there is sand in the hotel room. under my bed, on my toes, nestled into the grout between the tiles in the bathroom. there are also ants on the windowsill, they lead a thin treasure trail to the sink by the front door. they refuse to knock.
i'm here with my typewriter, staring at the palm trees along the highway across the street. beyond it is the atlantic. it's one of those over-blown hurricane days full of grey clouds and ominous gusts. if i were anywhere else in the country, i'd roll out of bed as i just had, look out the window, and conclude that the outside would be cold and blustery, icy rain drops stinging the cheeks. but not here. no, today is a day like any other, humid and impressively sultry. the kind of heat that you feel like applauding for its thoroughness and stamina. even with no sun in sight, the clouds thick and dark closing in. my typewriter sits at a desk overlooking all of this, and i think it's laughing.
i go downstairs to walk in the sand and i see rodney. he is wearing a pair of those bacardi sunglasses that they give away for free on promotional nights. he has scratched out the logo on the arm of the frames, leaving gouged plastic. they suit him. i like the red lenses, he says.
we watch a pack of two dogs chase each other in long circles in the sand. they are either old friends or just getting to know each other, we can't tell. i can't stop gazing east, seeing only water. i think of africa, and i wonder if marcus garvey ever made it there.
i also think of the holiday in bermuda (not too far anyway) when we were stopped at a checkpoint while riding in a taxi. the kids, maybe fifteen or sixteen, sweating in their fatigues, doing their duty. one couldn't even hold the gun up properly. the m-16 limp in his grasp, like a secondary object with no value. the man told me to point it at you but it's too heavy to bother, so i'll just hold it at you instead. was it the first time in my life i've had a gun pointed at me?
then i think about peter tosh, and how he died face down in his living room. where de monay? where de diamonds? peter, you're absolutely right. you can't blame the youth of today.
Posted by snackfight at August 29, 2003 12:20 AM