“So,
young Theo,” (I had been given my uncle’s name) “tell me ‘bout the beauties you
got line up now you at secondary school. Hmmmph, I hope you got de pick of de
litter. Yuh know what I been telling yuh over these past years – always go for
the pretty ones wid de good bodies, pretty face and nice hair, cuz when she mek
yuh vex and yuh ready to stomp out de place, and yuh look back, you know yuh
got a good looking woman that gonna keep yuh warm in bed and dat yuh don’t
gotta put de pillow over she head. So never mind how much yuh drink when yuh
left and how much pussy get pelt at yuh, yuh know yuh coming back home to de
one dat is yours cuz she aint gonna stray nowhere.”
My
response was always an open mouth and a bewildered look of amazement. How in
heaven’s name could he be telling me these things? But my Gramps was convinced
that these were the life lessons that every man should be taught. He made it
cleared he had prepared his son for my mother and now he was preparing me for “the
bitch” that I would have and “breed” in the years to come.
His
words were harsh, callous, degrading but what was strange is that he said them
with such conviction that you started doubting yourself on the validity and morality
of his perspective. My Gramps, or Reginald Oscar Valentine Moore as he was
called by my Gran just before an enameled cup whizzed past his head, was well
known in our village. Well, actually, notorious; he was very handsome, six foot
three with the body of a heavy weight boxer, the face of a black Bogart but
with the mouth of a lighterman. Yet every woman within a two mile radius would
come to Mr. Brown’s shop on Saturday afternoons, on the pretense of picking up
the weekly groceries, to listen to the stories my grandfather told of his
father and the men who went off to build the Panama Canal.
The
anecdotes made for intense listening and this large man took up at least two
thirds of the space in the front area of the shop, was thoroughly animated and
held the rapt attention of his audience for at least two hours. The men sitting
on the make-shift benches in the corner threw back a shot-of-rum every time
Gramps got to a good point in his story and the orator stood there smiling and
winking at the women who had come to purchase their groceries. The few times I had accompanied my guardian
to the afternoon activity I noticed that when the story-telling session was
over, the shop owner would deliver to my grandfather a large white enamel cup,
chipped around the rim and handle, and filled with a milky brown liquid. Guiness and milk, a concoction fit for a prize
fighter and prescribed to provide my Gramps with the energy he needed to get him
through the night.
Copyright: Cher Corbin 2014
Copyright: Cher Corbin 2014
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