I take a drink to move my mind off the things some young people do in the name of being young and under supervised. The dancehall helped keep me distracted and out of their business as they parade pass me adjusting their tops & hair.

Was actually liking the tunes and began feeling like dancing. But the plan was to stay in the car so we don’t embarrass the daughter when she comes out. So now I’m wondering…why would she be?

“Hey, how old is your daughter?”
“She just turned 14.”
“Aren’t you worried about her being out here?”
“No…she goes to parties all the time with her friends.”

I couldn’t resist so I asked…about…protection…gasp. Dang I wish I could remember the song that played in the background when he told me since she was 11 he’s the one who makes sure she has “protection”. I guess I’ve been out of the overly-guarded mommy role longer than I thought because his answer didn’t set right with me. End of conversation…I need to dance.

“The time must be after 11:00. Maybe you should call her?” He picked up the phone to call. I get out to walk closer to the entrance, but not far from the car. People were leaving out, but still many were going in.

I dance.
He joins me.
We dance.

The vibe, unfortunately, is contradictory. Don’t know if it’s because I’m tired…hot…restless…unsettled…tipsy...whate ver. All I know is the music is cranked, demanding I move to its ferocious tempo, but the rhythm between us ain’t flowing at all. I can’t stay in sync with the beats. me twist when me shudda wine, me wine when me shudda dip n go dung low. He on the other hand, was trying to carve his hopes, dreams and perverted fantasies over my ass with his “tool”. I try not to make a fuss because it is dancing; however I can’t help feeling how stupid we must look. He’s short…so short I can’t tell if the “tool” is actually his mid-section or his chin. This isn’t working. I’m ready to jet.

“Hey…dude…you reach your daughter?”
“Wha?????”
“Your daughter. Did you talk to her?”
“Yeah…yeah…she get annoda ride and gone home.”

I can’t react. I stare with disappointment at the silhouette our incompatible bodies cast on the ground. Cha…my precious second to last night in Jamaica…wasted.

“Vi….” As he stands on his tip toes to whisper in my right ear.
“Yeah??”
“You make my nature…..”
“Sorry A, but it’s not that kind of party.”

I snap a picture of the ground, throw back a rather large swallow of my drink, pry myself from his grip and walk back to the car. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long ride back to Negril. Cha!