It is roughly 10 p.m. on Christmas Eve of 1994, and I am walking on an extremely dark, pot-holed street in Kingstown, on the island of St. Vincent, in the southern reaches of the Caribbean. I am in the “don’t walk there at night if you are a tourist” part of the city. A winter thunderstorm is producing enough water that the side of the roadway is a riverbed occasionally lit up by a flash of lightning.
I have just been verbally neutered by my soon-to-be-ex companion of three years and am reeling with unrelieved anger and rage with no way to escape. Emotionally dazed, I left the guesthouse in which we are staying because I simply do not know what else to do but to start walking into the night. I don’t care that what I am doing is dangerous and quite stupid. I just don’t care. As I am stumbling along the heavily trafficked street, I start tearing up. Here I am, 48 years old, in a dangerous stretch of a town 2,000 miles from where I live, dodging cars and scared to death. Why am I once again miserable and alone and crying on Christmas Eve? What is wrong with me? Most people seem so happy this time of year. Am I a huge loser or is everyone else a huge liar? No, it is my problem. I am just one of those jerky guys with a good job and a life that is otherwise as screwed up as the situation in which I now find myself. I just want to beat the crap out of someone, or get the crap kicked out of me. I just don’t care.
Suddenly, from the bushes above the road, a tall dark form leaps directly in front of me, blocking my way. I can barely make out the details of his body from the headlights of the fast moving cars and mini-vans speeding by. The passing headlights reveal a very rough-looking, down-on-his-luck man, but I cannot quite see his facial features. I am able to see a bucket in his left hand however my eyes are strongly pulled toward the 24-inch machete or cutlass in his right hand.
“I need mohny, mahn, I noht eaht nuttin’ in tree dahys, give me sum mohny, jus’ tree dollah, dat’ ahl mahn. Cohme ohn mahn,” he screamed above the roar of the downpour.
My North American psyche takes over. Maybe because I am emotionally spent or because I’m just a scared rabbit, in either case, every milligram of adrenaline in my body rushed into the fight or flight or wet your pants mode as I am certain that this desperate man is going to hack my head off and put it in the bucket before he took the few bucks in the pocket of my cargo shorts. I can only think that at least my miserable relationship will be over!
As this outrageous thought flashes through my head, I realize the irony and absurdity of this whole picture. My mind clears enough to realize that if this guy were a maniacal killer, my head would already be peeking out of that bucket dangling from his left hand. Instead, we just stared at one another for what seemed like a minute. We just stood in the pouring rain and stared at one another. It was during this minute that everything shifted.
“My nahme be Elbert,” he half-cried, “ahn I won’ try tu foohl yu, mahn. I hahve been tu prisohn. I be ah teacha’ befoh dat but I mahke sohme big mistahke and dey puts me in jail foh five yeahs.” But I no problem now, I leahn da’ way ah de Lohrd.”
He stood there in front of me, as if I am a judge, not a jerk. Standing in the darkness, a number of cars passed in both directions, illuminating our features somewhat clearly. We look one another over. It is weird; we are roughly the same size, have the same glazed over deranged looking eyes, and have similar beards and curly hair. It is like a surreal mirror has been created.
At this moment I do something I never do. I reach into my pocket and pulled out a $10 EC bill (about $4.00 USD). I never give beggars money . . . and I still haven’t.
“Here Elbert, Merry Christmas.” You would have thought I just gave him the keys to my Miata mid-life crisis mobile.
“Oh-oh tanks mahn, I know yu goht de goohd heaht,” he says as he approaches me to clasp hands Caribbean style.
This prompts me to perform another original act as I say, “God bless you Elbert.” I wonder for a split second why I said it until the destitute man in the torn and ragged clothing from the slums of Kingstown, St. Vincent, freaks me out when he replies:
“But He have alreahdy bless ahl ah we.”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Compliments ah de seahson tu ahl.” May you find blessings in unexpected places.
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