-Another Redstripe,
Please-
By Jack Magestro
© 2003
WE were back in Negril, one of our favorite places, and I was wandering
the seven miles of beach on an early June morning. The sun was just up and
casting shadows of trees onto the sand as I strolled along in the ever perfect
air under a clear sky. The ocean was still calm and had not yet woken to cast any waves up onto the beach. Shirtless and shoeless, I wore a loose pair of
old cotton shorts; superfluous, actually, other than to have pockets for my
lighter and cigarettes. It was, to steal an often used phrase, another perfect
day in paradise and I was already thinking of my first beer.
Not many people were on that stretch of
beach so soon after sunrise, but there were a few die hard young women lying on
lounges atop towels, their skin soaked in tanning oil, doing their best to acquire skin cancer. I
believe that they did not think or believe that some day, after thirty years of
basking in the sun, they would all look like horse
saddles. The bottles of designer water, stuck in the sand next to each one may
have been able to keep them hydrated, but in the end, the sun would win and
their youth would fade prematurely.
Besides a few wild dogs, some arguing birds and the leftover litter from the late
partying of the night before and me, the only other things on the beach were
some sleeping young men, curled on their own lounges or even just lying in the
sand and sleeping off the excitement, ganja and high proof rum from the previous evening. I thought back thirty
years to when I was twenty, as many of these reclined bodies seemed to appear
to be, and wondered if I’d missed something by working so hard at odd jobs
during that time of my own life just to pay for school and find a career. I
didn’t remember snoozing on a beach back then. The memory of my career was a
little fuzzy that morning. I concluded that I had missed something,
shrugged to my self and continued strolling.
While my wife was sleeping late as usual
under a simple single sheet back in our rented cabin and dreamed her early
morning dreams, I remembered the Redstripe tales told to us nearly a decade ago
on that same beach in Negril. Over some time and several trips to the area, we met
and continued to meet a local rastamafarian named Cirtron. He’d told us the
story of Redstripe, a little dachshund, his girlfriend Sheila and his
adventures with the little dog. The stories were somewhat unbelievable. He’d
told us of sneaking the dog through international airports,
how the dachshund wreaked havoc with the locals and how tiny Redstripe had
charmed everyone she met in both
I stopped for a moment to light a
cigarette and to contemplate a pile of discarded conch shells. The pile was
under a palm tree just outside a little shack that had a crude, hand painted
sign stuck in the sand. The black letters listed conch, conch soup, jerked pork
and chicken and breakfast. One did not know what the breakfast really was, but the place apparently was selling it.
The pile of discarded shells must have been three feet high and
would have been worth a fortune back in the United States; the larger intact
shells to be sold to adorn expensive coffee tables in affluent homes sporting the latest in
interior design. To the Jamaicans, it was just a pile of refuse waiting to be
buried in the sand.
The sun was beginning to make its way
higher into the morning sky and I could feel it begin to sting my unprotected shoulders.
I figured it was time to head back to the cabin and my sleeping wife and maybe
find a cup of blue mountain coffee. I dug a hole in the sand for my cigarette
with my bare foot, covered it and turned to make the trek back. I had only
taken a few steps when I was confronted by a wandering beach vendor. He was
selling aloe leaves and I, being one of the only moving objects on the beach,
was his target.
The man, a very dark Jamaican; yellowish
whites of eyes, enlarged feet from a life of pounding sand barefoot and wearing
a only simple pair of khaki shorts carried a large net bag over his shoulders
crammed with aloe leaves. Actually, a better description of these would be aloe
branches. These plants, the juices of
which were applied to sunburn and were quite effective in relieving pain, grew
to be six feet tall in
“Ya, mon. Your
shoulders be getting’ de red, mon. I have de aloe for
you. Good for de burn. Very good.”
I stopped realizing I’d already made a
mistake. The word “no” or “no thank you” only works to decline an offer from
the beach vendors if you keep moving. And one should never say “maybe later.”
The vendor will take that literally and pursue you “later” for the rest of the
day or even the next. But regretting my error in stopping, I had only the
second option left in order to remain polite and respectful.
“Maybe later,” I said.
“Ya, mon. Irie.
Y’come to our place and we rub in de aloe for you later. Come, I show you where
t’go, come on, mon. Den you come back later.” He picked up the bag.
Darn it. I was going to have to be rude in
order get out of this one. I had no intention of going to “his place”, wherever
that was, just to be pressed to buy who knows what. I
opened my mouth to say that I just needed be left alone but I stopped on the
inhale before I spoke. I looked a little more closely at the man as I held my
breath, wary and surprised at what I saw.
The Jamaican’s beard and dreadlocks held
some grey. And there were some new lines and crinkles around the eyes. Some
gold adorned an ear and eyebrow that I did not remember. But I did remember the
face, wiry frame and accent. It had been a few years, but I would have
recognized Cirtron anywhere.
“Cirtron!” I
said.
“What?” How be it
dat ………Ah! Ya, mon! Jack and Jeel! No! Can’t be
so!”
“It’s me, Cirtron, remember? Jill’s back sleeping at the cabin.”
Cirtron actually did a little dance. He
pumped his arms and stomped from one foot to the other while I thought about
coincidences. “Jack
and Jeel! No! Cannot be! Ya, mon, I remember. Redstripe!”
“Redstripe indeed, my man.
What the heck are you doing here trying to sell me aloe when I can take two
steps off the beach and break off a piece by myself for nothing?”
“I dunno,” Cirtron grinned at me. “I do de
stuff on de beach, mon. Sheila, she does de stuff in
de house.
“Sheila?” I asked. “Sheila is here? What
house?”
“Ya, mon. We have
de guest house and all dat. De people
come and stay and we make de living so. Ah! Happy times, mon!”
While my mind was awash in the waters of
deja vu, I tried to concentrate on that last part. Cirtron had a house? And his
girl friend, Sheila from
“Cirtron, can you show me?”
“Ya, mon! Day all
be dere. Sheila and Redstripe and
Paris. I be take you, c’mon mon. Say, mon, have
de extra cigarette?”
I reached into my pocket, shook out a
cigarette from my pack and handed Cirtron a lighter. Nothing changes, really,
over time. Cirtron was still bumming and I felt grateful that it was too early
for him to have me buy him a beer. I would have gladly if I thought I could get
explanations out of him in any hurry. Instead, we headed up the beach together
and I had a feeling that the Redstripe stories would begin again and I would find
the answer to the puzzle.