excerpts from Monkey Me
THE TRAMP
Many thought Mimol was insane. He was perhaps the closest man to God I had ever met. He was a mariner, a pirate and he looked like Peter Lorre on crack. He spent his life in a drunken stupor. Son of a whore, he left Brittany when he was fourteen years old and made his way around the world on a cargo ship. “I am a man of the sea.” That is who he was. He lived life for the moment and on his own terms. His English was broken but poetic, and he could speak on any subject and in any situation. He had his boat and that was all he needed. He was free. “The one who found freedom on the sea is forever lost on land.” He said this many times. Always a smile on his face, always a song on his lips, Mimol was a tramp.
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
There she was, a vision of such exquisite radiance that I felt born again, inspired to life. Her hair was the color of roasted chestnuts, the color of Mother Earth, rich and fertile. It cascaded down her shoulders as if it were water falling from atop a mystical mountain. Her skin was the color of the summer wind, a terracotta cream, full and deep, shimmering in the sunlight like spun silk. Her face was round and glowing like a virgin moon shedding light into the darkness of the shadows of my loneliness. An utter innocence and sexual affection stabbed into my heart like an unfulfilled longing, a wanton desire. I felt a controlled shortness of breath, a reverence for beauty blessing my entire body. Her eyes wept with an honest openness that was so shockingly disarming I felt at peace with the realization of my unwholeness, my cosmic insignificance and at the same time absolute importance in the garden of infinity. I felt a fire so inherent pouring from those almond eyes that I heard it in the form of music vibrating in the most glorious places of my body. Her smile quelled all restlessness and caused such a visceral anxiety in me that I felt a cannibalistic hunger to feed on her brilliance devouring me. The way she carried her delicate features made me want to protect her from myself. I felt embarrassed at such awkward and intense feelings and anger that such a dangerous creature was allowed to exist. She was an angel and I wanted to fuck her.
LA CANTINA
La Cantina was truly in harmony with the flow of St. Martin. It changed moods and wore many faces throughout the day. The feeling you were given by La Cantina was decided upon first by Joley, the street roaming crack addict who swept the floors every morning. Joley had once sang with Magnus, a semi-successful reggae band from St. Croix. His love for the drink and the drugs ended his short-lived career. Joley still carried his flute in his back pocket breaking it out every now and then for a tune.
If his appetite for drink and rock were distracted the previous night, he would come early the next morning humming and whistling with a light but rabid joy. A big smile on his face, he was inviting and charming, a vision of the Caribbean native. The floors would be swept, tables arranged neatly and the morning would begin graciously.If something directed Joley during the day toward a course of angst and resentment, he would meet the night with ferocity. In the morning he would wake in a pool of his own vomit and urine outside La Cantina. He would stumble through his work roaring incoherently under his breath, the entropy of the day would then take its domino effect.Elodi, the little Frenchwoman whose Portuguese husband owned La Cantina and who opened it every morning, would come storming in with a stick held high yelling and screaming at Joley. She would chase him away telling him to never come back. This would happen in varying degrees two or three times a week. She would then hastily arrange the tables and sweep the floors. If her previous night was tranquil and smooth she would laugh it off and get on with her day. But if her husband, Joao, stayed out late drinking, as he did three or four times a week, thoughts of his infidelities would drive her mad. She would toss and turn in her sleep and the day would start with anger. She would not laugh at Joley. She would open the morning with hate and the coffee would taste of it. There would be a snap to her tongue and La Cantina would be thick from the smoke of her never ending chain of cigarettes. She was once very beautiful, but the spark in her eyes was dwindling and she was letting her voluptuous body go.If James, the Fisherman for La Cantina and a few other restaurants and bars, had caught an abundant harvest that morning, the food would be fresh and cheap. But if the refrigerator stopped working, the beer would be warm and it would take Maximum, the repairman, the rest of the day and several rums to fix it. The cook, Charles, was always smiling. Singing Dominican melodies of his youth, he would bring his ten year old son to the kitchen and instruct him in the art of Creole food. He was a spicy and flamboyant man and his food was real. His wit and humor would keep Elodi from exploding throughout the day. If the vegetable truck hadn’t broken down and sat too long in the sun, the garnishes would be tight and crisp, every dish would look like a portrait.If the day’s breeze was cool and the sky slightly overcast, the waves from the sea would beat lazily against the rocks. It would be soothing and hypnotic.Whether or not the forces were to or fro, La Cantina was always alive. The clientele did not discriminate, and few tourists ever set their feet inside. It was a bar for the frontiersmen of St. Martin, it was a bar for the mariners. They demanded their drink and food, hunger was their best sauce. Today was a day when all of the variables fit together to create a beautiful orchestra of life. Joley was playing his flute on the wharf outside, Elodi had gotten dick last night from her man, Charles was dancing in the kitchen to the Calypso on the radio and the beer was cold.SHORT STORIES
from
Caribbean Chronicles...
1. The "Liberation" of Cymru
2. Our Confidence
3. Crack Alley
4. The Drug Runner
5. Sea Terror
