And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Remember Charlie Chaplin name dem Rastafarah.’

  That was enough for Norton. Next thing he was on his feet and boogying around the room with his drink in his hand like a man possessed.

  He danced his way down to the balcony, stepped outside and stood in the dark, moving loosely to the music coming through the curtains behind him while the nuclear reaction in his brain sent thoughts and ideas spinning everywhere. There was no moon or stars and not much to see except one massive grey cloudbank being blown towards the low silhouette of the mountains to his right. Then the weirdest thought hit Les. It was like he’d been there before; this bizarre feeling of déjà vu. Les could see the pirate ships, the slaves in the sugar fields, the women walking round in their crinoline dresses, holding parasols above their heads to shade their faces. Les knew he was drunk and well and truly out of it, but this feeling was too strong to be imagination. There was something there for sure. Some kind of bond going back hundreds of years. A funny little tingle went up and down Norton’s spine and goosebumps began to pepper his arms. He stared into the darkness for a while as more wondrously crazy thoughts exploded through his mind then went back inside.

  The reggae coming from the radio seemed to be filling the room and sounded pretty good. Yet Les couldn’t help but think. Shit! How would a good stereo go now and a few of my tapes? Absolutely sen-bloody-sational. He took a sip of rum and 7-Up and stared at the funny- looking bloke in the mirror as more fascinating thoughts and perceptions swirled round inside his head. Well, it’s all very nice grooving around in here thinking as if I’m the Dalai Lama. But. There’s a band playing right on my doorstep and this pot and booze has got me just about knackered. I reckon I ought to go check out Mo’ Bay on Saturday night because in about two hours I’m going to crash. Les took another sip of drink and winked at the bloke in the mirror. The bloke nodded back. Yes, a jolly good idea. He rolled himself into a pair of jeans, got some money and things together then laughing away at absolutely nothing drifted out the door.

  Norton cruised up the hallway then took a left into the TV lounge on one leg, almost like Charlie Chaplin. Whether Les was paranoid about people looking at him didn’t make any difference, they were anyway; it was a while since anyone had seen an entrance like that. He opened the door and floated out into the entertainment area landing softly among the chairs and tables like Peter Pan. There weren’t that many people around, twenty at the most, mostly Americans in casual gear with their wives and girlfriends or whatever. Naturally they all stopped what they were doing and looked at Les. Norton didn’t take that much notice. All he knew was that if he didn’t sit down soon he was likely to drift off into the night sky and start singing ‘The Banana Boat Song’, thinking he was Harry Belafonte. There was an empty table almost in front of the small stage set up in front of the bandstand. He drifted over to it and sat down, dropping his room key on the table. Some sort of light, reggae-disco music drifted out of the speakers. It sounded pleasant enough and seemed to melt in with the surroundings. Les sat staring ahead as the ganja spread through him some more and thought that any second now and he was going to melt into the chair. From out of nowhere an apparition in black and white appeared at his table. Hello, thought Les. This is it. I’m being asked to leave. The T-shirt and joggers. I knew it was too good to be true.

  ‘Good evening, sir. May I get you something?’

  Completely Chinese-eyed, Les looked up at the waiter. It was bloody Harry Belafonte. No, his young brother. ‘Banan… banana. Banana daiquiri please.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  The waiter left with Norton staring blankly after him. What did I just do? Order a bloody banana daiquiri? I’m not a yank. I’m an Australian. I want a Vegemite one. I do? No, I don’t. Shit! I don’t know what I want. Les sat staring in front of him trying to figure out what he was thinking about, when the waiter returned and placed a huge, fluffy, white drink in front of him full of tiny pink umbrellas, pieces of fruit on toothpicks and other junk. He looked at Norton’s room key and offered him the receipt and a biro. Hello, what’s this? thought Les. He wants an autograph. He thinks I’m an aussie cricketer too. Hang on a minute. Norton began to sense this giant, enormous brainstorm arriving and forming in his mind. I can charge the drinks to my room. I’m a bloody genius. He took the biro and hesitated for a second. How many Ts in Norton? There’s only one, isn’t there? Yeah, right there is. Les signed the receipt and the waiter smiled. As he was about to move off Les handed him some monopoly money.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he smiled again.

  Well, what about that? How clever am I? Charge it to my room. I’ll bet there’s not too many people round here would have known how to do that. Les glanced around at the other drinkers, convinced they were all staring at him. Probably the lot of them. Christ! That shit’s worse than I thought.

  Norton settled back in his chair and mellowed out into the music and the night and took a sip of his drink. It was unbelievably sweet and delicious. He took another sip, a bigger one, and started thinking again and laughing to himself. Bloody hell! What’s wrong with this? I’m pissed, stoned, sitting back in a top hotel waiting for a band to come on, and I got two weeks or more to go. I got plenty of pot, all the grouse rum I can get my hands on and a heap of chops to spend. He took another slurp of his drink. Shit! I could think of worse places to be. Like freezing to death back in Sydney. In a Florida gaol. Stuck with Captain Rats back at Swamp Manor. Instead, I’m in Jamaica drinking daiquiris. I think I’m in front somehow. Les was sipping his drink, laughing and thinking to himself how lucky he was, when there was movement on stage. Four men in white tuxedos got behind some drums, guitars and an electric piano. The lead singer on bass guitar eased up to the mike and smiled out over the small crowd.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he crooned. ‘We’re the Tego-Tones. We’d like to play for you for a while, before our lovely singer comes on to entertain you. Jamaica’s own princess of song, Melanni Mystique. Thank you.’

  The lead singer nodded to the others and they slipped easily into some well-rehearsed, middle of the road, West Indian type of music. It was nothing spectacular, but it sounded pretty good to Les and if he closed his eyes he could imagine there were twenty up on stage instead of four. The music surrounded him, some notes hung in the air, others just seemed to drift off into the night sky. He ordered another two daiquiris and mellowed out some more, not thinking about a great deal in general; any thoughts he did have seemed to drift off into the night along with the music. After all the shit that went down in Florida Les couldn’t believe how peaceful and relaxed he now felt.

  Eventually the band stopped and the lead singer started up on some spiel that ended with, ‘… and now would you please welcome on stage, our very own Melanni Mystique.’

  There was a ripple of applause and a slender woman, somewhere in her mid-twenties, stepped out onto the small stage. She wore white slacks, gold high-heels and a red, black and gold lame top. Her hair was bobbed short over a pretty face with full red lips and a pearly white smile that seemed to sparkle in the light.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ she beamed, as if she was playing a packed Sands at Las Vegas instead of twenty mildly interested American tourists and one drunk, stoned, but very enthusiastic Australian, ‘I’d like to welcome you to the Rose Point Resort at Montego Bay on my beautiful island of Jamaica.’ Melanni then went into her spiel about how wonderful it was to be here and entertain you, and how one visit to Jamaica wasn’t enough and everybody always came back, etc, etc. Then she nodded to the band and cut into some song about Montego Bay, palm trees, beaches and love. She sounded good.

  Les sat back and enjoyed the show and tried to think who the girl reminded him of. A whippy Dionne Warwick; she sang and held the notes almost exactly like her. It was a typical resort type show; fairly laid-back and don’t excite the guests too much. But no matter what, Melanni could warble like there was no tomorrow. The way she delivered the songs and held
the notes almost brought tears to Norton’s eyes. Any thoughts Les had about Dionne Warwick were justified when Melanni cut into ‘Always Something There To Remind Me’. If the other songs almost brought tears to Norton’s eyes, this one actually did. The big Queenslander couldn’t help it. The high notes seemed to cut into him like a knife and he brimmed over. She did ‘The More I See You’, ‘The Look of Love’, ‘Easy Skankin’’, and more. All middle of the road stuff, but Les clapped like mad, dragging the other guests along with him. She finished the night then came on for an encore with ‘No Woman No Cry’ and brought the small house down. Les was a shot duck after that.

  The band played a few more numbers but nobody got up and danced, and outside the night wasn’t doing much except starting to drizzle. Les stared out into the night and at the lights flickering above the beach through the raindrops. Just like the rain, everything started to come down around him too. Les was stuffed. But what a night it had been. What a day, for that matter. That morning he’d been in America, now he was in Jamaica. And it was time he put his head down. He finished his last drink and left some money on the table. He was going to ring for a taxi but decided to walk home, it wasn’t all that far. Norton weaved his way through the tables and back to his room.

  The room wasn’t quite spinning when he walked in, but it was certainly changing directions a bit. He climbed out of his clothes then poured himself a 7-Up and ice and took it out on the balcony; there wasn’t much to see except light rain and darkness so he went back inside. The radio was starting to crackle and fade, Les decided to switch it off, along with the lights, and throw the towel in. He climbed into bed, pulled a sheet over him and lay back with his eyes closed staring into nothing except what looked like coloured, hexagonal snowflake patterns bursting over mountains behind his eyelids as he drifted off into the cosmos. Well, here I am, thought Les. Jamaica. I’ve found my spiritual roots. Nirvana. I’ve finally reached a higher plain of consciousness. I am the bloody Dalai Lama. Norton thought for a moment. Shit! What would I do if I was the Dalai Lama? He yawned and burrowed his head further into the pillow. Probably walk into the nearest Pizza Hut and say ‘make me one with everything’. Buggered if I know.

  Norton didn’t feel all that bad when he surfaced the following morning. He didn’t feel all that good either; but at least the face staring at him in the bathroom mirror didn’t look like a supernova this time round. Christ! What a landing that was, mused Les, wiping a towel over his face. Talk about ‘work all night on a drink of rum’. Reckon. And what about that Bob Hope? I think I’ll be keeping that in the bottom drawer for special occasions only. He got a glass of water and went out onto the balcony. It was grey and overcast outside with the same blustery wind blowing, but still as oppressively hot and humid as ever. Les went back inside into the cool, sipped his water and plotted what he was going to do. Norton had given up on the idea of leaving the air-conditioners off by now. Heat was heat. But this humidity was almost enough to drown you, and whether or not air- conditioning gave you the flu, pneumonia or legionnaires’ disease, it was staying on. He didn’t have to pay the power bill anyway. Well, a swim in the pool would be okay. Or even better, a snorkel round that reef in the warm, blue Caribbean. Then breakfast. And if it’s not too early in the day I might even make another decision later on. I’m a live wire.

  Feeling in a pretty good mood Les climbed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and cleaned up last night’s evidence, in case the cleaner should come in. Still whistling softly to himself Les got his snorkeling gear, and with his sunnies on his face and a towel under his arm headed for the hotel beach.

  Part of the previous night’s entertainment area had been converted into a breakfast buffet. An elderly lady in a black maid’s uniform opened the door for Les and he stepped out to where about ten yanks and a couple of Japanese were sitting around eating. It all looked good and it certainly smelled good. Don’t worry gang, smiled Les, his stomach starting to rumble as he walked down the stairs to the pool area. I’ll be back shortly. With a vengeance. He walked past the pool and down the sandstone steps onto the beach. There were barely half a dozen guests there, and about as many staff, standing around a few catamarans and windsurfers, their flags and cables fluttering or rattling in the on-shore breeze. A row of banana lounges went off to the left, Les had a quick look around and trudged off in that direction. The tide was right up and what sand there was seemed gritty and coarse. The water swirling round his ankles felt warm and looked like weak Lime Kooler after someone had tipped milk into it. The choppy windswell, washing over the reef about two hundred yards out, looked murky and chund- erous also. Definitely not an inspiring sight. So much for the sparkling blue Caribbean, grimaced Norton. Still, it was raining fairly steadily last night. Anyway, I’m here now. A few more metres past the last banana lounge, he got into his snorkeling gear and plunged in.

  The ocean temperature was the same as in Florida, but the water absolutely filthy; you could barely see five feet because of the run-off from the rain. Les swam on, bumping into rocks and lumps of dull brown coral; the water was hardly a metre deep in parts, but you wouldn’t know how deep it was till you swam into something. Les put his head down and ground on till he finished up washing against the granite headland at one end. So far he’d seen absolutely nothing except murky, swirling water; he didn’t even see the headland until he banged into it. Ohh fuck this, he cursed, pushing himself away from the rocks. It’s like a shithouse. Somewhat disgruntled, he swam straight in, walked back along the beach and picked up his gear, then went back to the hotel.

  Except for a couple of Japanese and a few kids, there was hardly anybody in the pool; Les dumped his stuff on a nearby banana lounge and dived straight in. After the salty, choppy mess on the beach it was delightful. He did a few laps, swam into the deep end and duck dived up and down, even lay on his back and spurted water up in the air like a whale. It wasn’t hard to take and Les flopped around for quite a while, thinking he’d definitely spent worse mornings. His spirits restored and his hunger starting to mount, Les finally climbed out, towelled himself off and went back to his room to tidy up.

  The same smiling woman, old enough to be Norton’s mother, opened the door for him when he returned, making Les feel a little self-conscious; he felt like telling her he was big and ugly enough to open a door without some poor old lady opening it for him. But it was probably her job and even if it didn’t feel right he just smiled back and said nothing. There was a new scrum of about ten diners now, all yanks, stuffing themselves with the glurpiest food they could find while their loud, whiny accents seemed to ricochet from table to table. It was punishing, but Les was that hungry now he wouldn’t have been distracted from his food even if he’d landed in the middle of a Hitler youth rally. He went up to the girl on the till, showed her his key and signed the chit.

  ‘So what do I do now, miss?’ asked Les, looking at the tables full of food. ‘Start here and just work my way along?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Just help yourself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ smiled Les.

  He picked up a plate then changed his mind and got a bowl, thinking he might go for a big feed of fresh fruit first washed down with chilled juice. By the time Les sat down his bowl was overflowing with sliced melon, pink banana, mango, star fruit and anything else that was peeled and colourful, along with two large glasses of guava and orange juice. There was that much fruit he had to get another two glasses of juice to wash it down. Next, Les got a plate and found the Jamaican spicy sausages, the scrambled eggs with gungo peas and shallots, fried tomatoes and heaps of other tasty little morsels. Les ripped into this with more fruit juice and finished off with three bammie cakes and two strong cups of Jamaican coffee thick enough to bog a duck. Well, thought Les, belching delicately into his serviette, I think that might do me for the time being. One certainly can’t complain. He left some money on the table for the waiter who’d been clearing away his mess, then strolled over to the balcony and gazed contented
ly out over the ocean. He was only standing there a few moments when a bit of a rumble went through his stomach. Mmmhh. Those gungo peas don’t take long to get moving. S’pose I may as well leave another tip for someone before I go. As Les walked past a table of four, revoltingly dressed seppos doing their utmost to let everyone in the hotel know they were from Pocatello, Idaho, he dropped his key. When he bent down to pick it up, Norton silently and discreetly, like a true gentleman, slid out a long, withering fart that could only be described as inhumane. As the elderly lady opened the door for him again, Les smiled and stopped. That’s funny, he thought. Am I getting another sense of déjà vu? He turned round to where the team from Pocatello, Idaho, were choking and gagging into their hash browns and pancakes as if a mustard gas shell had burst next to their table. I wonder how my old mate Peregrine’s going? He’d be enjoying his breakfast this morning, a bit better than those seppos, I’d reckon.

  Back in his room Les poured himself a glass of 7-Up, took it out onto the balcony and stared out over the countryside, thinking what he should do. There was no reggae coming down from the radio, only church music. That’s right. It’s bloody Sunday. I almost forgot. Praise the Lord or jah rastafarai, as the locals might say. More church music played, causing Les to think. Yes, if I was any sort of a decent bloke I’d go to church on a Sunday myself. But I’m not a decent bloke and I don’t know where I’d find a church. But I think I know where there’s something close to a church. A manse. According to that book, the Nortons have got one not far from here. He got the book on Jamaica and his map and spread them out on the bed. According to the map Dredmouth was about thirty or so kilometres along that same coast road in a kind of bay. And the book told you just about exactly where the manse was; down the end of Holding Street, past the post office, west of the town square fountain. Les stared at the book and map for a moment then clapped his hands together. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll go check out the Norton Manse. Let’s make a move.