SCRUNTING

Rashad Hosein

MIDDAY JUNE-DAY SUN IS ONE TO KILL. Worse yet how it rotten dog side of the road and swell them belly pregnant with worm. Nobody bother to take dead dog off the road in Trinidad and no breeze does even blow self in these parts to say the stink go fade. Whatever stagnant air it had festering in the foothills of Port of Spain stayed there and stifled the life out of everything.

I stand up on the corner near Ariapita Avenue, bend over the moss slick drain and laughing time I see my face reflect in the slime and I looking like some mange-riddle pothound. Is everything I finding funny these days. I’s one of them men now who go laugh at anything, like them madman who does sprawl out on cardboard with their bay rum, catching jones for dust on the pavement like they seeing some divine irony in it.

Don’t know how long I walking now. School finish early. For me, at least. I don’t know how you could tell a big man in form six with beard growing down he neck you can’t skip class. What you feel it is? Is not prison I sign up for. In any case, I never had a care for the dotishness they does want to teach. I just going so my mother don’t go and jump off the Lady Young.

Wouldn’t have no need for school or work when you see I finish this painting here. This is the one. It taking some time and I real catching my ass to even bring the brush to the canvas. Hell, to even squeeze paint out is like the tube constipated. Like the paint don’t want to get paint.

But I know is not the paint. I know is not the brush don’t want to take the colour, not the canvas don’t want to be defiled. No. Is the hand. The hand that fail the arm, failing the mind. Time I walk in my room and that sharp sting of ten-dollar thinner slap me across the face, time I see the scattered newspapers across the floor splatter with paint like blood in a murder scene, I does feel a terror not even the gunshot up the hill could bring out. And then in the centre of it all, that blank canvas leaking silence and standing great and erect like a monolith.

The stillness is a haunting. It does take your head like a sickness. Like a jumbie. It does take you like a jumbie. Is three months now, you know. Is for three months now, every evening I find myself walking, wandering the streets like a vagrant.

Second pack for the night and I done wheezing. The first I fold into a square and tuck in my back pocket because I convince myself I would find some use for it later. Paper always have its use. Sometimes you have a thing to write down and you have nothing on hand but your palm so you scribble your passing thought and by time you home it smudge to shit because you sweat too much. You need to take it easy is what your mother say. Same woman who throw the pot out the window when the saltfish didn’t wash good, it too salty is what she say.

I does put salt in it for spite.

Can’t do nothing in that house. Nothing. Every little thing that woman is want to come and harass my soul for. I don’t care about what your sister friend husband say about my cousin. I does only pretend to like she pelau and I sure as hell don’t have a care for she. Cousin is just a Christmas thing. A once a year nuisance, only slightly less annoying than going to the dentist. At least for Christmas I could sit in the corner and have a smoke without some baby face scrubs telling me something about some no smoking sign up in the corner next to the no eating, no drinking, no cell phones sign, telling me something about consideration, how other people so and so and I so and so.

And then home now, lock up in my own room, my mother want to come and tell me, a big hard back nineteen year old man, that I can’t smoke? Boy. Watch nah.

Hear what happen. So this evening I come home from school and I get to work on the piece. I slaving over that thing I don’t even know how long now. I say three months, but it might as well be three years. And the canvas still blank because I painting on copy book page. I don’t want to ruin the good canvas I save up so long to buy so it there collecting dust and well the paint I using from the ten-dollar store. I ent even buss the plastic yet for the set of oils I sell my phone for.

But anyway, I reach home and this woman come banging on my door, bawling something about how she can’t stand the smell no more, how the smoke don’t wash from the sheets no more, how it stain the curtains, the walls, turn the ceiling a particular shade of shit-brown and making me smell like a rancid, rum soak drain rat but I don’t know what she talking about rum because I does only drink rum on Saturday when I get my money. Is probably because people quick to think if you smoking, you drinking. And I ent go lie, a nip does go down nice with a cigarette, but sometimes you need your head clear. Sometimes you have to feel what it is you have to feel so you could finally put your brush on the canvas and paint what it is you have to paint.

But I don’t feel much these days. Not even that woman, screeching like a soucouyant with salt under she skin, pounding on my door and about to break down the thing, could drive me to an inch of frustration, could even coax a single muted cuss. I tell you, is like something break in me. I come home to find my canvas looking back with a familiar face and it was a stillness I already knew. A blankness I had grown accustomed to.

And I know when I walk out that room, when I sling that bag of silence over my shoulder and take a final glance at the canvas, I wasn’t coming back. Not until I had something to paint.

*

It did come to me in a dream, that picture. A dream I can’t remember because I never bother to write it down or sketch a thing. That’s why I does always walk with paper in my pocket now, don’t mind is the inside of cigarette pack I using or whatever scrap I find. They say recycling good anyway.

That dream don’t matter no more and I don’t try to remember it. That’s not what the walking is for. I don’t know what the walking is for. I feel I just want to get bounce down. I feel one of these days I going and walk out on the road, smack middle in the heat of Port of Spain traffic. One man bound to be vex enough to knock me over. One man bound to be drunk enough to think is jumbie standing up there in the night. Hell, man don’t even have to be drunk. I does already look like jumbie.

My feet move one after the other on the cracked pavement, the slap of each slipper making a different sound because I couldn’t find a matching pair. I reach the end of that footpath and turn into a side road, down an alley and emerge into the buzz of Frederick Street.

I walk, but I don’t feel myself moving. I become the stillness, that haunting silence in the white of the canvas and the dark between the flickering streetlights.

Port of Spain don’t sleep. Halfway down Frederick Street and I turn into a backroad because the lights hurting my eyes. Don’t know why they don’t turn it down. Have vagrant want to sleep but is like mole they hadda burrow in city to find their peace.

I stop to look at a poster stick on a parlour door and is only then I feel my legs, hot and pounding and then the pain catch me, a twitch on my hamstring and I on the ground. Child watching me with a corn curls in he hand. A next one drooling after a cake with lust in he eye. And is both of them laughing, bawling laughing while I on the cold concrete, clenching behind my leg, ball up in the dark like is the womb I in. And them children watching and laughing, mouth open big, cheek fat and plump and eye shining with blood lust and I watch them and laugh. I bawl, rocking back and forth until I feel a warmth creeping between my legs. I don’t stop pissing myself. The concrete cold.

I lean up against that parlour door looking at the moon and the starless sky, thick with smog and dusty light. The noise pounding a street over- cars, bottles, voices and the trembling of a bass line. It don’t stop. It does never stop. But you only hear it when you listen for it. Living here all your life, you grow deaf to the noise.

I don’t know what happen to me. A big hard back nineteen year old man crying on the ground because he leg hurting. Big hard back man piss heself crying because he don’t know what to paint.

Had a time I didn’t even have to think about it. The brush did move for itself. That was when I did believe I could be a painter. An artist. That was back when I didn’t care whether it was good or bad or shit or what. I did do it for the simple joy of the thing.

Last night I did sit down front that blank canvas in the centre of the room and I hold the brush with Perylene Red and try to imagine how evening colour the sea but all I think about was the bay by Sea Lots near the port. The old lighthouse and that blackgreen water lapping on the rocks with foam thick on the edge and rubbish and grease and sludge and shit, fish picking at the plastic and styrofoam and all of it piling up on that pitch oil sand. I think about the benches they put overlooking it by the walkway. I think about the people who does sit down there and watch the redness fade from the sky and I think about asking them why that light don’t touch the sea the way it should.

I lean back my head on the cold rust of the parlour door and feel a smile spread across my lips. Is a funny thing, you know. I does only find myself smiling these days when I realise I tripping off.

It have a vagrant across the road watching me and smiling. And now he laughing. This man watching me and laughing and I smiling back and feeling a chuckle catch in my throat, but I afraid to laugh because to tell you the truth, I only assuming is a vagrant cackling so. I don’t know what it is in the dark.  

Then something move, rising out of the ditch next to him. I see the blackness against the fence behind, a dark hand against the wire twisted with vines, fingers closing around it and a man pulling heself from the drain.

I hear a thud, bare foot against cold iron, and the streetlight come on. The vagrant slump against the pole with he eyes half asleep, leg skin out, one hand in he pants, next clutching a bottle in a brown bag. The man who kick the streetlight stand up next to him, he face twist up to spell murder in the wrinkles running under he tired eyes.

“Corbeau, what the ass you doing so late drinking bay rum? Not I tell you about that last week? And you gone back with your dotishness?”

“Is not bayrum, dread.”

“So what it is?” The man grab the bottle out of the brown bag and hold it up to the light. Open it and as the smell hit he leggo one stink steups.

“Oh gosh, Natty, come nah. Dread — no don’t pour it out nah. Jesus Lord.”

“Aftershave lotion is not for drinking, Mr. Corbeau,” he say, throwing the bottle in the drain. “Go and sleep, please.”

The man who name Natty holding he chin high as if the ras hanging on the back of he head weighing him down. And is like the thing drag he hairline there because the rest of he head clean out and shining.

We eye meet.

“First night or what?”

“I’s not no vagrant, big man.”

“Rasta, I scrunting these streets years now. I know a vagrant when I see one.”

Corbeau pick himself up. Under the orange glow of the streetlight, hollow eyes glint behind a curtain of wild hair.

“Is madman he is, dread.”

Natty fold he arms and nod to me. “You is a madman, boy?”

“Look, I ent have nothing much. Take what you want and leave me.”

“I will take a five, please and thanks,” say Corbeau, holding out he hand.

Natty slap it away. “You don’t look mad to me,” he say. “Not like the kind of mad man I know.”

“Natty, dread, is he who was laughing and bawling down the place hard hard just now, you know.”

“So is he who wake me up then?”

Corbeau sling he arm around him. “Let we beat he, Natty. Man can’t be disrespecting you so. Can’t be coming and disrupting the peace so. What he feel it is?”

“I sooner shove a foot up your bay rum stinking ass.”

He push him off and Corbeau fall, tripping over he foot and landing flat on his back in the middle of the road.

Squatting, Natty come closer. “Don’t worry. I ent go ask who you is. I know that’s not something you ask man like we.”

Take out a cigarette from he front pocket and hold it out. And before I vex him and find myself in the ditch with a buss head and my wallet gone, I take it and let him light it. Either way, I was never a man to refuse a smoke.

“I find the what to be more important,” he say. “And you go learn soon enough living on these streets, is always matter of what.” Natty pull hard and exhale, blowing the smoke between his legs. He look up. “So tell me. Drugs, murder or rum? What you do?”

I pull on the cigarette. Smooth, but I never like menthol. The smoke stay in the air, hanging like an omen under the flickering streetlight.

“Corbeau, hit that pole a kick for me please. Damn thing does never stay on.”

The vagrant kick, miss and bang he head. The streetlight blink back on. Natty slump down next to me and cough. Snub he cigarette on the metal of the parlour door and flick the butt on the road.

“I not in no drugs and thing,” I say. “Just taking a walk.”

“Taking a walk, eh?” Natty grin. “Can’t fool me, boy. I tell you, I does know a vagrant when I see one. I looking for food, but you scrunting for something else. Tell me I wrong.”

“Youth man scrunting for some loving, Natty. Give him a night to remember.”

“Shut your ass, Corbeau.”

“I have diarrhoea, sir.”

Natty shake he head and sigh. “I ent know what wrong with him. You know what he tell me? He say he was a philosophy professor. Expert in some man name Albert Camus. You does go to school, youth man? They ever teach you about Camus?”

I shake my head.

“That’s what I saying. Nobody I ask know a man name that.” Natty look at Corbeau, rolling on the ground and moaning. “Be glad at least you have something to scrunt for, boy. Have men who don’t have no reason to breathe for other than rum.”

Corbeau vomit in a pothole.

Natty sigh, rub he face and take out a next cigarette. “You want a pants?”

I look down at my soaked jeans.

“First night is always the hardest,” he say.

He call out to Corbeau and tell him to look for one. He pick himself up and start to dig through a garbage bag near the streetlight.

“I find him in the landfill, you know,” say Natty. “And is not food this man looking for eh. Not clothes or a mattress. This man drunk out of he head, climbing a mountain of garbage and toting an old box TV on he back. Then when he reach the top, he trip and roll back down.”

“And how he ent dead?”

Natty shrug. “I don’t know how he come out of that with just a break foot. And I don’t know why the ass he pick up back that TV and start to climb again. To this day I ent know. But a man like that, you don’t ask them who they is. And you never ask who they was.”

Corbeau pull a shorts from the bag, hold it up to the moonlight and smile.

Natty lean in. “But he sure as hell wasn’t no philosophy professor. Expert on Albert Camus my ass.”

“It go fit,” say Corbeau, bringing the pants. “Have a slight smell, but at least it ent soak up with pee-pee.”

“Is water,” I say.

Natty put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. It does happen.”

“Some men I know does like to piss up themself,” say Corbeau. “Say it does warm them nice. Me? I never grow to like it. You does have to have a certain kind of temperament for that. Is only be warm for a few minutes. Then is get cold. And then next thing you know, you colder than you was before you pee down yourself.”

Corbeau throw the shorts at my feet and lower himself next to me, tripping halfway down and banging he head on the parlour door. Dogs bark a street over.

“Lord Father. Don’t pelt yourself on the ground so nah.”

“It ent go mash it up, Natty. Don’t worry yourself.” He rest he head on my shoulder. “Youth man,” he say, whispering, “loan me that five dollars nah. Even a dollar self go do.”

“Leave the youth for me please. You know damn well piper can’t scrunt from vagrant.”

“Natty, the man is clearly not a vagrant. Let we just hurry up and take he wallet nah.”

“You want the five dollars?” I ask.

“Rasta, don’t give him no money for me please.”

“Natty, if we don’t rob this youth man right now, I going to shit myself.”

“Don’t start. Because you damn well know I will shove that shit right down your throat.”

Corbeau get up and stumble but manage to stand upright. “I getting real fed up of your dotishness, dread. You does never want to rob nobody again. Is like you turn philanthropist.”

“I not talking about this. Sit your ass down.”

“Why you don’t go and pay back all them men we rob? Why you don’t stand up on the corner and hand out dollar, eh?”

Natty pull hard on he cigarette.

“Goodness not for man like we, dread. We is badness and stinkness and knife between your ribs.”

Corbeau watch Natty and Natty watch him back, I in the middle of that quiet watching both way to see where to dash before I get lash. The silence violent and stink with rum. I move my leg and pain shoot up my thigh. I grit my teeth and shift a few inches away.

Something flicker behind he eye and Corbeau double over laughing. Fall on he knees, pounding fists into the road and bawling, snot leaking down he chin and he head flying and he hair flying and he don’t stop laughing until the laugh snicker itself into a chuckle and a smile.

Corbeau watch Natty and Natty watch him back.

He staring into the dark across the road, the cigarette still burning between he fingers.

Natty smile. “You right. Goodness not for man like we.”

The ash break, falling to the pavement.

*

I finish the painting before lunch the next day. I did limp home, carrying in my mind the picture of a rubbish heap towering among the clouds and a madman climbing it, toting an old box TV on he back.

Natty tell me Corbeau was still breathing when he throw him in the ditch. I make a check for myself before I leave. Just to be sure. It had something in he madness, you know. In the bloodshot eyes. And it had something about Natty too. After he knock out Corbeau, we talk for a good hour about life and death and vagrancy and I tell him what I scrunting for.

He say, “Rasta, let me tell you something. I ent no artist, but I know a few people who does paint sign and thing. And you know what they does tell me? They say when they not feeling to do no painting, when they tired, ent have no motivation and thing, they does open a can of paint and sniff it. That does always fix them up and put them in a painting mood. Again, I is not no painter or artist or anything. But to me it sound you like does breathe in the spirit of the paint and that is what does guide your hand.”

When I reach home, I crack open a gallon of paint from the garage and sniff that for a good ten minutes. And well, boy, I never feel so good in my life.

I done on to my next piece. I take a white bed sheet and tie it taut on my mattress to make a big canvas. I ent know what it is I painting right now and it ent really looking like nothing, but it red and green and purple and yellow. It have a tree up in the corner and a mountain and nice two stick man. I might put a few more. Maybe I might cut up some newspaper and stick it all about and call it a collage. Or maybe I might just throw a whole bucket of paint over the canvas.

It matter?

I ent really know nah. I don’t have a bed to sleep on again, but I painting and that’s always a good thing. And if my piece is shit so be it. It ent have nothing else I rather do. Actually — it ent really have nothing else to do. Is fine. I have spirit guiding my hand and at least I ent wandering the road scrunting for idea. I know I sniffing paint like a madman and I know it probably not good for my lungs and my head and my liver or whatever, but that’s okay.

I have the brush in my hand.

The paint.

The picture.