trouble them nor touch their cars. And since they come here, many o’ these Wessindians haven’t tek-on a change in attitude in regards to who own the publ
ic road and who own the motor cars.

  So whilst the boy still ticketing and laughing, and putting his hands on people cars which they just wash in the car wash on Bathurst, I continue worrying and watching him.

  One night, just as we sit down to cut the cards, and before the cards deal, he come-in grinning, and saying, “I ticket two hundred motto-cars today alone!”

  “One o’ these days, boy!” I tell him.

  “When I pass in the green car and I see him, I know I had him!”

  “Who?”

  “I see the car park by the fire hydrand. The chauffeur was leaning back in the seat. One hand outside the car window. With a cigarette in tha’ hand. The next hand over the back o’ the seat. I look in the car, and when I look in, I nearly had a fit. I recognize the pipe. I recognize the dark blue pinstripe suit. I recognize the hair. With the streak o’ grey in um. And I mek a U-turn in the middle o’ the road—”

  “But a U-turn illegal!”

  “I is a green hornet, man!”

  “I see.”

  “I size-up the car. And I see the licents plate. ONT-001! I start getting nervous now. ’Cause I know that this motto-car belongst to the big man. Or the second most biggest man in Ontario. I draw up. The chauffeur nod to me and tell me, ‘Fine day, eh?’ I tell he, ‘A very fine day, sir!’ And I get out. I bend-over the bonnet o’ this big, shiny, black car—”

  “Limousine, man. A big car is call a limo.”

  “Well, um could have been a limo, a hearse, be-Christ, or a automobile, I still bend-over the bonnet and stick-on one o’ the prettiest parking tickets in my whole career!”

  “The Premier’s car?”

  “He mek the law. Not me!”

  “And you think you do the right thing?”

  “My legal bounden duty. Afterwards, I did-feel so good, like a real police officer and not a mere green hornet. And I walk-through Queen’s Park on my two feet, looking for more official motto-cars to ticket. And when I was finish, I had stick-on five parking tickets in their arse . . . One belongst to the Attorney General too.”

  “The same man who does-defend Wessindians?”

  “I put one ’pon Larry Grossman car too.”

  Well, that whole night, all the boy talking ’bout and laughing ’bout, is how he stick-on tickets on these big shots’ cars, or limousines. And to make matters worse for the rest o’ we, he win all the money in the poker game too. I feel now that the boy really going-become important, maybe, even become a real police, and make pure money. Or else going-lose a hand, or a foot.

  But we was feeling good, though. ’Cause the big boys in Toronto don’t particular’ notice we unless um is Caribana weekend or when election time coming and they looking for votes, or when the Star doing a feature on racism and Wessindian immigrants that illegal, and they want a quotation. So we feel this green hornet is our ambassador, even if he is only a’ ambassador o’ parking tickets. So we does-laugh like hell at the boy’s prowess and progress.

  And we does-wait till a certain time on a Friday night, nervous as hell whilst cutting and dealing the cards, to see if the boy going-turn-up still dress-off in the green uniform, meaning that he hasn’t get fired for ticketing the big shots’ cars. And when he does turn-up, dress from head to trousers in green, we know he still have the job, and we does-laugh some more. But all the time I does-be still nervous, as I seeing him and watching him.

  Then he start lossing weight. He start biting his fingernails. He start wearing the green uniform not press, and half dirty. He start calling we “You people!”

  I getting frighten now, ’cause he tell me that they tek-him-off the Queen’s Park beat.

  So um is now that he up in St. Clair–Oakwood, and I feel he going-put a ticket on the wrong motor car, meaning a Wessindian car. And at least one hand brek. Or one foot. And if the particular motor car belongst to a Jamaican, not even the ones that have locks and does-wear the wool tams mek outta black, green, and red, I know um could be both foots and both hands!

  I see him and I watch him.

  “I have live in Trinidad, as a police,” he tell me. “But I born in Barbados. I leff Trinidad because they won’t let me ticket one hundred more cars and break the all-time record. I went to Guyana after Trinidad. I was a police in Guyana before Guyana was even Guyana and was still Demerara, or B.G. They make me leff Guyana when I get close to the record. Ten more tickets is all I had to ticket. From Guyana, I end up in Dominica. Same thing. From Dominica, I went to Antigua, and um was in Antigua that a fellow came close to licking-me-down for doing my legal duty, namely ticketing cars. But in all them countries, I ticket cars that belongst to prime ministers, ministers of guvvament, priests, civil servants, and school teachers.”

  I see him and I watch him. I see him getting more older than the forty-five years he say he was born; and I see him drinking straight rums, first thing every morning lately, because he say, “The nerves bad. Not that I becoming a alcoholic. I only taking the bad taste o’ waking up so early outta my mouth. I am not a alcoholic, though. It is the pressure and the lack o’ sleep.”

  But he was drunk. Cleveland was drunk-drunk-drunk early-early-early every day. He had to be really drunk after he outline his plan to make money to me.

  “Remember the Rockefellers, man!” he tell me. “This is my plan. I been a green hornet for eight-nine years now. They promise me that if I ticket the most cars outta the whole group o’ hornets, they would send me to training school to be a police. First they tell me I too short. I is five-four. But most criminals is five-three. Then they tell me that my arches fallen. Jesus Christ! What you expect? After all the beats I have walk in Trinidad, Guyana, Antigua, Dominica, and Grenada, my arches bound to fall! And eight-nine years in this damn country pounding the beat ticketing cars! But they can’t beat me. Not me. This is the plan I got for their arse. Tickets begin at five dollars. Right? There is five dollars, ten dollars, and fifteen dollars. Right? Twenty dollars for parking beside a fire hydrand or on the wrong side. Right? Now, I write-up a ten-dollar ticket. And I change the ten to a forty. The stub in my book still saying ten. But the ticket on the car that also says ten, I going-change from ten to forty. Then I rush down to the vehicle registration place on Wellesley Street where they have all them computers. And I tell the fellow I know from Guyana something, anything to get him to look up the registration for me. And then I get in touch with the owner of the said vehicle and subtract ten from forty and—”

  “You mean subtract ten years from forty!”

  “You don’t like my plan?”

  “I think your plan worth ten years.”

  “Okay. What about this other one? People don’t lock their motto-cars when they park. Right? Wessindians is the biggest vagabonds in regards to this. Right? A fellow don’t lock his car. And um is night. And I got-on my green hornet uniform. Right? Meaning I am still operating in a official capacity . . .”

  I see the boy start to smile, and his face spread and light-up like a new moon. The face was shining too, ’cause the heat and the sureness that the plan going-work this time make him sweat real bad. But I watching him. I know that Wessindians don’t have much money, because they does-get the worst and lowest jobs in Toronto. Only certain kinds of Wessindians does-have money in their pocket. The kind that does-work night shift, especially after midnight, when everybody else sleeping; the brand o’ Wessindian who I not going-mention by name in case they accuse me of categorizing the race. And being a reverse racist. But certain Wessindians, like hairdressers, real estate salesmen, and fellows who know racehorses backwards and forwards, good-good-good, plus the unmentionable brand, namely the illegal immigrants, the illegal parkers, and them who hiding from the Police, them-so would have money to burn, inside their cars that not locked.

  The boy eyes smiling. I see dollar bills instead o’ pupils. I even hear the money clinking like when a car pass-over the piece o’ black rubber-thing in a gas station. Cling-cling. “Gimme just three months,” he say. “Gimme three b
are months, and I going-show you something.”

  Just as I left him and walking ’cross Northcliffe Boulevard going to Eglinton, I see a green hornet fellow standing-up in front a fellow car. The fellow already inside the car. The fellow want to drive off. But the green hornet standing up in front the man car. The fellow inside the car honk the horn. And the green hornet fellow take out his black book. Slow-slow. And he flip back a page. And hold down a little. And start to write down the car licents. The fellow honk the car again. The hornet walk more closer. He tear off the little yellow piece o’ paper. And getting ready to put it on the man brand-new-brand grey Thunderbird. Just as the hornet was about to ticket the man for parking next to a yellow fire hydrand, the fellow jump out. A Japanee samurai wrestler woulda look like a twig beside o’ him. Pure muscle. Pure avoirdupois. Pure latissimus dorsi. Shoes shining bright. White shirt. Stripe tie. A three-piece grey suit. Hair slick back. And long. Gold ’pon two fingers on each hand. Gold on left wrist. More gold on right wrist. The hornet par’lyzed now. A rigor mortis o’ fear turn the whole uniform and the man inside it to pure starch, or like how a pair o’ pyjamas does-look when you left um out on the line in the dead o’ winter.

  “Goddamn!” the man say.

  “You park wrong,” the hornet say.

  “Who say I park wrong?”