Paddling and Paddling

It seemed like a dream come true.
It must have been because the night before was filled with cold sweats, every half an hour urges to pee and nightmares full of walking around naked and forgetting to brush my teeth.
It was the first day at my first real job. After carefully ironing my black power suit, laying it out next to my new pair of black leather shoes and black leather hand bag full of Gravol and Panadol, I went to bed to follow the routine carefully outlined above.
Ever since my first copy of A House for Mr Biswas by VS Naipaul was given to me in Form 3, I have been in love. In love with fictional characters that mimic the characters in my life. I could find a little bit of everyone I know, in the book. For reasons only my sister would understand, the book became a mirror of everything we did. So when my first job turned out to be a journalist at the Trinidad Guardian, I took it as a sign.

It was time to paddle my own canoe.

Scared and not quite sure what to expect, I walked through the doors of one of the oldest buildings in Port of Spain on a Tuesday morning around 8 am. The Guardian Building held within its walls, local history that could be found no where else. The smell of ink and newsprint filtered through every passage, clung to every reporter and encircled most of St Vincent Street like a protective bubble.
I walked up the stairs and made my way to the newsroom, completely in awe. This is where is it done, I thought to myself. This is where breaking news stories are written; investigative pieces are thought up, where great writers are born. If the walls could talk.. stories of the coup, Independence, interviews with Dr Eric Williams, Queen Elizabeth II…

I could feel the anxiety and the excitement of the reporters tapping away at the keyboards. This too, was their heaven.

Then I got my first assignment.

The enthusiasm quickly morphed itself into a steaming pile of fear.
What the hell was I thinking! I couldn’t be a reporter! I can barely brew up the courage to talk to strangers, I can’t run without one foot tripping the other one and I definitely was not going to harass bereaved people for their feelings on their children’s murder. What a moronic move. The pile of fear grew higher.
My editor says to me, “ Kid you got to head up to de hospital. De man with elephantitis going to get it today. They choppin off he leg. Go an ask him how he feeling about that.”

“You serious?,” I questioned, with large round eyes full of “please do not be serious looks.”

“Yes, get going and take that photographer there with yuh to get a shot of de foot.”

I turned to see a huge black man standing with a bag slung across his shoulder, staring at me with a look of amusement. Before he could burst into fits of laughter, I motioned for him to follow.

Slowly we make our way up Abercromby Street, turn on Woodford Square and proceed up Fredrick to Park Street. By now the photographer is panting and sweating.

“Aye we cudda take ah taxi dred.”
“I like walking….dred..” I say, while mentally calculating how long these leather shoes would take to cut right through my ankles and painfully aware I look like Zoro in my long black jacket.

About half hour after, Port of Spain General Hospital comes into view. Tall, imposing in all its colonial glory. Gorgeous on the outside, full of death on the inside. It spans an entire block with the hills of Laventille creating a scenic backdrop.
“We hata sneak in eh. They eh letting people visit de man. So we go go around de back.” Photographer informs me calmly.
I have a mental heart attack.
“Sneak?”
“Sneak.”
So we slowly made our way to the back of the hospital and up a lonely flight of stairs. Photographer looks at me and says “ So wais de plan, stan?”
“Plan?”
“Plan.”
Thinking the plan should be to go back home and tell my mom I am mostly dreadfully sorry for wasting her money but I believe we can fire Ruth our maid now and I’d be happy to clean the toilets for the rest of my life, I turn to photographer and said,
“Lemme think.”
A carefully crafted, south-girl inspired plan began to formulate in my head. We would sneak up to the ward, I would start bawling down de place, “ oh god! Ah want to see meh fadda! Oh God!” and my “boyfriend” , the big black scary guy at my side would become agitated and look menacingly at the nurse for upsetting his precious.
After relating this plan to Photographer, we made our way to the door of the ward. I closed my eyes and began to think of the time when Mimi stole my Sunshine Snacks chair and smacked me on the head with it. Tears began to well up.
It was time.
“I telling yuh! I is ah bastard chile! Lemme see meh fadda before it too late!”
“Calm Down miss..”
“allyuh better let we in before I make some noise here eh. My girl want to see she fadda”
Soon we were standing over a man lying helplessly in bed, crying silently, unable to look at us. His pain hovered over him like a mark of death.
Our victory seemed hollow then. I looked at Photographer and he looked at me. We formed a silent pact. No story, no pictures. It was time to go.
And so began my life as a journalist.