Mr. Wrong! Car!

I pick up the wrong key yesterday morning and it open up one big flood o’ crazy stuff, whoosh-oooo…

“Wrong!  Key!” I laugh, trying to sound like the lean man outside the bread-shop near Bourda.

That man does look as if road and earth did create he without thought, then they shove he out to the world like he wasn’t their child.  But they can’t deny he, he got them all over he skin. 

He hair look like thin, dark coils, as if, when earth been giving birth to he, she push so hard, he yank out some o’ she roots.

On top of all that, he cloak the trunk of he body with a sack and attach to it all them treasures that road offer – pins, plastic bottles, ribbons, key rings, plastic coils, metal coils, bottle corks, pieces o’ yellow, pink and rust; pieces o’ blue and grease; he twine some in he hair too. He is so completely doll-up, you can’t figure out if he is wearing clothes underneath or not. 

When you see he, you does feel weird. Girls does tease one another, or their divorce-mothers, or widow-mothers, “Look you’ future husband there.” But they always make sure they don’t go three feet near he.

I did hear a rumour though that tourists does pay he to take he photo. Hm.  Maybe this, and what my mother discover, is proof of civility. Or something. 

One lunch time, my mother come home looking like amusement seize she and wouldn’t let go.

She leave the bread-shop, she say, and head to the other side of the road. Prip-prip, she click the car-alarm button.  The car door ain’t opening. Prip-prip.

Eh-eh, what is happening here, she wonder.

And lo…a voice reply like it read she mind. It talk like a professor. Well-modulated. Calm, cool, slow, like it know English-English.

“Wrong! Car!”

Mother look up.

The man is facing north, staring straight ahead, he back turn to she.  He ain’t turn to the left, he ain’t twitch to the right.  He body still like concrete. But she know it was he who did talk.

Mother hear a laugh somewhere else. Near to she, across the grass and narrow gutter, in a yard of a’ old house, a young man washing he car is shaking-up with laugh. “You trying to open the wrong car, eh?” he say to mother.  He and she ain’t say boo to the man.

After this, the man begin to look very human to me.  If I used to wonder about he life before, I think about it even more now.  What can turn a human into this?  Who is he family?  I give he a name.  Mr. Wrong. Car. He didn’t make me nervous no more.

Mr. Wrong. Car. suddenly disappear. 

What happen to he, me and ma ask each other.  Truth to tell, I secretly admit to meself that I was glad he was gone.  He does scare me. Not that he ever shout at me, curse, or jump at customers or beg.

Weeks later, Mr. Wrong. Car. re-appear in front o’ the bread-shop as usual. 

I fool meself again that he don’t give me the heebie-jeebies.  ‘Til a small incident recently make me realize how quick a mind can trip back.

Mr. Wrong. Car. pop-up like a solid shadow in front o’ me, near we car door.  He hold out he hand.

He suddenness, nearness and begging jolt me like electric zap.  I shake me head hurry-hurry to say I ain’t have no change.  Don’t know if I was telling the truth. I was too busy planning how to dive into the car and bladam-shut the door.

As I shake me head, a garbage truck rumble-tumble by, leaking rusty-orange goo.

Nervousness, trying to distract the man from me, make me holler out. “Shees, that garbage truck stink bad!”

The man look at the truck. He turn back to me.

Me eyes and he eyes “make four” as we does say.

If I did want to run when he first appear, I did want to fly now.  I still don’t know if that cold resentment I did see in them eyes was real.  Don’t know if he was vex because I ain’t give he money.  Or if he think I insult he boutique.

Mr. Wrong. Car. disappear from the bread-shop again. 

A couple o’ weeks ago, I spot he walking around on the screaming hot road outside the supermarket not far from the bread-shop.

Not a soul don’t seem to notice he.  Guyanese, Brazilians, Russians, British, Americans, Canadians, more foreigners, head off into steel and chrome on rubber wheels, carrying plastic bags load-up with food and drinks in plastic and metal.