Brian’s phone vibrated in his pocket three times before ten am. While his ninety-eight students took notes, he peeked at his calls, two from Carla and a text from Trevor using Carla’s phone. After the first hour of WesternCiv, everyone took a fifteen minute break, and Brian called Carla. She and Trevor were at the restaurant. “Sorry, I slept so hard. We’ll have fun tonight. Trevor’s like ‘bashy, mon.’”
She giggled. “He’s setting up lights, rearranging tables. Long ragga tunes. Gonna be great.”
Brian said, “Cool.”
“He needs stuff for his show,” Carla said. “Maybe you can stop by when your class is over. I love him, Brian. He’s so different from you but so much the same too.”
[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]
Trevor’s text furthered the conversation. He needed to catch some light equipment, meaning he was asking for a loan. Naturally, no worries, mon—Trevor had money coming soon.
Brian arrived at eleven am, just before Carla opened the door for the public. Trevor had found lighting in the basement and fixed it to the beams in the main room’s center, facing a raised brick fireplace.
“Ya see it?” Trevor opened his palm toward a Rasta flag hanging from the chimney. “Catch the light, mon. Irie, true?”
“Trevor,” Brian nodded in agreement, “Carla says you need a few things.”
“Go give your woman some love first. Soon enough you can link me with more light.”
Carla pulled Brian out the back door, pressed him against the building, which filled him first with excitement and soon with frustration. “Tonight,” she said, and sneaking her hand inside his jeans, tapped a wet spot on his underpants. Whirling through the back door, she disappeared.
Inside, Trevor stepped next to him. “Will ya take me to Miller’s Music Store? I’d leg it but I’ve got a show to do during lunch.”
On Merriment Avenue, a portly, amiable man in a knitted vest, “Call me Teddy,” tutored them in the difference among acoustic guitar accessories. “You get what you pay for,” Teddy said. “You want a sweet sound from a small amp, you need the $500 model vs. the $200.”
“I’ve got lots of cash,” Trevor said. Not on hand, but I’ll pay you back.”
“A reggae singer in The Eden Café,” Teddy said, “can’t stand in front of a plug-in mike.” To sing the songs right, Trevor ought to invest in a cordless, clip-on mike. “The best and most reliable is $160, as low as it’s ever gonna go.”
Brian pulled out his credit card, hoping the charges went through. Trevor found a case for his guitar, which he had held between his knees on the plane home.
Brian nodded, “You’ll pay me back,” and his brother nodded and scooped up several sets of strings and a few fret holders.
“Altogether, with tax,” Teddy said, ringing up the necessities, “it’s $720 and change.”
Brian filled the credit rectangle in the little box’s window.
On the street, Trevor said he had $5000 in the bank, no problem.”
Disbelieving him, Brian said, “Really. Here’s an ATM. No reason you can’t access it from here.”
“Brian, I bank with Rufus Moore, the Don in Kingston. Most honest man I’ve ever met. He brought me into the Rasta Kul-cha and convinced the skeptics I belonged.”
“And he’s a banker?”
“Micro-banker. So the island peeps don’t lose funds to the touri-touri.”
“I’ve heard of micro-banking,” Brian said. “in Africa.”
“Rastafarians see Africa as their Promised Land.”
“Trevor,” Brian asked, wishing he’d thought to ask sooner, “why’d you leave Jamaica?”
“Don Rufus is so honest, Brian. He work and play all the while. So his woman, Vivi, got lonely.”
“And you kept Vivi company.”
“Not all the time,” Trevor said. “Often enough. Vivi liked me and I liked her. It’s true. Rufus got vexed. He was vexed even after I promised him, no more. So no more—still vexed, no matter when.”
(Click here to read the next excerpt.)
