The boy inspects her, warily.
Gosh! Isnt it close in here today? Jen coyly fans her décolletage. Arent you dreadfully itchy in that charming hand-knit?
I hail from the tropics. The boy shrugs. In Yard he rolls his eyes, sardonically if youre not sweating or itching then youre probably decomposing.
Great use of the vernacular! Jen squawks. Youre brilliant! Youre a hoot! Did anyone ever tell you how hilarious you are?
Great use of the vernacular! Jen squawks. Youre brilliant! Youre a hoot! Did anyone ever tell you how hilarious you are?
Uh, yes.
He nods. People tell me that all the time. Even when Im being perfectly serious. I find it quite trying.
She gazes at him, bewitched.
How old are you? she wonders.
Im almost fourteen.
Dyou play a musical instrument?
No. You?
Trombone.
She indicates a dry patch on her upper lip.
Im not musical, Israel avows, but one of my great-great-great-uncles on my mothers side used to play brass with Francis Johnson. Theres a strong, brass tradition in our family. My Great-Aunt Hulda was a famous teacher in Freetown
Francis who? Jen interrupts.
He was one of the first really legendary black composers. Im surprised you havent heard of him. Thats actually how my mum ended up meeting my dad. My dad originally played trumpet but he wanted to get into the keyed bugle. He took lessons from my great-aunt
Im just crazy for Fela Kuti, Jen exclaims, excited. Im nutty about him demented. Are you a fan?
Uh Like I say, Im not very musical, Israel demurs, Im more of a literary bent.
I love Fela Kuti! Jen gushes, undeterred. My brother converted me. You know: the hot brass section, the skin-tight trousers, the pidgin English, the trashy cover-art, the nudity, the stomping, the face-paint. Im totally into all that radical, seventies, horn-based, semi-psychedelic African shit.
Good for you.
Israel takes a sip of his Coke.
Im a chameleon, Jen confesses, with a dramatic sigh. This she describes her current, physical incarnation with a cursory swoop of her hand this isnt who I am. This is merely a simulacrum, at best.
We dont have chameleons in Jamaica, Israel muses, but we do have something called an Anole a kind of lizard that changes colour when its stressed.
Amazing. Did you ever think about getting contact lenses? Jen wonders.
I used them for a while, Israel confirms, but I was very prone to eye infections.
Like a sticky, white goo all over the eye?
He winces, remembering.
You werent cleaning them properly! Jens ecstatic. I had that problem myself! Now I use disposables although theyre criminally expensive
Im happy enough with my glasses. Israel adjusts his glasses, self-consciously.
I suppose theres always corrective eye surgery, Jen suggests.
I suppose there is, he acknowledges.
Although sometimes it makes peoples eyes look all wonky.
Ive heard that. He nods.
Your dad wears glasses, Jen muses. I saw you at reception together. You mustve inherited the bad gene from his side of the family.
Hes not my father, Israel mutters, glancing off sideways.
Oh.
Jen promptly removes Israels glasses from his face and commences polishing them on her work blouse.
My ma says my real dad had twenty-twenty vision. Israel squints at her across the table. She says he needed it for his work: he was a professional arsehole.
I hear theres great money in that, Jen wisecracks.
I hate him. Israel scowls.
Why not divorce him, then? Jen suggests, blithely.
Hes dead. Israels still scowling.
Doesnt make any difference. You can always divorce his corpse.
Divorce a parent? Israels intrigued by the notion.
Kids do it all the time nowadays. Its totally the rage.
Israel continues to ponder this concept.
We should research it on the net together after my shift, Jen suggests. I have my own duplicate key to the office
She pulls a long, silver chain into view from under her blouse, on the end of which are two keys, a USB stick and a bottle-opener.
Wont you need to get permission? Israel asks, concerned.
Hell no, Jen snorts, Im a law unto myself. I pop in there all the time to Google information about the guests.
Did you Google information on us? Israel wonders, intrigued.
Absolutely. I know your stepfather owns a company that manufactures cat litter. He ran for mayor in some hicksville town in Kentucky on an Independent ticket but lost his deposit. His mother was one of the first, successful, female orthopaedic surgeons in the South she took up the vocation after her favourite uncle broke his back exercising a horse in the run-up to the Derby
Completely off the mark. Israel beams. My stepfather doesnt manufacture anything. Hes allergic to cat hair. Hes a lecturer at Berkeley where hes an acknowledged, worldwide authority on the works of Derek Walcott. He owns three, small sketches by Basquiat which he acquired in exchange for a shirt and a coach ticket after they got arrested doing graffiti together. Hes fully ambidextrous like me and his non-identical twin brother is currently serving a punitive prison sentence in Indonesia for smuggling endangered birds eggs.
How vile!
Jen pops his glasses back on to his nose again and then carefully adjusts them to her satisfaction. So anyway, this evil little dogs just squatting there she hastily returns to her story (a couple of new customers have now entered the bar area) with this filthy, poo-necklace-thingummy dangling out of its arse, and were all just staring at it, waiting for it to drop, but nothing happens
Sounds like it might need some assistance, Israel suggests, gently poking at the lone cube of ice in his Coke with a straw.
Exactly! Jens impressed. Youre so sharp! So intuitive! Oh God youre not gay, are you?
She grips the table in mock-horror.
If I wasnt before, then I probably will be by the end of this anecdote, Israel sighs, camply.
Hes going to need some assistance Jen relaxes her grip on the table (briefly mollified). Thats precisely what his owner says. But after shes said it she just stands there, eyeballing Sinclair, all expectant. Dont look at me! Sinclairs totally freaked-out. Im not going anywhere near it!
Well I cant do anything, the owner says, I have a sensitive stomach.
A sensitive stomach?! Israel clucks.
The poor creature twirls and twirls, Jen continues, until eventually I just cant bear it any more. Okay, I say, pass me a poo bag and Ill try and get rid of it.
Youll need to be extra-careful, the womans suddenly ultra-uptight and over-protective because long hairs can get twisted around the lower intestine and if you yank at them too violently you run the risk of disembowelling him through his anal cavity
As Jen speaks the couple whod formerly entered the bar (and whod been quietly reading the bar-food blackboard) make a rapid exit.
Im like: Just give me a bloody poo bag! She rolls her eyes, petulantly. But of course she doesnt have a poo bag, so now Im scrabbling around in my school rucksack looking for a tissue or a spare piece of plastic. Eventually Sinclair finds an old Wagon Wheel wrapper in his pocket and Im obliged to resort to using that. I crouch down in the snow, trying to protect my fingers as best I can, and reach towards the back end of the dog
Oh, theres something you should probably know the woman tells me, almost as an afterthought.
Whats that? I ask, still reaching.
He can sometimes be a little bit
The dog spins around and nips me! On the chin! I swear to God! The cheeky bastard turns and takes a lovely bite out of my chin! Draws blood! You can see the scar under my make-up
She lifts her chin to demonstrate, but nothing is visible bar an impressive watermark where her foundation finishes on her jawline.
Did you scream? Israel wonders.
Did I hell! I was in shock! And I was determined the little fucker wasnt going to get the best of me, so I quickly scrambled to my feet, grabbed his collar, spun him around, clamped his scraggy neck between my calves
Thereby cunningly disabling his front end Israel interjects.
Leaving both hands free to engage with the rear, Jen confirms.
Ah yes, the rear Israels visibly traumatized. How was it looking by this stage?
Dire. But I took my courage in my hands, rearranged the Wagon Wheel wrapper
We dont have Wagon Wheels in Jamaica, Israel informs her.
Its basically a large, round, slightly soggy chocolate biscuit with a marshmallow centre, Jen explains, although thats a completely irrelevant detail at this super-charged point in the narrative
Sorry, Israel apologizes.
Apology accepted, Jen graciously allows. So I rearrange the wrapper, and then I bend down and pinch on to the necklace at about its halfway point, she explains. I guess itd be around four inches long at this stage which translates as approximately seven or eight centimetres She pauses, drolly. Just in case you still feel like youre short on detail
Thanks, Israel nods, submissive, now.
Of course as soon as I start to yank, the dogs owner is hysterically cautioning me against exerting too much pressure, so I gently tug at it, then release, then tug, then release
Jen performs a little pantomime of the process: Sort of like milking a cow; and the necklace gradually extends to about six or seven inches She pauses. I inherited this doll off my mother when I was a kid. If you tugged on its blonde ponytail the hair would grow
Israel receives this bonus piece of information without comment.
Anyhow, after it reaches around the eight-inch stage the necklace stops coming, Jen continues, its plugged. The poor dog really starts straining. The owners telling me to just pinch it off She shudders. But Im determined to dislodge the remaining clump of whatever it is thats causing the blockage, so I give it a final, sharp, little tug the owners pretty much hysterical by this stage and then Bingo! Out it plops!
Thank the Lord! Israel exclaims.
I automatically release the pressure in my calves and the dog virtually explodes from between my legs and careers off across the park, the owner running after it in hot pursuit.
Naturally I try and gather up the necklace between my fingers so I can place it into a nearby rubbish bin