Who will be Our Saviour?

Roberto was my new buddy. A solo traveler is in constant search of the new buddy. It's like trying to pick somebody up. Every single day. Tit size, hairstyle, protrusive panty line. Doesn't matter. Straight or gay, mobster or clergyman. You are ambi-everything. It's not about sex, or lifetime fraternity, it's a matter of temporary companionship. Somebody who can hold a conversation, maybe last until dinner. Anything more is the god damn lottery.

Roberto and I were waiting in the customs line, getting ready to board a ferry for Trinidad. Earlier in the week, I learned that there is water transport between the eastern tip of Venezuela and Trinidad. But it wasn't much cheaper than a flight. It would take me a couple of days to reach the port, after hours and hours of pickup rusty car bumpy bus rides. The whole process could have been capped in less than two hours, door to door from Caracas. But then I'd miss all those great roadtrip experiences. Valentine's Day in a seaside lover's brothel. A young guy on his first business trip, who wanted to share a room with me so he could afford the cable television upgrade. We snuggled briefly, after departing to separate beds. The oceanfront market where the choice between twelve kiosks was either hot dog or hamburger. The one man selling falafel closed up shop early so we could spend the night together. No snuggling. But I still think it was possible. And sure, a day trip to two of Venezuela's most sought after beaches.

Why Trinidad? Nobody believed me when I told them it was to eat. But it was. After almost a month in Venezuela, I had tired of the Chavez talk, tired of the spectacular landscapes, and most of all tired of sauceless everything. The Spaniards didn't conquer for spice. They conquered for gold and the native cooch. The British, probably due to a lack of culinary aptitude, or the King's refusal to eat another mingin' meat pie, knew about flavor. And kidnapping Africans with a diet of tasteless starch was not the answer. So they started shore dumping boatloads of poor subcontinent Indians, the Eastern ones. And then some chinamen arrived to exploit the markets. Soon after, a gastronomical orgy erupted that would deliver one of the America's richest cuisines. And sauce. Lots of sauce. That's what I wanted.

Roberto was a thin black man, a youthful sixtyish, wisened by spectacles and made fit by running shoes. Shiny white ones.

"Su padre debe ha sido un ladron, robo las estrellas del cielo, y se les puso en sus ojos."

"Are you asking me that as a question or telling me? Is there a reason you assume that my father would have been a thief. And I certainly am not understanding why he would steal stars and put them in to eyes."

"Oh, I didn't know you speak English. Hi. You going to Trinidad also?"

"Yes, I am as a matter of fact. I'm actually Trinidadian by birth, but I have lived in Venezuela for a very long time. And you? You coming for the beaches or to enjoy the famous Carnaval?"

"Yeah, not really, I'm taking a vacation from Venezuela. I want to eat something different."

"Ha. Yes. The food there is certainly different. But you understand, you would save yourself a lot of time and expense if you simply brought yourself to a local Chinese restaurant."

"If they didn't dumb down their food for the masses, you'd have a point. But you ever watch what the Chinese eat when they all gather in that smoky back room, right before they lock the front doors? That's stuff you'll never see on the menu. They're not eating orange ketchup sauce, sloppy wet noodles, and fried eggrolls. I don't trust a man who won't serve me what he makes himself. But they're the future, so get used to it. The anti-imperialists here will be crying for the day when America used to rule the world with high fructose Coke and IMF loans."

"You have a lot to say, don't you?"

"Well, I haven't spoken English to a local in a month. Do you go back home often?"

"Well, my home is Venezuela."

"I'm sorry. It's because you're black and speak the queen's English. Really, you're English is impeccable."

"Yes, why, thank you. But if you remember, I said I was born in Trinidad."

"Yeah, uh, right. So, tell me about the food I'm going to eat."

Roberto was a genteel fellow, but at least I had somebody to spend the three hour boat ride. He knew exactly where to sit. Always trust a man who knows the best seat in the house. That's in a revised bible somewhere. A cushioned nook tucked into a corner, bordered by the free non-spirituous drink woman, and the flat screen television showcasing America's finest in action cinema.

A heavyset woman with a beaming smile entered our nook. She took the only other seat, to my right. I had seen her in the immigration line, and remembered her because of that face. You know her face from waiting on line at the post office, or the airport. You've got to choose the counter person who will make your trip hassle free. One of them you know is a dick. It's in his face. You get him, you're screwed. The other one is hard to read, poker face, he's your wild card. There's your definitive bitch, the reason we have mother-in-law jokes, who probably hasn't seen a living phallus since the Nixon administration. And then, there is her. You are drawn to that face. You've been watching her in line the whole time. You want her as a neighbor, as a drinking buddy. You are calculating your odds. How fast or slow do the people in front of you need to move so you can have HER. You're next. That position alone is stressful enough, but you're too focused on the one middle age Mexican man who can't seem to understand your new best friend. She's too nice to dump the loser. You know this. That's why you want her. But now, just this once, you want her to go power cunt on this guy and let you in, cause DickFace is getting the change ready, so you don't have much time.

I got HER. Roberto was nice, but she was IT. I dumped the bilingual Arthur Ashe, who seemed unfazed as he picked up his newspaper.

She was Lina. Lina was my teller. She wasn't flirtatious, or calculating, nor cranked out on her shrink's meds. Just talkative, in the friendly sort of way you don't mind, with a slight Caribbean lilt that welcomed you like a steel band on the dock.

"I take it your from Trinidad."

"And what makes you say that?"

"Other than the fact you are black, uh, well, it's, it's your British mannerisms."

"Hey, there are black people in Venezuela too," she threw back, chuckling.

Roberto was doing the librarian thing, staring at me from beneath his glasses, barely concealed by the day's headlines.

"Yeah, I'm sitting next to one."

Roberto came out from page two, and smiled at Lina before introducing himself. He started talking to her, but I had to interrupt, lest he appropriate my Girl.

"So, Lina, what brought you to Venezuela, was it those fine young latin men?"

"Ha. You're crazy. All the fine ones I met were gay! But, my friends there were hairdressers, so it makes sense. I went there for the hospital. You know the medical service is Venezuela is much better than Trinidad."

Roberto raised his head above the paper. "It's true." And he slinked back down.

"Yeah I've heard the system is fairly efficient there. I'm assuming THOSE are real, that at least you didn't go for that."

"You are something boy. But you're right. I saw a lot of women with big things. And billboards everywhere for it. No, I think that's one thing I don't need." And she laughs to herself.

Roberto has a boyish grin on his face as he peers through the paper.

I order us some drinks. Real men always order drinks from an open bar, especially a non-alcoholic one. I often do this on airplanes as well.

"How you know I be drinking Coca-Cola?"

"It's a learned talent."

When diet colas aren't available, always order them a coke. Going with the faux-sprites is too risky a guess. Note: this game is extremely difficult with mountain dew and dr. pepper added, and RC Cola replacing coke.

We talked about our varying impressions of Venezuela, which differed widely due to it being Lina's first time in mainland Latin America. Strange considering the close proximity, but then again most of America has never been to Mexico. And really, why bother when most U.S. towns now offer a genuine cantina and happy hour margaritas.

"Did you have an opinion on the Chavez question, cause it seemed everybody there had one?", I asked.

"No, not really. I spent too much time having fun with my friends, and shopping! (She points to her tower of branded plastic carry bags)"

Roberto looked at me, then Lina, then back to the news.

"Hmmm. Maybe you have a point. I should spend more time shopping, and less time talking politics. Thanks."

Venezuela has one of the most controversial governments in the world. I respect anybody who can leave that place with no opinion on the political situation. Why are men so obsessed with politics? At this very moment, men, in countries across the globe, are pontificating on the demise of their once proud nation, regaling their esteemed colleagues of the park bench with baseless facts and statistics. You will not find women doing this. And one may induce that this makes them the more intelligent gender. Until that same one comes to recognize that those women are instead discussing the marital life of a dethroned actor and his lousy choice in romance with that skanky, very very skanky, reality television tramp.

Lina and I avoided politics, and Trinidad
reality television, which must exist if Luxembourg has one. It's true. They do. In two years, the entire nation has already been on at least once.

We went from small talk to the difficulty in finding people who are willing to think outside the box. Lina was a girl who dressed like a guy, worked on farming projects that would transform growing practices on the island, invited strangers to her house, and enjoyed fishing with old men in remote parts of the island. At thirty-four she was considered an old maid in a country where she should be getting ready for her first grandchild. She wouldn't marry if it meant sacrificing her freedom. We bonded over being the black sheeps of the family.

I told her what I tell the intellectually frustrated around the world. You got two choices. Move to a large cosmopolitan city where the gayhipbrainyweirdforeignpoor melt to provide the complete pantheon of humanity, or isolate yourself in the country, otherwise there is no escape from the banality that man has created for himself.

"Yes, sure, I understand what you be saying, and I am thinking about it. Maybe to Venezuela, or Orlando, Florida. I was thinking about there too."

"The first will be no different than Trinidad. And Orlando...did you grow up with a Daffy Duck fetish? You're better off in your own country."

"It's because I found some good supplies for my farming projects from Orlando."

"Hey, I've mail ordered motorcycle parts from Calhoun, Alabama, but I'd move to Port-Au-Prince before I went there. The internet has made the world closer. But it hasn't changed the distribution of open-minded people."

She spoke to me like we'd been friends for years. And it felt like that. I felt bad for Roberto though. I could tell he wanted in on the action but his Crown taught manners prevented him from throwing me the cockblock. I decided to take a walk on the Lido deck, and let the two paisanos discuss the bizarre habits of the white man.

When I came back down, Roberto had mounted Lina from behind, while the bartender was feeding her coke with the soda gun.

No, that wasn't happening, but I thought it might as I descended the exterior stairs. Instead, disappointedly, they were chatting genially, very british, but they left my spot on the bench vacant so that they had an unusually large gap between them. The white man resumed his position.

I told Roberto about the family of Killer whales I saw passing the ferry, but he wasn't taking the bait. Apparently, they don't pass here this time of year. How would I know that?

Lina and I continued to talk about the differences in the two neighboring countries, and about the difficulties in running a Trinidad hair salon when you're working a full time job constructing mobile phone towers.

Then she brought up God. This is not an easy question when traveling outside a major metropolitan city. The world is full of believers who can not believe that somebody doesn't believe. Talking about being spiritual, believing in higher powers, astrology, none of it works. If you don't believe in a person known as GOD, and really, if you are not verse in some part of the Bible, you might as well be the anti-christ. Unless the other conversant is an evangelical. Then you are saved. Literally. You become their personal mission.

"Come on now, it's not like that. I don't care. Really. It's ok. I wasn't religious, I mean, I didn't go back to the Church until five years ago."

An important grammatical note for those versed in the complexities of human language. If somebody puts the definite article in front of 'church', this is very different then a non articled 'church', as the former always refers to a new Christian fellowship bent on water boarding you before Senor Saviour, and the latter means they are not really religious but rather experiencing some personal issue in life that is bestowing guilt upon them for not attending the Sunday rituals of their childhood. The latter are always less worrisome.

"Please, seriously, I don't care. It's cool. It's my personal choice."

She sounded believable. But I remained suspicious like Roberto behind the newspaper.

"So, how has Church life been treating you?" was all I could think of.

"What? Are you scared of the church or something? You think we all be crazy or something. You should come with me some time. You'll like it. And the songs are really really nice."

They pull you in with the music, and next thing, you're explaining to your heathen friends why you're wearing khaki slacks and ringing their doorbell at 10am on a Sunday morning.

"Hey, it's ok. I'm not going to force you or anything. But it's brought a lot of happiness into my life. And it's also brought somebody new into my life, who has become very important to me."

"Oh yeah babe. That's what I'm talking about. You went to Church for the reason people should go to Church. To get some ass!"

"Boy, you are seriously not right. He's fifteen alright. He's a boy."

"Hey look. I'm not Christian. I don't judge."

"No, you still don't understand. I want to adopt this boy. He has become really special to me."

"That is seriously kinky, even for me, that is one game I'm not into. But again, no judgement."

"Hey, he's gay alright. Well, he thinks he's gay. But I'm trying to help him out of it. I'm his social counselor at the Church, and I've been working with him for almost a year. We are making progress. He's had it really tough at home."

"So, you think that keeping him in Church will lessen his desire to dance to Madonna?"

"He's actually into Lady Gaga, but we're trying to change that. You don't understand. He's very confused, and he needs guidance. He's from a difficult household. They are illegal immigrants from Guyana. He was abused, and he has gay siblings so he thinks his sexuality problems come from that."

"Alright. That's possible. Especially because Guyana may be the one place in the world I can't make a clever joke about. Maybe that's why the whole family is gay because with a poor English accent, which they have, it sounds like Gayana. The power of suggestion, when done through nationalism is very hard to fend."

"Boooy....He should be waiting for me when we get of the boat. I'll introduce you."

I had a problem. I wanted to meet a travel friend. A local Trinidadian. And I had met two. Roberto was out, dozed against the non-spirituous bar, and probably offended by my offensiveness. Then there was Lina, who so effusive and alive, but honestly thought she could change somebody's sexual orientation with prayer. Fundamentally, I should have ran, or swam. But I thought I'd challenge myself, give her a chance. It's worked for me and my Republican amigos. I even tune in to ol' Oxycotin Limbaugh once in awhile now.

At one point, as we neared Trinidad, the choppy seas were rocking the ferry to the point that every passenger was either sick or asleep. For a moment, it was just me. Roberto was still having dreams about crumpets while Lina was trying hard to find off the mariner blues.

Customs and Immigration proved why land/port borders are so enlightening into the differences between nations. Airports are relatively organized the world over. There are exceptions but they don't compare to the insanity that ensues at some land crossings. I've actually been stuck in a genuine no-man's land, without permission to return to either country (Syria/Lebanon, Djbouti/Somalia), forced to prostitute myself to mr. baksheesh. So, in Venezuela, a hodgepodge of plainclothes 'officers' allowed pandemonium to ensue before randomly choosing people to have their bags inspected which literally involved moving the zipper down the bag, waiting until a 3 count, and then moving the zipper back the other direction. In Trinidad, an armada of uniformed striped officers met the ferry where they had all the passengers line up with their bags. The Trinidadians passed the line test easily, even the half breed Roberto. The Venezuelans, one hundred percent of them, would leave the line and walk to the front of the inspection table, where they would have to be told to get back again. The Trinidadians, having had the British etiquette of Billyclub beat into them, would calmly escort their undisciplined neighbors back into the line where the offense would repeat. And the Venezuelans, bred on a diet bribery and enjoyment, would not get mad either, but continue to walk out of the line. The Trinidad customs then individually went through each article in each piece of luggage. Lina did not appear to have any motorized sexual gratification devices. An older Indian gentleman may have.

Lina introduced me to Anthony, her adopted Guyanese heterohomo, waiting alone in the crowd of anticipating families and taxi sharks.

It was still strange to speak English, but equally relaxing.

"Hey Anthony, what's goin' on man?"

"Hello. Its' so very nice to meet you."

Anthony wore a pair of tight, slightly torn grey jeans, with an equally tight t-shirt emblazoned with a swirling pattern of colors surrounding some blonde pop star's face. He had indigenous facial features entwined with an extremely angular jaw and fine black hair that perfectly went over his left eye. A pair of worn converse and a drawer full of rubber bracelets rounded out his winter ensemble.

He was sooooo gay.

So gay that I considered pulling out my Ricky Martin CD and inserting it in his...cd player merely to watch him dance.

"You must be a friend of Lina's."
It was the unmistakable high pitched lisp that evolution injected into the homosexual chromosome to prevent women from wasting crucial years of their gestational clock.

He did speak a nice Queen's English though.

"Yeah, Lina and I just met on the ferry. But we're just friends."

I always keep my sexuality ambiguous with prospective and actual homos. You wouldn't want to jeopardize that free german chocolate cake your waiter, just call me Carl, might happen to leave on your table.

Lina stared at me, and then started to laugh. She always laughed. I liked that.
"He's going to be visiting Trinidad for the week. I told him your mother made really good rotis."

"Ohhhhh, you like the Trinidad food. Why yes, my mother does in fact make quite a delicious roti. Tonight you'll just have to try one."

And yes, that roti, an orgy of squash, potato, spinach, goat meat, curry and pepper sauce encased in a handmade Indian roti, was better than any single dish I ate in Venezuela. A culture without good sauces is a dying culture.

The following morning, with Anthony off at school, Lina took me on a driving tour of the northern part of the island.

"Hey, you know why I'm here. You can skip the beaches and the jungle stuff."

"It's alright. You can relax. Be cool. Ok? I've already got it all planned out. We're going to eat mango and pineapple chow at my favorite little stand high above Maracas beach. And then you're going to eat the original Bake and Shark at Richards. They quick fry a shark right, so it stays real moist inside, and then they fry a real sweet doughy bread. Then you put on sauces of tamarind, garlic, and corriander which we call shadowbenny, and you add fresh cucumbers, cabbage, and pineapples. You won't find better. If you are still hungry after, we will go for some creole food in a small town I know on the other end of the coast."

After a lunch that may have possibly provided the best sandwich of my life, and this comes from somebody averse to hyperbole, the two of us crashed on the beach. An older lifeguard, his muscles on their last days, passed by. It was Lina's childhood swim instructor. Every place we went somebody knew her. Even the head customs woman at the port yesterday. I don't think there is a single lifeguard in the entire country of Venezuela.

We lie on our backs, under a palm tree, the shade easing digestion into our bloated contentment.

"So, alright, what did you think of my new son Anthony?," Lina questioned as she rolled over to her side to face me, her warm smile always required makeup.

"He's nice. Really nice. And very very gay."

"Come on. Why you go be sayin' that?"

"Did you see how he unzipped my pants with just his two front teeth?"

"He did not. Come on. I want to know what you think."

"I feel like we've built a strong friendship, really quick, so I'm going to be honest with you."

"I hope so," Lina quickly added, expectation in her dark eyes.

"I'm not a professional homosexual detector, alright. But, in my worldly opinion he's so gay that if Miss Universe herself tit raped him, he'd cry like a very very gay boy getting tit raped by Miss Universe."

"She's a Tranny, you know."

"Miss Universe is a tranny? Don't bullshit me, really?"

"Boy, what is wrong in your head. I said she is a Trini. That's what we call people from the island."

"Oh. Well, anyway, he'd still cry."

"I don't care. He tell me he's not gay, and I believe him. He wants help, and I'm going to help him. He's such a sweet boy, and his family really be a terrible family. They are abusing him."

"Lina, you seem like such an intelligent woman. How can you not recognize what is happening here? He doesn't like his house. There probably is something not right going down there, or maybe his mom just won't let him wear make-up. Regardless, he's looking for someone he can look up to, and who will support him. If it means telling you he's not gay, then he'll do it. But he's gay. And you shouldn't try to tell him he's not."

"I'm not telling him he's not. It's his choice. And he listens to our pastor, and follows God's word."

"Do you think homosexuality is a disease?"

"No, I know it's not a disease. But if somebody wants it to stop, God will help them."

I didn't want to ruin a delicious post lunch beach rest. I changed the topic. Sort of.

I was lying on the sand, my back to the lifeguard station, facing Lina. She was staring up at the coconuts. "Are you a lesbian?"

She must have laughed, laughed heartily for a solid minute. "You really don't know me, do you. I love sex. With men. Too much. That's why I gave it up."

"You don't give up sex. It gives up on you."

"No, I did. When I started going back to the church, I made a vow to God. I will not have sex again until I am married."

"Are you shittin' me? If I started rubbing you right now, and then took you back to your little SUV back there and tried to mount you on the back seat, you wouldn't go for it?"

"What makes you think you're my type?"

"Good point. Am I too skinny? Too white? Yeah, it's a color thing. Black women at home never dug me either. It's cool. I can still look though."

"You are silly. First, I am going to tell you that I will not date any more black men. No more. The black Trinis are all cheaters, all of them. They be having two other girls and you never know until too late. You have their baby and then they off to someone else. No. They aren't ever going to be with me. Second, I'm serious, I am. I took a vow. And I haven't broke it in five years."

"You said something about dating. You still date?"

"Of course, I just broke up with my boyfriend of a year. He was from Peru working here in construction. He wanted to marry me but I didn't think I was ready yet. There are still things I'm doing in my life. I told you about my two farms. I'm still creating growing systems to turn out organic plants really really fast. And I'm not ready for a husband."

I should have been more interested in her inventions to revolutionize small farming practices. I meant to ask her more about it earlier, but instead, all I could utter was, "You dated a guy for a year and didn't have sex with him? Seriously, cause in my sexual theocracy that would be apostasy punished by a hanging from your clitoris. Did you do everything BUT, cause that could conceivably work?"

"No. My clothes stayed on. His stayed on. It wasn't about that. We loved each other. But I couldn't go through with it."

"For the sake of that guy's testicular longevity, I sincerely hope he was masturbating frequently."

"I didn't talk about those things with him."

"You believe in God, right. He created man, and woman. He gave me a penis and you a vagina. He made sure they fit right inside of each other. Real nice and tight. Maybe not the women who've had six kids, not even one of your Trini boys could satisfy that. You ever notice the penis doesn't exactly vacuum fit an ear drum either. He also made sure the anus could fit a flesh, silicone, or vegetable skinned penile like object to keep boys like Anthony happy. The girls were given tongues. Lina, God wants us to enjoy life, to use the tools he's given us. With consent of course. Unless it's a rape fantasy thing. But that's still consent."

"Come on now. That is not what the bible be telling us. It's between a man and woman who are married. And let us say ok, that I be using your logic boy. I have a finger that fits perfectly in my nose, right, but should I be puttin' my finger up my nose?"

"Absolutely."

We fell asleep on the beach, and then carried on godless and sexless, but still laughing all the way to that creole restaurant hidden between two houses on a desolate country road, where buttered cassava and callaloo, a spinach okra cream thing, were another reminder of the culinary paradise enchanting me.

The next morning I had new accommodation. It was an unadorned wood plank room, just off one of the capital city's main streets. Cobweb covered bathroom, barred windows, dusty floors. Just my style.
I had written an old friend about my last minute trip to Trinidad, where he was born. Hours before my ferry left, his mom wrote to tell me that I could stay in a place she uses on the island. And she left me a few contact numbers. I called the one she felt I should definitely meet, a family friend she called him. Pete told me he'd be there immediately. And he was.

There are doppelgangers and then there are older versions of doppelgangers, which is really just an older version of the person being doppelganged, which really just sounds like a bunch of drunk german men taking turns penetrating a rotting schnitzel.

This man was the older version of my friend. I wanted to yell 'Davis.' He had aged considerably and lost some weight, but it was Davis. Him and another guy walked around the small courtyard like they saw ghosts. I unlocked the massive military padlock on the iron rod enclosed front porch.

Pete gave me a hug instantly. And started to look at every corner of the porch like a disoriented Bob Vila, but blacker. The lighter skinned guy with him, more coffee with lots of whole milk than his partners unadulterated black, he immediately started questioning, in a heavy Trini accent, which is not easy to replicate, "Hey boooy, where be Davis? You be hiding him? Hey Davis, come out here boooy, and give your godfather a hug. Davis? You be bringin' Davis with you?"

Was he fucking with me?

"Hey brother, take it easy alright. I don't think Davis is here," Pete stated, lamentably, to his partner. And then added, looking at me, "This is my brother Nigel, Davis' uncle, and yes, it be his godfather too."

Uncle Nigel then looked back at me, "And you be knowin' of course that this is the man who brought Davis into this crazy world."

I didn't know, but I should have guessed from the features. "Yeah, of course.'

"Is Davis going to be coming here to meet you while you're in town?," Pete asked me, the slightest hint of hope in his words.

"Not unless he planned a surprise trip I don't know about."

"That would be nice, boooy" they both practically mumbled at the same time. They seemed to have a habit of using boy like some of us in America use 'man'. But they stretched it out and spun it with Caribbean tinge.

The two of them spent the next twenty minutes rummaging around the small grounds talking about the house with each other.

"Hey brother, you remember when we come down here, and Davis be right there in the pram, and you be with Marleen, both you playin' with the boy together, yeah booooy, and I over here doin' the faces and things."

Pete smiled. He smiled exactly like his son. The face went from pensive to radiant in milliseconds, displaying clean, big, bright teeth that could light up a photo shoot. And then, back to the pensive.

"Hey brother, look back there, oh that where we brought the basketball, and we be worry Marleen's mother be comin out and yellin' at us, and Marleen just be a comin to sit right there."

"Yeah. Yeah, right." Pete didn't say much. He would simply respond to his brother's jarred memory and then return to his sleepwalk, lost in his own world of thoughts, and maybe touch, really softly, a piece of fence, or a window, or try looking into the locked part of the house.

"How long has it been since you came here?," I wondered aloud.

The brothers stared at each other, and after a few moments pause, Pete said with some hesitation, "over thirty years. Davis left here with his mom when he was one, and moved to the States."

"Yeah boy, Davis not be back here in a very long time. You bring him back here, bring Davis back to see his family," Uncle Nigel practically demanded.

I had no idea. How could I not have an idea that a friend doesn't know his father? We weren't the closest of friends, but we were much more than acquaintances, friends for almost twenty years. He didn't talk about his family. I never bothered to ask. I didn't talk about mine. Most of my male friends didn't talk about their families. Is it a guy thing? Why don't men talk with other men about their family issues? Is it because we too Man to even realize we have an issue?

Pete was drifting again. Thinking about something. He returned his gaze to me. Melancholy. Lost nostalgia. I couldn't tell, but it filled his eyes. "Next time, alright, you'll bring Davis."

I choked down a tear. And after, a few more. I had my own history, one I never shared with Davis. My father also lost a big part of my childhood. I never thought it bothered me. But for many years, when I'd see a father alone with his son, I'd stop and watch them. I never understood why. I watched every detail like a boy going to the zoo for the first time. How the father showed his son to tie the shoe. The motions his hand made. The way he looked up at his boy, pat him on the head. Sometimes the boy would lift into the air, a superhero unwilling to come down. I'd watch the muscles of the fingers, how tight they grasped the child's small fingers, and the triumph they shared when they made it across the busy street. I never thought it about it. There was no lost sleep, or abandonment anger. I accepted our relationship. But like the mindless channel flipping that occupies so many lives, you'll always stop for a moment at the nature shows. You have no idea why, but you can't get over how the animals interact with each other. Their behaviors, and what they must be thinking. The father and son channel. It pulled me in. Everytime. It still does.

"Hey booy, get your things, you are going to come meet Davis' family," Uncle Nigel said enthusiastically.

In the ten minute the Port-of-Spain's middle class homes, the brother's must have slowed down a half dozen times to greet friends on the street. Uncle Nigel was boisterous, always yelling out some joke, in a heavy patois that left me wondering about the British educational system. Pete would always follow with a contrasting coolness, easy and relaxed. And then came that smile. Knocks you out every time. He was definitely the boy's father. And each time, with each encounter, he'd pop to life, for a brief second, and shout, "This is MY SON'S FRIEND. He came to see us!", and the person on the street would offer a sort of smiling congratulation.

The home was in impeccable condition. A 1950's ranch with manicured grass ringed by an assortment of precisely placed tropical plants inspired by someone's trip to the local botanical gardens. An older woman sat rocking on a metal chair., the porch's white iron gating cloaking her exact movements.

She rose slightly from her throne, adorned in the tablecloth patterned smocks that have been imparted to grandmother's the world over. Her features were of neither son, but soft, almost East Indian. She was a woman without bitterness in the face, a teller I would choose waiting in line at the bank. However old she was, a bit of her youthful attraction still remained, as she gently hugged me, the clearly spoken dialect of the colonizers surprising my ears. "Hello there. Welcome to the Iverson home. Is Davis with you?"

I never knew if they were being cheeky, or serious. "No, he's not."

"Tell me, will you please, how is my dear boy Davis, and his family. I hear about his new grandson, Johnson, they tell me he looks to be like my late husband."

"If your husband's dad had a thing for British chicks, then yeah, I guess that's possible."

"Oh, I must tell you, you surely don't know, but you are to be more correct than you jest. His grandfather was a Scotsman from Tobago, and married one of the slave girls. We are Trinidadians you must know. We come from many different races, that's why my boys don't look alike."

"I didn't want to ask. I thought maybe y'all live in an open society here, rebelling against the Queen's conformity."

She kept a light smile on her face, never disappointing my choice in teller, "No no. Not us anyway. We were married for sixty-two years until his death. Very happy years."

"Dad was a fine man. Tough. A sportsman. A true athlete. How is Davis, is he playing sports?", the deprived father asked me.

"Man, if he's not working, that's all he does. Probably saved him from a scholastic career of intoxicants like many of our mutual friends. Mostly, he's crazy about golf, and basketball."

"My boy. He be thinking he is Tiger Woods or something. Well, I not be going to do that, but basketball is my game." His face was lighting up, joy coming out from somewhere. "Two times a week, the old man here still be going to the club, playing with the boys. You tell Davis to get back here, his daddy will take him to the hoop, boooy!"

He delved into the same trash talk his son would do. How our genes can be progammed... Fuckin' weird.

I had a brief thought of the Gayanese, Anthony, and that there's no way I could tell his father what sport he's into.

The two sons escorted their mother and me through the house. It was one memory after another. Always prefaced with, "Davis' auntie did this, and this is where Davis' Uncle Berry did that." Through an open door, a slumbering giant was coming to. He made his way out to greet us.

Holy crap. Davis' uncle was General Colin Powell. I knew The General had Caribbean heritage. But he's my friend's fuckin' Uncle.

"General Powell. It's an honor. Really, I had no idea. Davis never told me. You should have got the party nomination in 2000. You're the only person in that party with common sense, and dignity. Well, there's another guy, some congressman, whose name I forget, but he's not a true leader like you Sir."

"What the...booy, I don't even live in America, I came into town for Carnaval, from Toronto."

The other two brothers are laughing. Uncle Nigel says, "Boooy, that not be the first time he hearin' that."

"Oh. Sorry. Canadians are nice. Real fine folk. Practically American."

He didn't respond. He was actually a man of fewer words than Davis' dad.

"Mommy, you should take out the books. Show him some of the history here," Uncle Nigel proudly said.

The boys always referred to mother as 'mommy.'

The next hour was spent rummaging through the faded kodak remnants of a middle class Trinidad family. Most of the memories were proceeded with, "that's Davis'..."

I couldn't get over the variations in skin tone. In America there would be a lot of questions over paternity, silent questions never spoken. But not here. Venezuela is an extremely racially mixed culture, probably one of the world's most blended, but I had no idea about Trinidad. Philistine.

"We are quite the diverse family. There are East Indians on my side of the family, and of course African, and there are the Scottish on Davis' grandfather's side, and we even have Jew."

"Mommy, who was being the Jew man again," Uncle Nigel confusedly inquired.

"It was from my mother's auntie side."

"Mommy, didn't what is her name, auntie, auntie Ellen, she is marrying a Jew man, right mommy."

"No, no, it wasn't her who marry the Jew," mommy rebuffed.

A ten minute debate ensued over the rightful spouse of the family's new Jew.

"Well, now I know why Davis used to hang around a lot of Jewish guys. It wasn't just to dominate them in basketball. He's pre-programmed. I never saw him eat matzoh though."

Uncle Colin Powell went back to sleep. The two brothers kidnapped me again. We were back in the car. Pete driving, Uncle Nigel in the back, barking directions at every corner.

Pete never reacted, never snapped back. At one point, he merely looked at me, opened up that grin, and put forth, "I be living with this my whole life." And they both started laughing.

He drove exactly like Davis, and Davis was slow in coming to the wheel. He must have been twenty-one until I saw him drive for the first time. But they both had that slouch, the chair pushed back, and the one arm hanging straight of the wheel's edge. Biology. The nature channel.

Nigel went into the liquor store and returned with three Stag's, a palatable local pilsner. Trinidad followed the rest of the developing world. If you're driving, and you're thirsty, why not.

Uncle Nigel was ready for another before Pete even reached the label mark. He drank slow, without urge or even desire. Periodically, he'd take his free hand and give himself a quick swig, then place the napkin covered bottled gently back between his legs.

We passed a few more old friends. Uncle Nigel would be leaning out of the car, practically grabbing them. The preternaturally cool Pete would flash the smile, and exuberantly add, MY SON'S FRIEND." It became obvious the brothers didn't come around the old neighborhood that frequently.

Uncle Nigel ran into a roti shop to grab lunch for the house. Pete merely looked ahead, relaxed and quiet, until he turned to me and asked, "My boy, tell me how he be doing, is the family alright?"

"I haven't seen them since October, but they seemed pretty happy with the baby and all."

He looked like he wanted to ask something else. But he didn't. He nodded his head up and down approvingly, and then looked ahead, the half full beer sitting unloved between his legs.

The meal rewarded with the rich and spicy curry flavors that never made it across the channel to the anti-imperialists. Colin Powell and Mommy joined us at the kitchen table, the same table they had been eating at since infancy.

After a few more questions about Davis, they finally forgot I was there, getting lost in family history, in laughs over forgotten names. They were so comfortable with each other, all of them obviously wanted to be at that table. Uncle Nigel could have come back with a pitcher of water instead, and they'd all still be talking the same.

Mommy Granma excused herself to go take an afternoon nap. But before she left the table, she looked me in the eyes, her glare subtle and inviting, and pleaded, "Please tell my grandson to come see his grandmother. Please do that for me. Tell Davis he has a history here, and a lot of family. His new family needs to know us. I want to know them. It's been so long since the last time I had the chance to see my grandbaby. You will tell him won't you? I don't have much time left here. I'm an old lady you know."

I couldn't help wonder if Davis knew his family here? Did he even care? We talk so irregularly, and never about these things, I didn't know if it was my place. Maybe I shouldn't get involved. But if I don't, he may never know, reach old age and be smacked with an explosion of regret as he tries to trace a past he never bothered to know.

The brothers decided I should go for a seabath. I didn't think they were the types to indulge in spa treatment, but if Colin Powell is down, I'm down.

The bay was prototypical Caribbean, an elixir on the wall of some bygone travel office in Omaha. I couldn't find the spa house though. Nobody was covered with mud on the shoreline. And the slender Trini muscle soothers were hiding.

"Hey, where do they do the seabaths at?"

"Boooy, what type of question is that. Where you think the seabath be? You drink something when we not be looking?", Uncle Nigel scoffed.

"I know this is a trick question. I do. But I don't exactly know the answer. I'm guessing we may have to swim to get there."

General Powell spoke up. "Nigel, boooy, he's from the U.S. Canadians probably wouldn't understand either. A seabath is a swim."

"Hey boooy, what you be thinking a swim be, it be a bath in the sea," laughed Uncle Nigel.

"This be my place, boooy. Every day. Be spending a good two hours here. Escapin' booooy," Pete said with childhood glee.

"Booooy, what kind of job let a man have all day lunch at the sea. Always finding a way my brother here," Uncle Nigel laughed.

Pete and I seabathed away from the other two. He wanted to show me the bay, so we could visit the rocks where the kids jumped from, and the rocks where the people fished, and the spot where the egrets would land. This was his bay. Margarite bay. A former U.S. submarine base that America sequestered to sniff out German UBoats. Eventually the locals realized The Fuhrer had vanished, and protested until the Yankees gave back their isolated seabath bay. Pete swam me through his sanctuary.

We treaded water a couple hundred yards from the shore. Pete told me about growing up in Trinidad.

"It was a different time boy. It was the time of the black power days. Yes. The afros and all. Trinidad was under the British, and we recently had our independence. But the black man, he didn't respect himself. The British told him he was second class, man. The black man must know his place. Nobody taught us that we had a history and we needed to be proud of that. We didn't know how to respect ourselves, and with black power we did."

Our legs kept kicking, and Pete opened up a bit more. "I took to the pan. You know the pan? It's the steel drum. Nigel and I would go play with those guys all the time. I did that for years. You see, to play the pan was to be free. A lot of these guys were not from good places. It was a rough thing, not like today. And our middle class parents not be liking it, or boooy, my daddy would give us a good hit. The pan groups would fight with each other, and then play more pan. It was probably like a gang for us, but not like the gangs you see today. More brotherhood. More fun. And a lot less violent. I met Davis' mother at the time. Boy she was something. Marleen. It was the pan and her. And then Davis be comin' along."

He paused for a few moments, his legs stills motioning in a circles. "Davis was it man. I tellin' you boooy, I lovin that child. But I just wasn't ready. You know what I be saying, I just was not ready."

He paused again. Longer this time. His almond eyes weren't wet from the sea. He came to. "Yeah, I was in my early twenty's but to me I was still learning life. I didn't know nothing. I didn't study. I didn't have a good job. I couldn't take that responsibility. When my boy was about one, Marleen took him to the states."

It was me who paused. Memories of a childhood separated from my father wrapped their tentacles around me, the water rising to my head. I could barely keep my legs going. I wanted to hug him. But you can't hug another man in deep water. You can. But you can't.

I didn't know how much I should pry. But I didn't have to. Bit by bit, Pete told me a story.

"She left, and I kept with the pan. My brothers and sisters all got married. All six of them and then there was me, be all alone. My father had a yell at me one day. He not be understanding what I be doing with my life. Times were tough. I was lost, you know. I was good at one subject in school, really man, I only passed one, and it was in the sciences. Then my buddy Kevin comes back from the states, says he be having a place for me to go in Boston. I think I be making that decision in a few days, and before you know something, I am living in the states."

Pete would speak, and my mind would drift to my own dad. What he thought in those years I was gone, and did he want us back?

"Boy, I got into my studies. It was the first time in my life I was doing it. I was doing it right. I made the dean's list every semester. And I was feeling good about myself, boooy. I wanted to see Davis. Marleen was only living a few hours away. I tried to get in touch with him but it was hard, you see. It was real hard. Marleen had married another man, and they had children, and I didn't feel like I was Davis' father anymore. Another man had been raising him, and I knew he was feeling angry with me, and I couldn't do it, man. I wanted to. But I felt like I wouldn't connect."

The pause was at its longest now. We both drifted for awhile. The other two brothers had left the seabath, and were sitting on a massive log driftwood, laughing.

He returned, his island inflection progressively getting more distant, and more remorseful. For a year or so, their time overlapped in Trinidad, where the Mom had returned Davis, and dad began to know his son. Within a year Davis was back in the States.

Pete was appearing to be a proud man, an unsure man, and exuberantly passive. Throughout his story these traits seemed to prevent him from gaining contact. Davis came back to Trinidad briefly, when he sixteen, and it was the last time the two of them saw or spoke to each other. That was twenty years ago.

That evening, Pete and I went alone to his sporting club, where he had promised to teach Davis the finer points of the basket. It was a pre-carnaval event, and one of Davis's other uncles was scheduled to sing.

The two of us sat on a concrete wall,
toward the back, away from the crowd, exactly how Davis would. From his perch, everybody had to pass, and from his slouch he could salute them all, his beer left untouched between his legs. A blinding smile, and the obligatory "MY SON'S friend, all the way from the States to see me." He knew a lot of people.

After the show, we strolled over to the panyard, the expansive parking lot the steelband used for practice space. Colin Powell and some cousins joined us. The asphalt was covered in hundreds of steel oil drums, boys and girls of all ages tapping away to calypso melodies.

"Booy, this is it. I spent a lot of good years with this group. It wasn't like this back in the day, boy. No girls. And a rough looking crew. Rough! We helped start this group. Now they are being one of the biggest in Trinidad. You should see the fans they have at Carnaval time."

It wasn't your meet and greet steel drum hobo at the cruise ship port. This was an orchestra. But at some point, a band without wind, and without some diversifying rhythm, starts to sound like a bunch of people banging on a steel drum. It was time to say good night.

"Hey, I'll see you again, right?", Pete said hopefully.

"Yeah, of course."

"Make sure you tell Davis his daddy can still play the pan. He needs to come to Trinidad and see it."

I needed the levity of Lina. It was less complicated, less personal. With Pete, he was my father half the time, and I had to struggle to hold back the tears, every reminiscence told whipping a cyclone of buried history through my mind.

She arrived early. Is that wrong? I didn't know if I take my time and make her wait until our scheduled pick-up, or do I rush. What does British etiquette say?

Anthony was with her. A large puppet wearing a knight's helmet and face like Burt cloaked his hand as he greeted me with his new friend. I refrained from putting my finger in and out of it's mouth.

We were headed to the northeast of the country, where some of the more spectacular landscape could be found.

"Yes, don't you worry, I already have
a place for us to eat. In the middle of the country side. Really sweet owner. And she makes really tasty roti's."

Anthony brought the puppet to our table. The proprietor, an East Indian woman not very fond of hand puppets, eyed us with suspicion.

Anthony had on a similar outfit to the other day, tight and tighter. One earphone remained in his ear throughout lunch. I assumed they were instructions from God. He told us about how much he was enjoying Church, and how just absolutely wonderful the service was from last night. Lina gave me the 'Aha' look.

"What is Lady Gaga like?", Anthony asked abruptly in high pitch Guyanese English.

"Well, Anthony, she's a taurus, and loves taking bubble baths with rose petals in her free time. Her vices are fudgecicles and Maury Povich."

"Oh my god. Incredible! What's a fudgecicle?"

"You'll find out one day," I added with mischievous grin.

"Anthony, do not believe him," Lina chided.

"Don't believe me. Why. I'm an American. Why wouldn't I know about Lady Gaga?"

"Really, that's true. She likes bubble baths," Lina asked, this time in a more hopeful voice.

"No. I made that stuff up. Do I look like I listen to Lady Gaga?"

"What do they say about her in the U.S.", Anthony prodded like a schoolboy trying to find out his best friend's sister's shower schedule.

"They say she may be a tranny."

Anthony quickly asked, excitedly and looking right at me, "What is that?"

"It's when a woman isn't really a woman, or she's mostly woman except for a slight deviant of nature found between muscular thighs."

"Oh my god. This is what they say about Lady Gaga!," he responded, shocked.

"They also say she's a real artist, somebody not afraid to express herself, who is able to blur the line between sexuality in a way that challenges people's method of judgement. She gets called the new Madonna, but hopefully she'll remain in the Desperately Seeking Susan phase."

"The pastor at our Church says she's the work of the devil, and that her music is the mouth of the devil," Anthony told me in a voice neither hurt nor surprised.

I glared at Lina. She saw me, but she wouldn't look over.

At a rocky beach where Lina spent time fishing with a dreadlocked old white man, we hopped from rock to rock as the waves crashed below and mist formed around us. Anthony went off on his own.

"So, you're going to let Anthony decide on his own if he is gay? If your pastor says that about a singer, I can imagine what he says about gays."

"Alright, I will admit that it was strong, but he's a respected pastor, and he's trying to guide these kids," Lina retorted, almost unsure of her own words.

"Are you serious? Do you believe yourself? This is Lina, the same girl who used to enjoy sex until her legs went numb. And now, look at you. You're not letting this kid choose what he wants to do. The church is choosing for him."

Anthony was coming back over the rocks, his puppet choosing the steps. Lina was staring off into the sea.

Anthony returned, a smile on his face, offered a greeting from Sir Camelot, his puppet's new name, and headed down to the beach below, turning back around to wave at us with Sir Camelot.

"Look, I love this boy. He is such a good kid. You don't know what he has been through. His family is not good to him.
His stepfather forces him to massage his feet. They make him clean everything. He is a slave to that family. His mother already forced him on the street once.
He's practically living at my house. I don't know if I will have my own son, and right now he feels like one. He such a genuine boy, and with such a big heart."

"Yeah, I can see why. He's a good person. And if what you say about his family is true than I hope you can raise him. But if you really love this kid, then let him be gay. Introduce him to gay friends. You owned a hair salon. You're a gay yellow pages. Show him that he's not alone."

"I'm not forcing him. He can decide on his own."

"On his own? You're bringing him to a church where the leader, the most respected man there, is telling this kid he's going to hell for his sexual orientation. Which as much as you don't want to believe, isn't his choice. You are an adult. You have the right to choose your religion, and practice anyway you want. You don't have the right to bring a kid to a place that is condemning his nature. No Parent should force any one religion upon an impressionable child."

"It's not his nature to be gay. You don't know if it's his nature. I told you about the abuse."

"Ok, then get him professional abuse counseling, not quackery. Lina. Look at him. The boy doesn't have a single guy friend. He hangs out at the mall with girls buying makeup and listening to Lady Gaga, and he talks like a Guyanese Liberace. If you want to help him, get him out of the church and over to a hairsalon."

"I'm not going to take him out of church. He can make up his own mind. But the church is already helping him. He's back in school. He's making so much progress."

"He can't make up his own mind when he looks at you like a mother."

Lina returned to the waves. Her eyes lost on unseen objects. She would rotate to watch Anthony making animal shapes with sticks in the sand. I needed to find a way to get Anthony alone, not to rim him, but to tell him. He needed to know. I might not get to tell Davis in person, but I could help this kid. Madonna is getting old. She needs new fans.

The following evening I went looking for Pete. A normal citizen of the twenty-first century would have rang him. I'm a twentieth century revivalist, desktops and landlines all the way. In the battle for first world admittance, Trinidad is annihilating it's socialist neighbor. It's complete absence of phone booths, lack of internet cafes, and dearth of adequate public transportation almost guarantee it a spot among the Davos nations. Unfortunately, for a traveler with limited funds, you can only have encounters by using the last person's phone you are with to call the next date. I forgot to call Pete in my focused quest to isolate Anthony, and now I was forced to go mobile vagrant in Trinidad's pedestrian-less byways. Another bonus that will work favorably into first world status. I approached two different people chosen for their prodigious use of late model blackberry's. Very first world. The admission was about to be finalized when both candidates claimed they had no more credit. Definite demotion. Only those on public assistance are permitted by first world law to have mobile phones that are not on a monthly plan.

I went to the housewares sounding event of the year, Panorama. It was Trinidad's largest Pre-Carnaval weekend event, a field full of hundred person steel bands vying for a spot to compete on Carnaval weekend. An estimated 200,000 people showed up to basically hang out, or 'lime' as they say. With a large ex-pat community, it's a time for people to come home and re-connect. Trinis of all ages gather around coolers full of drink to laugh and dance until the early morning hours. I just wanted to find Pete, and eat. I ate. Jerk chicken, pigs tail in thick and creamy corn soup, baked and buttered cassava, popcorn. Hells yeah, popcorn! It doesn't matter how good the food. If somebody is poppin' fresh corn, and you can get it hot, you've got to get it hot, then you get it. It's never bad. You can't fuck that shit up.

I had less luck with Pete. I thought I saw him several times. But I was a self-created victim of race inverted bias. This is when one race assumes all members of a different race look the same. White people are convinced all Asians look the same. People swear their children on it. You ask any Asian if they can tell white people apart, and they will tell you NO. Of course, a white person reading this is adamantly saying no, that's impossible, how could anybody confuse his cousin Michelle with his wife Abigail. Go ahead, ask an Asian. And you'll come to realize the near impossibility of finding universal truth.

I walked round and round the hundred person steel pan ensemble that the Iverson brothers helped initiate four decades earlier. Pete was right. There were fanatics there, screaming and dancing for a bunch of people hitting an oil drum. For two hours. Eventually, I ran into somebody I met the other day. I didn't have many friends on the island but I'd met a few. Why did I find her? Cause she was white.

I started losing sleep at night. I never lose sleep. I'm the guy who falls asleep standing up on an elevator, only to find out I missed my floor. Five times. If only people in elevators spoke to each other...
I kept thinking about Pete, and Anthony too. But it was Pete that was making me lose sleep.

I re-connected with my father as I got older, to the point where he's probably my closest friend. I wanted that for Davis. But I knew he could be stubborn, and worst, having been out of touch with him for so long, I felt out of my element like a gay Guyanese in an evangelical church. Davis' family wanted to see him so bad. They were practically crying to get him home, to the land of his ancestors. I still didn't know what I would say to convince him.

Are fathers human? Are they not entitled to mistakes? Should they be above the tenuous morals that labor to guide humanity? Why do children assume parents are superheros?

Shouldn't an adult son realize
his own mistakes, the crimes of his youth? Shouldn't a son so eerily similar to a father, who enjoyed (struggled) a prolonged adolescence frolicking for nearly ten years in un-decisive undergraduate studies, shouldn't this son have some morsel of understanding for a youthful father's inability to confront the joy-killing reality of child rearing. There had to be a way to allow Davis to see his father's pain, regret, and grave mistakes.


Lina and I went out to dinner the next night. She came without the puppetmaster.

"Alright, tonight, I want to take you to a new place. It's somewhere that I really love. I hope you'll like it," Lina told me like a schoolgirl telling her mom what she wanted for Christmas.

"Cool. You know me. I'm the skinny dude who eats like a fat man that can't sing. Where are we going?"

"Syrian."

"Yeah, alright, not exactly Trinidad style, but I love some good babaghanoush and tabolueh salad, Probably no beer though. That teetotaler Mohammed screwed us. Maybe they'll have hashish for the hookahs, The Mo Man is cool with that, as long as no women are present and no fewer than four men share a pipe, which has something to do historically with lilfe in the Sahara, where the arabs would have to shield the Holy Prophet, who ripped off the Bible and claimed it was his own, from the frequent sandstorms that would irritate his foreskin during the midday penis suck performed by his slaveboy Bilal. And that is the real reason Muslims must remove their foreskin. Don't look at me like that. Go to Wikipedia for yourself if you don't believe me."

It was the restaurant of local oil executives, and stock traders, and women from the bottom, dressed for the top, looking for a lifetime supply of sugar. It was the size of a football field, with a fifty foot dome ceiling, and at least twenty three large flat screen monitors confounding the diner with sporting events from around the world. A stock ticker ran above the bar, the dizzying fractions fattening the already fat and continuing to emaciate the rest. Faux gold picture frames strung out along the walls like women at an unpatronized brothel. They held the autographed jerseys of major league sports stars from the States, forcing one to question why any sane person would want the signature of another person. Wouldn't a photo of you and the celebrity crouched down in the middle of your four friends smoking a hookah be a much more personal piece of memorabilia?

The waiter wore flair. I explained what that was to Lina. She now understood they were outlandish symbols of triumph to demonstrate how many Palestinians were refused entry into Syria in order to surreptitiously take control of Lebanon by starting a civil war there.
WooHoo!

The menu was GreekDiner enormous which was probably the owner's clandestine tribute for another nation that shared the same adulation of the male rear. There were such Syrian staples as chicken ceasar salad with your choice of balsamic or honey mustard dressing, crispy chicken tenders, bacon lettuce and tomato sandwiches which were stacked with toothpick things and cut into quarters, and there were the Phoenician delicacies of bbq ribs and hot sauce chicken wings. America was honored briefly in the appetizer section with a plate of falafel and Syrian celery sticks.

Lina closed her menu before I even got to page seventeen.

"I already know what I want. I want the medium sauce chicken wings with the bleu cheese dressing and a slice of oreo cheesecake for dessert."

She was torturing me. She must have known it. I wouldn't even drive by this place in the States, which is hard to do, you know, when it exists four fold in every single town with a main street and a heartbeat.

I asked to speak to the manager. Cause that's what you do in a Syrian restaurant.
The boy with the Lebanese flair promised he would send somebody over.

Another boy with flair, slightly older than the first came to our seat. More East Indian the African, and very proper.

"Hi. Are you the manager?"

"Yes. I'm currently the head waiter on floor duty, sir. How can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, can I speak with the Syrian please?"

"If you are to be referring to the owner of this establishment, he's not here tonight sir, but I would be happy to assist you."

"Ok. I need you to give him a message for me. Alright. Can you do that?"

"Yes sir. I can do that."

"You promise."

"Yes sir. I make the promise."

"Ok. You tell the owner that an American citizen was here tonight, and that I represent the Restaurant Trade Association of America, and I demand that he begin to advertise this deceitful institution as an American restaurant immediately, and he cease and desist from promoting this establishment as Syrian."

"Yes sir."

"And one more thing. Don't forget this. Make sure you tell your boss that we don't serve off label ketchup. It's Heinz. This here bottle and brand may look similar, just like Asians, but they're not. Get Heinz in here right away. And don't buy Hunts either. Hunts is for people who drink RC Cola and enjoy saccharin product. Don't represent that side of America."

"Yes sir."

I may not eat at Fridays, but it's like someone talkin' trash about your idiot brother. You'll defend him with everything you got, but to you, he's still an idiot who needs to get a job and get the fuck out of the house. He's fifty-two for christ's sake.

Lina was oozing bleu cheese from the left corner of her mouth, rambling about her hydroponic herb growing projects that will revolutionize Trinidad farming. I should have been more interested because she was some kind of wonder in the engineering world, trying to legitimately better the health of all Trinidadians, but I was still pre-occupied by Pete and Davis. It's all I thought about. I knew I'd get a chance to corner the Gayanese somewhere. She was not budging on him. But maybe she could help me solve the father son dilemma.

She was now dipping my french fries in her bleu cheese. When friendship has reached the point where one feels comfortable eating another's fries without asking, you can proceed with more pressing issues.

"Lina, tell me, don't you miss orgasms?"

"What? What are you asking me about?"

"Well, you're eating my fries. I figured it was time. Forget it. Look, I need your advice. You know I've spent some time with my friend's father, and I've told you about their situation."

She nodded affirmatively while increasing her dipping prowess to two fries per dip.

"What should I do? The family is literally dying to see him, I mean they may die before he makes it back here, if ever."

"Don't get involved. Let him figure it out."

When somebody gives an answer you don't want some will keep pushing. I'm a pusher.

"In most instances I'd agree with you. Even though I think I just saw you dip a threesome of my fries. But this guy is too proud and too embarrassed to get back in touch with his son. And I don't think the son is much different. They haven't spoken in twenty years. And...and...if I hadn't resumed a relationship with my father, he probably would have stayed quiet too. We're not built with vulvas. We don't know how to handle emotion. Look at the simplest level of emotion. Physical pain. A woman gives birth. She cramps, bleeds, and bitches every month. A man gets a cramp, and he calls in sick from work and has woman making him chicken soup."

"Ok, sure. Maybe you have a point. I haven't told you something, but my father left us when I was nine."

"Before you continue, are you telling me this because you are eating my fries. Is this the international rule of trust?"

"Boooy, I do not understand you some times. My father left us. We were four siblings. Didn't come see us, or talk to us. Nothing. Booy, I tell you I had so much anger against my father. Then one day I got a message from God. In church, they were talking about forgiveness, and you could not connect with God if you didn't have forgiveness in your heart. It was then I decided to contact my daddy."

"You see that, the Church is good for something."

"Now, why you go be saying that?"

"What, did I say that out loud?"

"It's cause of Anthony isn't it? He's not gay, and if he is, then that's between him and God."

"That kid is going to end up married to an innocent local woman, fucking homosexual heroin addicts in the alleys of Port-of-Spain, and give his wife AIDS and be dead himself before he's thirty."

"You're being crazy now."

"The sooner you tell him God loves men who suck off other men, the sooner he can start evolving."

"You are mad, you know that, completely mad."

"So what happened with your dad, did he end up being gay?"

"Noooo. My daddy is a Man. I took my brother with me the first time. You met him. He's a big guy, and he was scared. He wouldn't even look at my father, he just be standing behind me like a little boy, and daddy and I begin to go at it. First I tell him I forgive him. He don't say a word. For a long time. Then he starts to cry. Then I'm yelling at him. Then I hear my brother saying things. Soon all three of us be crying. My daddy explaining what happening all those years. I couldn't believe my brother. He broke down. He let go. And in two days, we were actually laughing about things."

"And today?"

"That was four years ago, and now I talk with my daddy every week. My sisters too. My brother not as much but he still talks with him and his kids visit with him. It's nice. Real nice. I thank God all the time for the wisdom he gave me to forgive."

Lina was looking for the flair boy. She was ready for the cheesecake. My fries had vanished into the Syrian bleu cheese void.

"Tell me something else. Is it common here, this issue with man bailing on the families."

"Booooy, you do not know! Mostly in the African community. Not so much with the East Indians. And you see it in all class of Africans here. Sometimes they have other women, and sometimes they don't want the responsibility. That's why I do not be dating black men. I told you the other day."

"Why do you think though, why is this so common in the black community? I should tell you in the lower class black community in America that it's almost a given."

"I don't really know. A lot of people here say it's a result of slavery. The plantations broke apart the family, and a man was basically taught that his woman would never be his so why bother. Some others have said it may even come from African tribes where the men were accustomed to having multiple wives. I know slavery be affecting us as blacks. I didn't grow up with money, but you know what, it was the past. You have got to get over it boy. I ain't be one of these black people who are going to blame our sad past on my life. I made something with my life and I am proud of it."

I ordered one cheesecake and told her to enjoy most of it.

"Enjoy 'most' of it. You can order your own. I will pay for it."

As we walked out the door I caught the eye of the head boy in charge. He was too far across the room, so I grabbed a bottle of the closest ketchup and made a slit motion across my throat.

You can't be having freedom fries with socialist sauce.

I almost bought a phone just so I could call Pete. But I'm too cheap so I went over to the basketball club to find him. Apparently Trinidadians don't play basketball when the court has puddles. Well, if you guys can't handle the rain, you might as well go back to the bobsled. Or is that the Jamaicans? Is there a difference? Sometimes its' all Asia to me.

Lina had stopped by my place. She knew I was phoneless, and if I wasn't scavenging for the waiting of succulence of street food in my local neighborhood, I was enjoying the jailed confines of my front porch. And she had brought Anthony again. The puppet was gone, but a small purple feather was protruding from his ear. Today was going to have to be the day. I had to get him away from Lina.

In limp wristed falsetto, with great enthusiasm, Anthony greeted, "Hellooooo, how ARE you? I was missing yoooou."

"Hey. Cool. Hi."

We we're off to the south of the country. I think she wanted me to try her favorite Church's chicken in the country.

"Today I'm going to take you to some towns that are predominantly East Indian with very Indian dishes that you don't find so much hear."

"More hot. Like mommy's," Anthony added.

Lina stopped for gas, and I had a chance. I lied about my love of Lady Gaga to initiate the foreplay. I was about to tell him about the wonderful world of bathhouses and Pride Parades when she opened the door.

At the restaurant she went to wash her hands, and I tried again. But for some reason I couldn't just tell him. I needed an intro. I'm like that sometimes. As I began getting into American shopping malls, she busted me again.

We were coming back from a small walk along a fairly rough beach. I walked fast to get near Anthony. But each time I caught up, he'd wait for Lina. When she stopped to make a phone call, I tried again.

"What's your father like?" was the best I could think of.

"He's Amerindian. They are the natives of Guyana. If you take a real good look, I have some of their features. I haven't seen him in ten years, but I hope to go back this April."

"You know, there is something I want to tell you."

"Ok. No problem. Go ahead please. What is it?"

"Its, um, its, well..." and before another sensible word mumbled from my mouth, she was within listening distance. Shit.

The road curved through green and more green. The East Indians like to party on the rivers and the Blacks went down to the ocean. Nobody could tell me where the Chinese went. We passed them all, enjoying a Sunday in Trinidad. Outside of the towns, the country was pure green. Tropical forest and ocean, and tasty roadside stalls. We stopped at one, slightly larger than a stall, where Lina knew the owner.

Curried crab and dumplings. Island spice and rich curry saturated the crustaceans every tendon, which is a good thing, cause a crab without sauce is a monumental waste of time.

After lunch, Lina went into the makeshift kitchen to talk with the owner.

"Hey Anthony. Come here, man. I want to talk to you. No, right here is cool. Look, I've got to tell you something. It's just between me and you, alright? No, I'm not gay. Why would you say that? Do I look gay? Anyway, um, hey, uh. Alright. Here it is. There are lots of gay people in my city. Happy, successful gay people with husbands and careers. Many of them came from small towns and unsupportive families to find a community of people here who showed them that it was perfectly natural to be gay. Some of them listen to Lady Gaga and some like Sepultura. Not many, but they do what they want. And there are communities like this in major cities around the world. If there is a God, he'll love you for being you. Alright?"

He just stood there with this smirk on his face. He looked like he was about to laugh, eerily reminiscent of Edward Norton in that movie where he tricks Richard Gere about the murder he actually premeditated.

"I know all this. I cut my hair short and stopped wearing make up to keep them happy. I'm only going to church so Lina won't get mad at me. When I'm eighteen I'm leaving Trinidad to go study in another country when I can be myself again. I only need to wait a few more years."

Son of a bitch. I should have been ecstatic. I'm a helper. I want to help people. And now, something was short circuiting inside. I should tell Lina when she gets back. This kid is milking her. Or is it another mutually beneficial relationship when 'using' serves a higher need. Lina was my friend. It hadn't been long, but she was obviously a person who would do anything for me. Anthony went to the bathroom when she got back. It was a test. God likes these kind of tests.

I gave her a one arm hug when she got to the car door. Told her how much I appreciate what she's done for me. Then, with sincerity in the eyes, I paused.............and told her once again what a great kid Anthony is.

"Oh, and one more thing. I always forget. Can I borrow your cell phone? I'm glad you have credit. Oh, I forgot it's cause you still work for the mobile carrier."

Pete invited me to spend the day at his office. I insisted on coming out by public transport. Why do people with cars assume that waiting for a large chauffeured vehicle to pick and drop you off is so difficult? I'd be there, don't worry Pete. I've got to see what type of employment warrants a three hour lunch.

In a sprawling complex of buildings, three different security guards came to my aid in typical Trinidad fashion. It's not the chaotic effusiveness of Venezuela, but a cordial Britishness that wants to assure that you are going to be alright. On the third man, we found him, hiding out on a second floor exterior stairwell, looking off into the parking lot.
I hadn't been this happy since I last saw my girlfriend. I'd been thinking about Pete like a peasant thinks about a television set he saw in town one day. I had to get back and see him, and now we were together. He gave the enthusiastic "MY SON'S FRIEND, all the way from Ameica to see him" greeting to a few colleagues in the hallway.

This man was a stranger a few days ago, like the billions of strangers we don't know across the world. And now I wanted nothing more than to bring his son to him. And maybe something more. Something personal. To know. Why? Why did he do it?

We sat in his office, a medium sized sanitized room with linoleum floors and two walls of books. A desk sat uncluttered with a dustless flat screen computer monitor. A few miscellaneous boxes sat half opened in the corners. A large laboratory desk with rectangular mandarin cabinets ran opposite the computer wall.

"Boooy, I've been here for twenty two years. They created this position for me. Not long after I came back from Boston, I had this. A director. I went from nobody to somebody in charge of all these laboratories here. This year I'm going to retire. In Trinidad we be doing that at sixty you know. Got to enjoy the life until we be too old."

He started to review his life again. Just like our swim at the old submarine base. The end of colonialism. Black power. The changing male. His meeting of Marleen, and the birth of Davis. The pan. The lost worthless feeling. The confusion. The slow reentry into humanity that began with his university career. He pulled out a yearbook.

"Class of 84. Man, you are younger than I thought," I uttered with slight confusion.

"Boooy, I told you I was slooooow. At least ten years older than the rest of my class."

With the pride and nostalgia of a boy looking at his varsity sports photos, Pete went methodically, page by page. Naming professors, even secretaries. There were photos of the only black student at a lab microscope, and the only black student laughing at the quad. Other than the beard. It was Davis. Exactly how I remembered him.

"Yeah booooy, you see that white boy there. That was Eric Ramanelli. We played basketball together. Good jump shot."

I interuppted the flashbacks. I had to. I had to know. Again.

"Why didn't you try to spend time with Davis? He was so close to your school."

No more Eric Ramanelli. His pause was extended. The eyes had that thin pond glaze that damned them from the pain that wanted to pour through. He spoke up slowly, but deliberately.

"I tried. I wanted to. It's just...It's just...things were not good between me and Marleen. And she married this other man, you see. There was another dad in his life now, you see. I could not compete. I didn't want the conflict. And school was doing me right. Everything was starting to work in my head. Man, I'm I'm telling you, it just wasn't comfortable for me. I wanted to see him. I did...."

How many absent fathers go through this? Drowned in the pestilence of masculinity: toughness. We're too tough to drink a frozen cocktail with an umbrella peering out the top. We're too tough to tell our friends our problems. We're too tough to hug. We're too tough to admit we fucked up, cry, get yelled at, and have to figure out how to get over it.

It was obvious, painfully obvious to the point that my day was a constant battle to keep my tears imprisoned in their pool as Pete would continue to drift back to some occasion or the other when he wanted to contact Davis. And each time it was the same. He'd pause. His eyes would quickly well up. And another part of his life would be shared; the new wife, her kids, his difficulty relating to them, and a constant theme: a desire for peace and quiet. He wanted life at the slowest, least stressful speed imaginable.

Only a few years ago, at a time when his wife recently passed, he made a trip back to Boston, a few hours from his son's new home. He thought it was the time. He could handle it. At fifty-six years old he could admit that he was no longer a man, but human. He called Davis, and they began to speak. He was doing it. But Davis had questions. Lots of questions. He wanted answers. He wasn't going to give Dad a free pass to enjoy the fruits of grandchildren without the assorted pains of fatherhood. As Pete puts it, "the boy, my boy, he had me on the stand, man. Right up there. And there be no jury man, only the boy. I could not be there. I did not want me no conflict. I'm a man of peace. Silence. It was too much. Maybe I was not ready...."
And the mist started to form before a new thought came out to wipe it away, show he was still a man.

Pete would talk about how great his job was because everybody left him alone. He was all alone. He'd go on about how great his daytime seabath escapes were, simply him and the water, seabathing back and forth. Alone. The way he wanted it. And then he took me to the open box on the floor. There were photos. The first time faded one was Marleen, "she be lookin' really fine, booooy." Probably a high school portrait. Then a young pre-teen photo of Davis. "One of the only photos I ever got of my boy. Can you send me some photos, please? I would like that very much."

He went to the computer, clearly a man of his generation as he awkwardly pecked at the keyboard, denied entrance to his own account. When it opened, after the third try, he had a large photo blown up on the screen. Johnson, Davis' son. "Marleen send me that." He looked at his unknown grandson, his radiant teeth refracting from the screen.

He began to pick up old science books, and thumb through folders. He'd stare at the walls. "This is all I have. This is my life. These things. What am I going to do next?" And he'd wonder aloud, a man not really looking for what he'd do next, but one who was trying to figure out what he'd done in the past.

We spent so much time talking he missed his three hour swim break. To compensate, we went for Chinese and a tour of his house. "Yeah boy, they be my life now." Five small yappy hairy dogs. "And those too. That's where I sit to be away from the world in peace." It was a kempt yard full of mature fruit trees.

"I am with this one woman now for about five years. Pretty East Indian lady. We see each other a few times a week but she be wanting the marriage and I think I could be there but man, she has two kids. Teenagers. I'm still trying to figure out how to be with my own boy. And he a man now. I can not be taking care of girls. I can not do it man."

We had to be back in the office in case somebody, by chance, may want to see him. A few hours a day he said, he has to do at least that.

Does a flawed man, a man who deserts, a man who is unable to conquer his own insecurities, does that man deserve his prodigy?

There was only one question I needed to know. It was for my Dad. It was for Pete. It was a response to all the children who haven't had fatherhood in their home.

"Do you still think about your son?"

"Every single day of my life."

And like evolutionary clockwork, Pete and I both, we turned our gazes to opposite corners of the room. Boxers without a coach. I couldn't hold it for long. I thought I was keeping MAN proud, calling in the sandbags, staying tough. But the dampness of my cheeks told me different. Soon I tasted it: Weakness. Not Pete though. It was an impressive display of man conquering emotion. Heroics. A TKO. His pupils were swimming. Seabathing back and forth, trying not to drown as Margarite Bay turned on him. I was convinced he was going down. I never saw a man so ready to burst out of manhood. But at sixty years old, he had still had it. Tough as that kid on the court.

"Hey, you will tell my boy to come back to Trinidad right. His daddy would like to see him."

Do I get involved? Lina had told me not to. And after all, we're a society of non-involvers. "I'm not getting involved." It's a mantra of humanity. Yeah, yeah, I know, his wife is ruining his life. He's miserable. But I'm not going to say anything. It's not my place. I'm not getting involved.

He's always drank. That's how he is. I know, I know it's got him fired. But he finds other work. Look, I'm not getting involved! So what if he's my brother.

She's always been that way. She needs help. No, no way, I'm not getting involved.

Is he hitting her? Well can YOU do something. Who cares if you don't know them. What? You can't just leave her there on the sidewalk. Why aren't you getting involved?

If I hadn't re-discovered the joys of a father later in life, I'd probably be just like them. One more peon perpetuating a false myth.

Davis had to know.

I finally made it to the internet. It was one of those emails you normally erase. A generic name and a subject of "Last
Longer for LESS." It had nothing to do with how I could stay in Trinidad longer. Then another that said "hello???" Why the three question marks? One is sufficient. You want to ask if I am around. I understand 'hello' posited in the interrogative. Probably a bot. No, it was a new email friend. Lina.

The last two nights had been chaotic at Church. Even the prime minister was involved. Members were having visions. Four different members with the same vision. At 6am tomorrow there was going to be a massive earthquake in Trinidad. Two hours before my ferry left. She told me it was a message from God. I should be careful.

Funny, just as I was thinking about involving God, she sends the premonition. Do I blame God or the false prophets in her minion?

It's too bad Davis isn't a believer. I could bring him in with the Forgiveness thing. Can't exactly have one infidel preach fidelity to another infidel. If I called him, he'd probably tune me out. I can't exactly blame him, as the majority of his memories with me consist of my younger self, running around naked, harassing people with my testicles. Not exactly playing the pan.

Now is when I needed God. Leave the gay guyanese to enjoy Lady Gaga and the pleasures of bearded fellatio, and come help my friend Davis. Please. I sent him a letter. Long and detailed. And then I prayed, for the first time since my childhood, I asked God to bring a son back together with his father. Please.

The next morning the earthquake hit. Almost exactly at the premonitioned time. Right at the island's major city. Except it was in New Zealand, eleven thousand miles away.