There me is, Thursday afternoon, at the roadside workshop, getting the car tyres full-up with air when I hear a car-cophany, horns blaring as if them drivers have diarrhea.
Actually, I didn't hear the noise at first because, as usual, I am lingering in another day-dream in me head.
And too besides, I was busy digging up money from me handbag to give to Sam the air-in-tyre fuller-upper man who did tell me to park right where I was.
Gradually, a' furious voice protrude into me brain.
Slow like a sloth in a civil service office now waking up, I stop checking for money and look towards the street.
The voice is coming from a mouth shouting and froffing with fury. It is behind a steering wheel in a dull-colour car, blocking a mighty long line o' traffic.
I don't understand what the voice is saying, the car-cophany is too loud.
Sam the air-in-tyre fuller-upper man haul away he hose and say, “Move back.”
Everything after that feel like five minutes o’ slow-motion, yet it musta happen in only 3 seconds.
I look at the voice in the car that is blocking traffic and...
...the voice let go a loud string o' epithet about “coolie” then more epithet. (The voice is not “coolie”, meaning East Indian people of Guyana).
“Oh, it want me to move!” I mentally scratch me head like the skinny chap in Laurel and Hardy.
I turn to my right to see why the voice want me to move...I am in the path to where it want to park. I look behind me to check how much space I got to reverse, a police van is two car spaces away.
I guess I should be writing with outrage and all o' that but, the truth is, that voice must be a bully to everybody in its life, heaven help its modda, its woman or women and its children. I don’t know if the voice been thinking that I was deliberately, superiorly taking my time, and its puny ego couldn't bear the weight of it, of being ignored, so it froff and fume like a fool.
The policeman in the van ain't pick he teet, as we would say...the police ain't get involved.
I reverse. The voice calm down and rush to where it want to go.
“Come forward,” Sam the air-in-tyre fuller-upper man say and fill the tyres.
Later, I think, if it was me, and I did want to go into the spot where the voice did want to go, I woulda drive to a place where I could turn, then I would park behind the car that I think is deliberately blocking me, and I would wait my turn.
But that is the problem with civilised people like me. I ain't got a voice that can froff and fume and I refuse to cultivate one.