And De Fun Don't Done

by Robert G. Barrett

  He came back with two plates in his hands, stacked with that much food you couldn’t have so much as fitted a business card on either one. Watching him eat fascinated Les almost as much as it repulsed him. Muscles didn’t eat his food, he seemed to grind his way through it like some kind of human tree-mulcher. Bits of rice or lettuce would fall from his mouth onto the table and he’d grind away remorselessly, Miss Prizzy even cut up some of his food for him and pushed it in his mouth. He demolished the first two plates then came back with two more, plus bread rolls and four pieces of corn on the cob, and away he went again. Chomp, grind, snort, slurp; washing it down with another two beers. Les noticed some of the staff watching Muscles with looks of amused satisfaction. They saw Les looking at them and had to turn away when Les nodded towards Muscles and started scratching under his arms like a gorilla. Captain America snapped his fingers for more beers. One of the waiters brought them over and it was all the poor bloke could do to keep a straight face with Les looking at him and bobbing up and down on his seat making more monkey gestures. It was funny enough for a while then just as quickly the whole scene began to turn Norton off. It just didn’t seem right. Les was no socialist or communist, but here at this luxury resort everybody was pigging into all this food till it was coming out their ears — what they didn’t eat would probably get tossed in the garbage — and just outside the front gates people were living in little more than boxes made out of driftwood. Some poor, battling little kid was working seven days a week to make about four bucks picking up bottles, and two fifteen-year-old girls were selling their bodies for about another five bucks each. Yeah, it’s a funny old world alright, thought Les. He had another mouthful of Red Stripe, left his camera case on the table and walked down to take some photos of the band.

  There were one or two Jamaican couples dancing and it was quite pleasant down the front with the breeze coming in off the sea. Les took a couple of photos from directly in front, fiddled around with the zoom lens and took a couple from the side and another from behind a palm tree. He hung down the front for a while, enjoying the breeze, then went back to his table.

  Les was sitting there, quietly sipping his beer and looking at his camera. There were three shots left and three black American girls sitting a couple of tables away. They were wearing baggy shorts and college T-shirts and baseball caps round the wrong way, and even though they were all horribly overweight they somehow reminded Les of three fat Supremes. They were definitely worth a photo and maybe Les’d take one of the staff. The zoom lens brought the three girls into focus and Norton fired off two photos. The girls didn’t seem to notice Les taking photos. But Muscles did. He had more plates of food in front of him and was at them while he slurped more beer. He turned around at the flash.

  ‘Hey buddy! What are you doin’ there?’ he bellowed

  ‘Just taking a couple of photos,’ replied Les, a little reservedly.

  ‘Hey! You want some tourist photos?’ slobbered Muscles. ‘Take a photo of me and my gal.’

  Les shook his head. ‘No. I only got a couple of shots left and I want to get some more of the band.’

  ‘Screw the band. Take a photo of me and Lori.’

  Les winced, hardly able to believe what he’d just heard. ‘No thanks, mate.’

  Muscles scowled at Les. ‘What’s this, “no thanks — mite”? Come on, limey. Take a photo.’

  Norton shook his head slowly, impassively and looked directly at Muscles. ‘No.’

  Captain America’s chest started to rise. He looked at his girl then glared at Norton. ‘Who do you think you are, you limey sonofabitch. Ain’t we good enough for you to take our photo?’

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Les. ‘You’re too ugly. Especially your rotten skinny sheila. She looks liked a baked rabbit and I wouldn’t waste the film on her.’

  Miss Prizzy’s jaw dropped. No one had ever spoken to her like that; especially not in front of her boyfriend. Muscles was absolutely outraged. His face coloured and his chest rose. No one had ever spoken to him like that either. Not since he started pumping iron and especially not at the hotel where all the Jamaicans were forced to kiss his big yank arse. He grunted something then lumbered to his feet and charged round the table up to Les.

  ‘You sonofabitch!’ he roared. ‘You can’t talk to me like that. I’m a goddamn American!’

  Norton decided it was time to leave. A few of the staff had stopped what they were doing, sensing something was wrong, and Les didn’t wish to cause a scene. He put his camera back in its case and stood up.

  ‘No you’re not,’ he said evenly to Muscles. ‘You know what you are — mate? You’re a big fat fuckin’ pain in the arse.’

  Saying that, Les swung his right leg back and kicked Muscles straight up his massive cut lunch. There was no way Les could miss it. Muscles went cross-eyed with shock; he grabbed at his groin and howled with pain at the same time. Les bent his knees slightly and belted Muscles with a withering left hook, which only travelled about a foot, but which hit him on the jaw hard enough to lift him off his feet and send him crashing over Norton’s table. Plates and cutlery went everywhere and the table split in half with a crack as Muscles landed at Miss Prizzy’s feet with the tablecloth tangled up round one leg. Blood was starting to bubble out of his mouth and he was out cold but still clutching his cods and moaning. It was a good thing he got into all that food earlier, because from the look of his jaw the only things he’d be eating for the next couple of months would be through a straw. Miss Prizzy stood up, too blown out at the sight of Captain America lying on the deck like a big sack of rotten potatoes to start screaming. The staff looked on in silence, though it wasn’t hard to see they were all secretly stoked. The two security blokes arrived, looked at Muscles lying on the deck among the plates and cutlery then looked at Norton. Les wasn’t quite sure what they were going to do and he didn’t give a stuff all that much either. With that awful Norton look on his face he walked through the broken table to where Muscles had been sitting. There were two plates of goat stew, or something Muscles hadn’t finished eating, still left on the table. Les smiled at the horrified look on Miss Prizzy’s face and scooped up the two plates of food, then turned to the staff, the security guys and anybody else looking.

  ‘And de fun don’t done,’ grinned Norton.

  Les dumped the two plates of stew in Muscles’ face and what didn’t splatter all over Muscles Les pushed into his mouth with the heel of his trainer. Poor Muscles. He looked like shit. Satisfied, Les walked back to where his camera had fallen among the stuff from the broken table. He picked it up and looked at the two security guards. They both grinned.

  ‘Ire, mon,’ said one. ‘And de fun don’t done. Respec, mon.’

  ‘Respec, mon,’said the other, shaking his head. ‘Respec.’

  ‘Exactly,’ nodded Les. ‘Respec. Especially if you’re an I’orton. Goodnight, everybody,’ Les flicked a bit of dirt from his camera and walked back to his room.

  Well, wally. When you leave a place, you certainly leave in style, don’t you? Norton had turned off the light and was lying back in bed, half awake, half asleep, staring up at the ceiling. Almost as bad as when I left bloody Florida. Ahh, serves the big-mouthed seppo prick right, anyway. The overblown fat dope. He yawned and scrunched his head into the pillow. To tell you the truth I’ll be glad to be back home. And the sooner the bloody better. I’m sick of this. Les yawned again and smiled. But jeez that felt good. You can’t talk to me like that, I’m an American. Yeah righto… mite. And I’m not a limey. Les yawned again; deeper this time. Before long his thoughts were of Sydney, Bondi and Dirranbandi. Next thing he was snoring peacefully.

  It was closer to eight o’clock by the time Norton woke up the following morning, had a shower and got ready to make a move. He didn’t dwell too much on the previous night’s events. The main thing on his mind, apart from having to leave unexpectedly, was that after the few beers and not much to eat at last night’s smorgasbord, he was starving hungry. He�
��d probably get fed on the plane. But stuff waiting that long for a sandwich or eating the usual, greasy rip-off stuff they give you at airports when there was a super nosh just outside the door. There wasn’t all that mad a hurry and there’d be plenty of planes leaving that morning. Les had a final, slightly nostalgic look around his room before he closed the door. Oh well. So much for Jamaica. He left his bags at the desk and said he was having breakfast, could they have the bill ready and his car waiting when he finished. No problem, sir. Thank you for staying at Rose Point Resort.

  The food was the same excellent fare as before. The girl at the cash register didn’t say anything when he paid and nobody appeared to be pointing, or recognising him from last night’s effort. There were only about a half a dozen people there and Captain America and Miss Prizzy weren’t among them. Les filled his plates and sat near the balcony overlooking the ocean and away from everyone else just the same. There was barely a breeze coming in off the sea and it was unbelievably hot for so early in the morning. The sky was an odd, hazy violet colour with strips of gunmetal grey clouds out on the horizon, and the air was that thick with humidity you almost needed to get round with an aqualung. Sweat was dripping from Les while he ate and he drank almost two pitchers of cold fruit juice. Which wouldn’t hurt anyway, Les surmised, because all he’d get on the plane would probably be Dr Pepper or some other horrible soft drink or soda pop or whatever the yanks call it. Full to the brim he left a tip, fixed things up at the desk, then, after giving the bloke on the door some monopoly money for putting his bags in the boot, climbed behind the wheel and headed for Sir Donald Sangster Airport.

  The air terminal was just as big a shit fight as the last time Les was there, if not more so. Tour buses were pulling up, along with cars and taxis, all disgorging people and passengers weighed down with luggage. He paid some woman sitting in a little tin shed and found a spot down the back of some dusty, rock-strewn parking area, got out and locked the car. He took his bags with him but decided to leave the car until last just in case there was some delay and he could then take a bit of a drive round the harbour and maybe get a souvenir T-shirt or something rather than sit around the terminal getting annoyed by pests. Inside the departure area there were very few hustlers, but crowds of tourists, in complete contrast to when Les arrived. Mainly Americans, with what sounded like a scattering of Germans or Scandinavians. Euro-trash backpackers seemed to be fairly thin on the ground. Whatever they were, they were either queued up at the check-out counters ten deep, surging towards the departure gates or sitting in a lounge above, drinking either coffee or beer, and all seemed to have an air or relief about them that they were leaving. Les got behind a queue of unmistakable Americans wearing shorts almost as loud as their voices and got his travel documents from his overnight bag. Les had expected he might have to stand around for a while again, so before he left the resort he’d grabbed a copy of the Daily Gleaner from the front desk. He opened it up and glanced across the headlines. They didn’t mean all that much. RICHARD EXPECTED POSSIBLY BY THE WEEKEND. MORE PROBLEMS TO HIT FARM WORK PROGRAM. HEALTH SERVICES STILL CRIPPLED. Something else caught his eye. COPS HELD ON DRUGS. ‘Four policemen attached to Corporate Area stations, along with a civilian, have been detained by the St Ann’s Bay police after a drug related incident in that parish on Sunday,’ the police information centre said. Almost alongside that was WARDER NOW CHARGED WITH HELPING PRISONERS ESCAPE. ‘A correctional officer at the general penitentiary has been arrested and charged with aiding and abetting two inmates at that penal institution to escape.’ Well, there you go, smiled Les. And all the time I thought I’d left Australia. One part of the paper was a memorial section. Photo after photo of grim-faced Jamaican men, some of whom were cops. Under each one was their name and address, a little about his family and the words, ‘Died under tragic circumstances’. On another page was a small headline: TEN MEET VIOLENT DEATHS. Six were hacked to death with machetes. Two were shot. One got run over then doused with petrol and set on fire. The last was shot by the police. So much for love my black brother and oh island in the sun, mused Les. Next it was his turn at the counter.

  ‘Hello,’ Les said pleasantly, ‘I’d like to change my ticket. I’m booked for two weeks or so, but I want to take the next flight out. Then on to Los Angeles and Australia. I just have to change the dates, that’s all.’

  The girl in the blue and white checked uniform looked about the same as the one at customs, only possibly a little politer. She looked quizzically at Norton then flicked through his reservations and passport. ‘You’ve got two weeks left on your ticket.’

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Les. ‘I want to take the next flight out to America. I want to change it.’

  ‘No seats available till Wednesday.’

  Norton gave her a slow blink. ‘No seats till Wednesday?!!’

  ‘That’s right.’ She looked behind Les at the rest of the queue.

  ‘What?… I mean, how come?’

  ‘De hurricane, mon. Hurricane Richard. It’s building up in the gulf. It might get here Friday, we don’t know. Everybody’s getting out.’ The girl pointed to the Gleaner under Norton’s arm. ‘Don’t you read the newspapers? Listen to the radio, watch TV?’ She flicked a long fingernail through Norton’s passport again. ‘Australian. I should have known.’

  Les continued to stare at her. ‘So…?’

  ‘Seven-thirty next Wednesday evening. North West to Miami. Economy. You want a ticket?’

  ‘Yeah. Yes, I’ll take it.’

  The girl started pushing buttons on the computer and rewriting Norton’s ticket. That’s when it dawned on him what had been going on. Carrying on like a mug in Florida when he was drunk, telling that sheila he was a meteorologist and there was a cyclone building up. Many a true word said in bloody jest alright. Not many people on the plane when he flew in. The resort barely a quarter full. That pommy Nigel saying his firm couldn’t have sent him here at a worse time. Ricco and Laverne saying they were due for a big one after that mini one they got through. All this non-stop, stinken humidity. Then this. Les had another look at the headline in the Daily Gleaner before tossing it in a nearby dustbin. Christ! Talk about can’t see the forest for the bloody trees. Les caught his reflection in a glass sign behind the counter. Not much mug in you, is there? He was still thinking on this as he trudged back across the airport in the heat with his bags and his new ticket and sat in the car.

  Well, hasn’t that thrown a nice fuckin’ dampener on things? I’m stuck here till fuckin’ Wednesday. Shit! He banged his fist on the steering wheel. So I suppose I’d better find a bloody joint to stay. I don’t fancy going back to the resort. They can stick it up their arse. He had a look at the map the car company had given him. There was some street called Gloucester Avenue that ran up along the water’s edge. There’d have to be hotels or something there. And it’s handy to the airport if something else stuffs up. Les started the car and headed in that direction. It was easy enough to find, all he had to do was stick by the sea. Les found the start of it okay. But when he did, it was blocked off with barricades and swarming with traffic; mainly utilities and small trucks. He ground to a halt among all the other cars, next to two young cops trying not to do anything, especially direct traffic.

  ‘Excuse me, officer,’ Les called out the driver’s window.

  The cop glanced at Les. His partner took no notice at all. ‘Ya, mon?’

  ‘What’s goin’ on? Why all the barricades and that?’

  ‘Mardi Gras. Monday night be Mardi Gras night. De whole street blocked off till morning.’

  ‘Mardi Gras? Ohh shit!’

  The cop looked at Les the way he did with every dumb tourist he met and made a gesture with his thumb. ‘Move de car, mon.’

  Les looked at him for a second then got going again. He couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Now bloody what? he fumed. Les joined the smoky, noisy crawl of traffic, not knowing where he was going. Before long he found himself going past a park he
recognised, then the roundabout. Beyond that was the one street into town and the hairpin bend that went up the hill. There was something up there if he remembered right. Les hung a quick right at the roundabout, zapped through the other cars and took the hairpin bend up the hill. By watching the trees and streets and other things as he climbed steadily, he found the one he was looking for; and there it was. Overlooking Montego Bay in all its faded glory. The Badminton Club.

  An uneven, tarred parking area faced the street with a boomgate and a small shed on the left. At the back was an office and on its left were four empty, netted-off badminton courts with no shortage of weeds sprouting up through numerous cracks in the concrete; a sign next to the shed out front, two racquets and a shuttle in faded yellow said Badminton Club Hotel. Les pulled up at the boomgate, gave a double blink and shook his head. A skinny Jamaican in an ill-fitting, unpressed uniform and cap appeared from the shed. I’ve got to stop equating everything I see with movies or cartoons, blinked Les. I have to. But the bloke was that slow and gangly the only comparison Les could think of was that dopey mouse in the Bugs Bunny cartoons that Speedy Gonzales is always saving from the cat; the only thing missing was a sombrero. With his shoulders hunched and only the lower part of his body moving, he ambled over and fell on one end of the boom, then looked at Les through half-closed eyes as he drove through.