by Nick Cannon
Toasta nodded. “But, that was on the streets of New York, Tarzan. Things operate differently here.”
I shook my head, unsure.
“I vouch for Farmer. You can trust him.”
I stared at him for a long time. Farmer waited. Toasta nodded at me, encouragingly.
“A’ight.” I reluctantly handed over the fat roll of hundreds. It was everything I had.
Farmer took it, tucked it into his pocket, and nodded.
“Come again in t’ree days’ time, and we move fo’ward. Mi also provide services at the dock so no badmans or police can interfere. We operate very low key. Keeps a healthy business going. Ya understand?”
I did. I listened while Farmer outlined his operation. He told me about the men he had all over Kingston. His team sounded organized and efficient. He spoke of how they moved through uptown and the lower territories. I felt more at ease as I listened to him. Handing over all my money didn’t seem like such a bad move now. From the sound of it, Farmer was running one of the most sophisticated and notorious marijuana-trafficking operations in town.
We left, and took the long drive back to Hellshire. I felt a crazy mix of adrenaline and anxiety. I was excited, but fearful at the same time. The next few days would be tough to get through. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the product, and get money!
When we finally got back to town, Toasta pulled his old rusty Beamer up to the house he used to share with Peta Gaye. Today, the place was in complete chaos. The kids were crying, we could hear the sound of glass breaking, and above the noise of it all, Peta Gaye was yelling.
“Ya Daddy no help! He wan’ run di street trying to be a badman deejay!”
I glanced at the house and realized that Peta Gaye was staring directly at us while she said it. Aware that her husband was within earshot, she yelled even louder.
“What type o’ deejay makes no money? I cook, clean, and do every ting! Mi slave in this hellhole and look after the pickney! And what does mi husband do? Eh?”
Reluctantly, Toasta climbed out of the car and I followed. As we slowly walked toward the house, dreading the confrontation, Maya approached carrying an empty basket. She stopped when she saw me.
“Hey,” I said. “Where ya off to?” My attempt at a Jamaican accent fell flat, and she laughed.
“On mi way to the market.” She flashed me a pretty smile and walked off.
I looked at Toasta, ready to tell him that I was leaving with Maya. But, he already knew what was up.
“Let me go inside here and handle this madness. You go catch up to ya likkle girlfriend.”
He was teasing me, but I didn’t care. I trotted off to catch up with the woman who had my full attention.
SWEET THING
As I got closer to her, I grabbed a handful of my shirt and sniffed it. I still smelled like old trash and fish shit. I snatched my shirt off and threw it away, just as I caught up to Maya.
She looked at me with her eyes wide. “Whappem to ya shirt?”
“Long story,” I said. “Anyway, I thought you would want to see the six-pack abs.” I flexed my muscles for her.
Maya smiled. “Please! I just don’t wan’ ya likkle pickney chest to catch cold.”
I pretended to be offended and she laughed. She was trying to front like she didn’t appreciate the view. But, I noticed her checking out my body, admiring my tattoos.
“You mind if I come with you to the market?”
She shrugged, and I walked alongside her. The island seemed even more beautiful than usual while I was walking with her. It seemed like the colors, the scents and sounds all came alive.
“Your sister seemed pretty upset back there,” I said.
“Mi sista too hot at everyone ’cause Toasta nah live right.”
I frowned. “What you mean? Toast is a good dude.”
She sucked her teeth. “Him head in di clouds. Always big talk and dreams about making music in di States and selling millions of records. But him can’t take care of him babies. Mi nah like a dreamer. Him a buguyaga.”
I stopped walking. I was from Brooklyn, but my mother was born and raised on this island. I knew the dialect well enough to know that Maya had just called my cousin a bum.
“Hey!”
I saw remorse flash across her face. She stopped walking and apologized.
“That wasn’t nice. I’m sorry.”
We started walking again.
“Now that I’m here, things are gonna turn around for Toasta. You’ll see.”
She looked at me. “Mmm. Ya don’t say.”
“I’m for real. I’m not a dreamer. I stay woke, and I work shit out. I’m a hustler. If there’s something I want, I go and get it.”
“Well, what is that you want?”
I looked at her, wondering if she knew that right now the answer was her.
“I want to make all the people that I love happy.”
We arrived at the market. It was completely different from the supermarkets back in Brooklyn. Here, there were beautiful, fresh, colorful fruits and vegetables as far as the eye could see. A few elderly women managed each station as Maya and I blended in with the locals walking around filling their baskets.
Maya grabbed a few mangoes and placed them in her basket. I took it from her, and carried it for her the rest of our time there.
“Look, Maya.” I spoke up after a few minutes of shopping in silence. “The other night at the dancehall, I saw how you was digging me.”
She laughed, loudly. “Mi nah know what ya talk ’bout, Tarzan. It was just a dance. Nothing more than that.”
I felt disappointed. “So you dance with all the guys like that?”
“Yes, sir!”
“For real?”
She nodded. “And most of dem can actually handle it.” She walked ahead of me.
“Wait! I could handle it.”
She looked back over her shoulder and shot me a look that said, Yeah, right.
I caught up to her. “Okay,” I admitted. “Maybe I couldn’t handle it last night. But, I want to handle it. I was getting the hang of it. I want to learn how to dance. Can you teach me?”
She looked at me, skeptically. “Ya fah real? Ya wan’ learn?”
“I’m for real,” I said.
“When?” Her eyes were dancing. I could tell she was excited. The thought of that excited me, too.
I stepped closer to her. “Right now.”
We were finished at the market within minutes.
TEACHER’S PET
She took me to a church and pulled me inside. The sun had set, and the place was dark and still. Maya pulled me down the back corridor of the cathedral, and checked to make sure that the coast was clear. Quietly, she began to light candles in the back room.
A mirror and about a dozen blazing candles were our only companions in the room. It felt simultaneously romantic and spooky.
“Yo, you bringing me to a vacant church to teach me how to dance? That’s a little strange.”
“Dis is mi father’s church. It’s where I always rehearse. The only place with a mirror large enough to practice in.” She lit another candle. “This is my sanctuary in more ways than one. It’s the only place where I feel truly safe.”
I was still confused. “So … we gonna be winding and grinding in the Lord’s house?”
She chuckled. “You sound like my father. I say, ‘God sees us no matter where we are. So why hide it?’ Besides, God loves dancehall.” She smiled at me. “It’s just dancing, remember?”
She turned on a small radio in the corner. A sexy dancehall track by Sean Paul began to play.
She faced me, grabbed my hands, and placed them on her hips. Then she spun around and my hands were magically on her backside.
For the briefest moment, I started to pull back, aware that we were in a church. But, then I snapped out of it and realized that this was the chance of a lifetime. I kept my hands firmly in place as she started to slowly wind her hips against me.
&nbs
p; “All ya have to do is go with the vibe. Feel di rhythm. Gently.”
Her voice was soft, and mellow. I did as she told me, and went with the vibe.
“See?” she said. “You naturally have it. Jamaicans move to a different rhythm. It’s the upbeat.”
She popped her backside to the upbeat she was speaking of. I followed, determined to keep up this time.
She encouraged me. “There ya go! Ya got it.”
She swung her hips even more now.
“You pick up quickly. It’s all swagger and sexiness.”
“Well, I definitely got that.”
“Oh really?” She had a mischievous expression on her face. “Well, can ya go low?”
She dropped it low to the ground and I followed. I was handling that thing.
“Okay,” she said, giggling. “I see!”
She dipped it even lower. I tried to do the same, but fell back on my ass instead. I was pissed.
Maya laughed. “You’ll get the hang of it. Patience, Tarzan.”
She looked so beautiful in the sunlight reflecting through the church’s stained glass windows. The heat between us was electric. A warm breeze blew in through the open window, tickling my skin and making my senses come alive. I felt a wave of spiritual energy overtake me. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. I felt inhabited by a spirit that was so pure and so erotic at the same time. I lost all control. I flipped her over so that she was lying on her back beneath me on the floor. I straddled her and we were face-to-face. The sexual tension between us was thick enough to slice. I could feel it, and I was sure that she could, too.
I couldn’t help myself. I leaned in and kissed her passionately. She seemed reluctant at first. But, finally, she went with it. She kissed me back with so much intensity that I groaned, hungry for her. Although we were no longer dancing, there was still a rhythm to our kiss. Everything with Maya felt natural, and unforced. I lost myself in the rapture of the moment. It felt like a dream, and I didn’t want to wake up.
I slowly peeled her shirt off, revealing her pretty bra. I was so hard that it almost hurt. I moved in to kiss her skin. Then, Maya pulled back.
“Wait…”
I sighed. The spell had been broken. It occurred to me that this was definitely not the place for this.
“My bad,” I said. “You’re right. Not in your father’s church.”
“Nah. Mi nah care about that.”
“Word?” I looked at her, surprised.
“I believe there’s nothing to hide from God.”
I nodded. That made sense.
“It’s just … mi nah…” She looked away, embarrassed.
“You’re a virgin?”
She nodded yes.
I drew back in shock. “Wait. All of that winding and grinding you do when you dance and you’ve never had sex?”
She shook her head.
“Wow. You could’ve fooled me. You move like a veteran.”
“Mi tell ya before. It’s just dancing. I consider mi’self a queen. A man will have to be my king to enter the castle.”
I laughed. “Really?”
She was serious. “One day I may meet a king. But, until I do, mi nah ready.”
I was impressed. “I guess I gotta respect that.”
She looked at me, her eyes searching me. “So you finish with your dance lessons now that ya nah getting the pum?”
I shook my head. “Nah. I still want to dance. I told you, I want to learn. So we can dance all night.” I stood up.
She looked at me, wide-eyed. “Really? You just want to dance?”
“Just dance. I want to master this.”
She stared at me in silence for a few moments. I could tell she was pondering something.
“If you want to really master this, you gotta go all the way. The realness. The raw, dutty yard!”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
She smiled. “Okay. Let me talk to a couple of people. Mi have plans for you, Tarzan.”
I smiled. “I like the sound of that.”
THE COME UP
I had a lot on my mind while the next couple of days ticked by. First off, Maya consumed my thoughts. The feeling of her body pressed against mine; the taste of her mouth and her skin. I caught myself daydreaming about her more than once. My mind was also preoccupied with thoughts of Farmer. I worried that he might play me, take all my money and run. I had given him a whole lot of money. I was starting to have doubts about whether Toasta knew this nigga as well as he thought he did.
I kept busy with my work at Uncle Screechie’s, and I even spent some time helping Aunt Cheryl in her garden. As gruff as she was, she had a warm spirit. While we tended the soil, she shared her concerns about her son. Just like my mother, she wanted the best for her child. She worried about him down at the dancehall where life and death were separated by a very thin line. I assured her that Toasta was safe. Especially now that I was in town. I promised to have his back and to keep my eyes open.
I called home and let my mama know that I was okay. That I had found a job, and I was staying out of trouble and helping Aunt Cheryl. She wasn’t happy that I had sent my brother back home with an envelope full of cash and no explanation. She was even more upset that I had left town without telling her first. But she seemed relieved to hear that I had gotten into a routine on the island where she was born and raised. It comforted her to know that I was safe with family. Trent let me know that, despite her protests, she had put the money to good use and they were all right. That set my mind at ease while I waited for my hustle to start.
In the evenings, Toasta and I headed out to the dancehall. I loved it there, and found myself looking forward to arriving each night. The music became a part of me. Back in Brooklyn, I had never spent much time listening to the lyrics of many reggae songs I had heard over the years. But now I was truly hearing the songs for the first time, discovering a love for the music that was new to me. Watching the dancers each night, I came to understand that the rhythm and the movement were part of the culture. I grew up thinking that dancing was something corny dudes did in the background of music videos and at goofy neighborhood talent shows. But, this was different. I started to understand why Toasta had hyped up this lifestyle so much while I was away. It felt like we were on the verge of something big that was bubbling just below the surface. He was deejaying at the hottest dancehall club in Kingston. Night after night I was there, soaking it all up.
I was also watching Maya. I was soaking up all the little nuances of her. The way that she bit her lip when she danced. The way her arms moved, the sway of her neck. She became a bit of an obsession for me. Each night, she was at The Jungle with her girls, battling rival dance crews for the number one spot. I watched her from the sidelines, still trying to get up the nerve to join her on the dance floor. My experience had taught me that she was not an easy one to handle in private. I wasn’t sure that I could hold it together in front of a crowd. For now, I was content to be her captive audience. I loved to watch her move. From my vantage point, she was the sexiest woman in all of Kingston.
On the third day Farmer proved to be a man of his word. Toasta and I skipped work at Uncle Screechie’s and headed up the mountainside once more. Farmer hit us off with a ton of weed, and we sat down with him and set up our whole operation. Farmer delivered my “luggage,” literally. His men arrived with several large suitcases packed with marijuana. The bricks of weed were Saran-wrapped and zipped into various articles of clothing inside.
Farmer explained the way things worked down at the docks. He gave us the cost of doing business there, with cruise ships coming in daily and certain customs agents willing to look the other way for the right price. I contacted Kareem back in Brooklyn, and urged him to book the next flight to Kingston. Now was the time to put my plan in motion. If everything went smoothly, we were all about to make a whole lot of money.
Toasta and I split the weed between Aunt Cheryl’s house and the home he shared with Pet
a Gaye. Neither woman knew what we were up to. Otherwise, there would have been hell to pay. We moved quietly, and acted as if nothing had changed. We continued working at Uncle Screechie’s, coming and going like nothing was different. Until Farmer helped us assemble our crew; we had a whole lot of weed and only the two of us to move it. Toasta assured me that we could make a killing at The Jungle each night. We could also sell it to the tourists and patrons at Uncle Screechie’s restaurant. But, that would only begin to put a dent in the amount of work we had. I needed a team.
As if in answer to my prayers, Maya met me at Uncle Screechie’s restaurant when I was done with my shift that Friday.
“You ready for the next part of ya lesson?” She rubbed her hands together, excitedly.
I took off my work shirt. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
She took me to a part of town I wasn’t familiar with. We walked through a maze of empty buildings to an old abandoned warehouse. It was full of broken-down cars and scraps of metal. I saw a group of thugged-out yard boys chilling in the back. A couple of them were leaning on the cars, smoking weed and drinking liquor straight from the bottle.
Two of the guys drew weapons the second they spotted us. One held a gun, the other a machete. I stopped in my tracks, but Maya laughed and kept right on walking in their direction.
“Simmer down, boys. Mi tol’ ya mi was comin’.”
The grimaces were instantly replaced with smiles when they realized it was Maya.
The guy holding the machete kept grilling me, though. He wasn’t grinning at all. Just staring me down like he wanted beef.
Maya sensed the tension.
“Killa Bean, meet Tarzan. As mi tell you, di man from foreign. So for me, be nice. Make him feel at home.”
She looked at me. “These guys are the best underground crew in all of Jamaica.”
Killa Bean looked me over, skeptically. He grunted a bit. Kicked the ground. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He looked at me again, long and hard. “Him a dancer? Can him move?”