His fruit stand is basically a large box, about the size of a coffin, painted with the national flag, of course. It is attached to a pushcart so he can wheel it into the fenced protection of the Craft Market during the nights. His fruits are protected from the sun by several large pieces of cardboard draped across the cart. He also has an umbrella which has lost its material, but the frame is still useful so he has alternately used a big blue tarp, or a massive piece of clear plastic, to take the place of the original umbrella fabric. The least ravaged-looking piece of equipment that he owns is a big blue Igloo cooler, yet even it's lid is warped.
Rasta (which is what he answers to) is a quiet-spoken man, with his graying dreadlocks wound about his head & falling down his back. Like pet owners are said to resemble their pets, so does the Rasta man resemble his fruit stand, in his level of wear & tear & the general feeling of parts pieced together. The neighborhood people seem to like him & call out to him as they walk by. He has several shirts: a couple bright tropical button shirts, & a few T-Shirts. My boys' favorite of his shirts is the one with Bob Marley holding a joint & the words, "Excuse me while I light my spliff." Looking at Rasta's appearance, I assume he has had many opportunities to utter these words in conversation himself. Luckily for him, tho, there is no law against MUI (Machete-ing Under the Influence).
When he sees me drive up, he knows what I want without asking. Now & then he gives me an extra coconut because I am a "good customer". We have had but one conversation, about how his old Nissan needs a new gear box because "she is broken". To sum him (or at least, my impression of him) up, I would say he is an honest man just trying to get by.
A couple months ago, Rasta disappeared. For six days I drove past his spot, looking for his cart, only to see it all wrapped up in it's plastic, parked in it's nighttime location alongside one of the Craft Market buildings.
On the seventh day, he came back. Certainly his long absence warranted a second conversation between us.
"You're back!" I exclaimed, joyful that my coconut withdrawals would soon be over.
"Yes, I'm back." he smiled, hefting his machete.
"Good, that's good." I stated. "Is everything all right?" I asked hesitantly.
Maybe something was wrong at home, I thought. Maybe someone had died & the Rasta man had attended one of those days-long funerals that seem to be typical of the Caribbean. 'At home': I examined the phrase. Where was Rasta's home anyway? Did he even LIVE in a home? I picture him just materializing from the bush each & every morning & shimmying up coconut trees with his machete in his teeth, or maybe a big spliff, while down below his partner (because there must be one) awaits the bunches of falling coconuts (at some distance away, one would hope).
Rasta's strong bush accent is hard for me to understand. I usually only catch a few key words when he talks. Then I just sort of build a sentence out of them.
"I ---- ---- out on bail.", is what I heard him say to me.
"Bail!" I exclaim.
"I just got out." he says matter-of-factly, as if this is a usual thing. "Five days I was in jail."
"Oh!" I say, not sure of the appropriate response to that one. I try to imagine what a Hallmark Card might say in this situation:
Sorry to hear you were in JAIL!
Glad to hear you are out on BAIL!
"Jail! You're kidding!"
"No, no - they ---- ---- & took me away."
"Wow! That's awful!" I am thinking, while wearing a sympathetic expression, ah, must be the spliffs.
Rasta leans in my car window, "Yes, the Man come ---- ---- ---- & said I was ----- ----- embezzling money ----- ----- Canada. ----- ----- fly back again ---- -----."
Okay, now I am SURE that Hallmark has never dealt with THIS subject matter. It's definitely a Bob Marley song after all -
♪♪ I stole the mo-NEY,
But I did not steal from Ca-na-DA...♪♪
Luckily in the US we have developed a word for times when nothing else seems appropriate:
"Wow!" I said again. Looking for the bright side, I said, "But it's okay now, right? It's all fixed? I mean, here you are!"
"I am here now. I have to go to court next month."
"Ah...". I consider advising him not to wear his 'spliff' shirt when he goes to court, but somehow I think he must know.
"Well," I say, "I'm glad you are back. Good luck with court." I smile encouragingly.
"Yah, mon." he says.
As I drive away home I try out this new mathematical equation:
Disheveled Rasta Fruit Stand Owner = Infamous International Embezzler!!
Hmmm. Who would have guessed? It is hard for me to accept this as a valid equation. I mean, the man doesn't even have shoes. I try to imagine him all cleaned up, wearing a tuxedo in a place called Casino Grande, where he leans casually against a pillar, his dreads neatly re-braided & his grizzled sideburns shaved away. Instead of a spliff, a smoldering Cuban cigar rests between his fingers, while some eel-skin loafers adorn his gnarly feet. His connection strolls over to the Rasta man & whispers unobtrusively, "How was the weather in Havana?", to which the Rasta man replies, "It is unusually mild for this time of year." Now that they have confirmed each others identity by using the correct code phrases, the connection says, "Do you have the goods?" & my Rasta man replies, "Yes, I have all the coconuts out back--"
No. I'm sorry, forget it. I guess I just can't picture it after all.
You never know about people, tho, do you?
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