Curtis da Ice Cream Man
I was picked up by a guy who introduced himself as ‘Curtis da Ice Cream Man’.
It was just after seven thirty, but I had headed to the bus stop late, after making the abrupt decision of going to Scarborough early, rather than waiting for the local internet café to open at nine. There was no telling whether the bus had already been or was on its way.
An hour-long wait (or longer) did not appeal.
Curtis swung open the door of his 4WD.
“How much?”
“Twenty.”
For a moment I was torn, but after yesterday’s spending spree I felt that I couldn’t waste any more money. Besides, it wasn’t fair.
“The usual fare is five,” I said. “If you take other people.”
He hesitated.
“Twenty-five dollars is my breakfast money. If I give you twenty, I’ll have five left to eat!”
He laughed. “Get in.”
For a long time there were no other people to pick up.
Curtis asked and I told him about my Christmas. About the drunken lewd men of Charlotteville.
“Oh man, you should have called,” he said, as if I was psychic. “Curtis would have come to the rescue!”
I smiled, but only for a moment.
“I’ll show you a good time, baby. Waddya say?”
At times I wish I had a hidden recorder to catch the dialogue, but I think you get the gist. He knew that I was going to Trinidad, and he wanted to come with me.
He was even going to pay for the guesthouse.
*
The bus overtook us as Curtis slowed to a stop to pick up other passengers. At least he was going with the flow. More likely he would have done so anyway, and still charged me twenty dollars.
His mood changed. He grew sullen and stopped talking, muttering noncommittal replies when people wished him complements of the season (Christmas greetings were only now giving way to New Year blessings). He may have truly believed that I would have gone to Trinidad with him, because for a moment I truly believed that I could not shake him off.
I wondered what I was letting myself in for.
The Xanax were safely ensconced in my moneybelt. I patted it surrepticiously. For the past two days I hadn’t needed them.
Curtis pulled over at a T-junction, with the KFC in sight. The last passenger was about to get out.
“Here is fine,” I blurted, fumbling for the money while simultaneously opening the door. I practically spilled out next to the bonnet of a parked blue car, rucksack, wallet and all. When I looked up I saw the amused face of a sari-clad woman behind the wheel.
“That man was after me,” i said and pulled a grimace. “He wanted to go to Trinidad with me!”
She smiled, and I laughed.
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Denni