Night Nurse – Chapter One – The Pickup – Part Two
. . . A TV mounted on the back wall was blaring. I was the only customer in the shop. In addition to the freshly baked goods on display there was an array of other items. Apparently the Out of Town Bakery also served as a convenience stop.
. . . I perused the display case and asked the woman behind the counter for a veggie loaf. She put it in a bag and handed it to me – it was piping hot.
. . . “Wow! It’s hot!” I said.
. . . “Yah, mon.” She laughed and went back to watching the TV. An episode of ‘What Not to Wear” was airing.
. . . I pulled a chair up to the table in front of the counter and commenced to silence my noisy stomach. Halfway through the loaf, which was a tad dry, I got thirsty so I got up and asked the woman for a Cranberry Wata, my all-time favorite, non-alcoholic Jamaican libation.
. . . My immediate hunger now sated, inevitably, my mind drifted back to the young woman whom I’d seen walking on the road. I wondered if she’d been picked up. If not, she would soon be passing by the bakery. I finished the veggie loaf and was sipping on the Cranberry Wata when she walked into the shop.
. . . She cast a quick glance in my direction then walked up to the counter. There was a brief exchange with the clerk, and then she walked out of the bakery. I noted that she had purchased a single cigarette.
. . . Yes, my first impressions had been spot on. She was quite attractive. She was dressed stylishly in a long sleeve white, V-neck sweater. A pair of skinny blue jeans clung tightly to her backside; she had a nice tush. The jeans featured fashionable worn patches and had a couple of strategically placed rips across the thighs. She had a pair of clear flats on her feet and her hair was pleated into a single braid that was wrapped up on top of her head. She was of medium height, well-built, and looked to be thirty-ish.
. . . I watched her through the front window of the bakery. One of the guys who was hanging around outside was talking to her. I got the impression he was trying to pick her up. He gestured to the scooter parked across the street. They spoke in low tones. She shook her head.
. . . She sat at the shaded table and lit her cigarette.
. . . Presently, the two guys left, one on a bicycle, the other on the scooter.
. . . I downed the last of my drink and stepped outside. I picked up my helmet.
. . . I glanced over at the young lady sitting at the table. Nah, no way she was a hooker. Then I saw that her cheeks were wet. She wiped her eyes. She’d been crying. She noticed me watching her. I felt compelled to say something. “Hi,” I said, “How’re you doing?”
. . . “Not good,” she replied. I moved closer to her and lifted the edge of the large umbrella that she sat under so I could better see her. In spite of her wet eyes and damp cheeks, she was very pretty. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
. . . She turned her head slightly and looked directly at me. It was then that I noticed the scar that ran from just behind her left nostril to her ear. It was an old scar, long since healed and uniform. It formed a smooth line across her cheek. “My house was broken into and they took some of my t’ings,” she said.
. . . I put my helmet back down on the scooter’s seat and sat at the table with her. “When did it happen?” I asked.
. . . “Saturday night,” she replied.
. . . Today was Tuesday, so that was three days ago. “What’d they take?”
. . . She took a drag of her cigarette. “My laptop, a camera, my old cell phone and some money.” Going over this toll she appeared to be devastated. A fresh tear formed at the corner of her eye.
. . . Years back, my house had been broken into and robbed, so I empathized with her. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. My robbery loses had been covered by insurance but I doubted that she’d have had any coverage.
. . . “And I’ve been really upset since then. Yesterday was a bad day,” she added, wiping a tear away. I noted she was speaking to me patois free, carefully pronouncing all of her words.
. . . “Is your house nearby?” I asked. I was wondering why she’d been walking down the road.
. . . “No, it’s in Red Ground.”
. . . My apartment was also in Red Ground, and we were a long way from there. “Why are you way out here?” I asked. “Do you work here?”
. . . “No, I came to see a woman to find out who broke into my house.”
. . . I thought about this. I knew a little about Jamaican culture, so I asked her, “An Obeah woman?”
. . . She nodded.
. . . An Obeah woman practices the Jamaican form of shamanism, usually without the trances and extreme, creepy rituals.
. . . “Did she tell you who did it?” I asked.
. . . “She t’inks it was one of my ex-boyfriends.”
. . . “What do you think?”
. . . “Yah, mon. I t’ink it was my last ex.” Totally dejected, she looked down at her hands. My heart went out to her.
. . . “How did you get out here?” I asked.
. . . “Hitched a ride,” she said, looking up at me and waving her hand like she was signalling a passing car. “Like I tried to hitch a ride with you.”
. . . Ah, so she remembered me.
. . . “Why did you come out so early?”
. . . “So I wouldn’t have to wait for the lady. When I left her place there were already people waiting to see her.” She nodded, reinforcing the point.
. . . She sat silently smoking her cigarette. I watched her.
. . . She looked up at me and asked, “Are you going into town?”
. . . I’d planned to explore the other fork in the road, but was now more intrigued by this young woman. “Yeah,” I nodded.
. . . “Can you give me a lift?”
. . . “Sure,” I said. In fact, I’d been about to offer her a ride.
. . . She finished her smoke and stubbed it out on a rock. She stood up. She was petite, about five foot five. She was very slim, maybe 110 or so.
. . . I put my helmet on and started the bike. She got on behind me and we took off down One Love Drive, headed for town.
. . . I steered the scooter along the twisting road, wondering what I was getting myself into. My intentions had been to cruise the roads around Negril until the early afternoon, then go back to my apartment and pack up my suitcase. Then I’d planned to go down to the beach and take a goodbye dip in the ocean. The last couple of days I’d been Jonesing for some jerk chicken from the Best In The West, so that’s what I’d been planning for dinner. After that, I’d have a couple of beers somewhere and call it a night.
. . . I knew from past experience that happenings in Negril are often spontaneous. If anything, they can be relied upon to be unpredictable, so it came as no surprise that my plans were becoming fluid. But I was prepared to go with the flow.
. . . As we zoomed past The Rockhouse my passenger wrapped her arms around my chest, held on tight and put her head on my shoulder. Maybe that’s how they roll in Negril, I thought. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t even know her name.
. . . “Do you drink?” the voice at my shoulder asked. We were just passing Pee Wee’s.
. . . I turned my head and nodded, “Yeah. Are you thirsty?”
. . . “Yah, mon.”
. . . “Okay, let’s get a drink then.”
. . . I didn’t often get the opportunity to talk with a Jamaican who wasn’t trying to sell me something, who worked in the service industry, or from whom I’d purchased a service, so I looked forward to having a drink with my passenger.
. . . I turned my head and asked, “Is there any place that you’d prefer?”
. . . “No, wherever you want. Somewhere on the beach, maybe.”
. . . I decided that Yellowbird, not too far up the beach, would be a good spot.
