It was orange and white and scared all over, with a left side full of rusty holes and a right side full of more. Neighbourhood kids ( that's me, my sister and all our cousins) would run to hide under the mango tree or behind the tank, lie flat and wait.
We would hear his steps coming down the stairs, listen for when he went into the bathroom to put his pants on, comb his moustache while crunching low in the shape of a backward C so he could see his head in the mirror and then swagger out the door.
With something that sounded like humming, mostly like a 1968 Indian Move tune, he would start the van. The orange and white Patrol. One try, followed by a series of stueps and then..."Kerrie!"
"Yes, Daddy??," a sound from under de tank.
"Bring some water fer me to put in de van."
"Oh god!.
"Stueps, duh oh god me yuh hear!"
"But Daddy!"
"Duh but daddy me you hear!"
then a whispered..."This blasted shit..." "He will hear you Kerrie! and find we!"... from the other hider under de tank.
"You shut it!"
Walking slowly into the house, i tried to count how many times a day the van needed a drink of water and how best to convince my father that as much as he tried, nothing would bring the Patrol back to it's 12 years ago standard of perfection. But that was like trying to get an Indian man to eat yam and dasheen on Sunday for lunch.
With a glass of water in hand, I went into the garage to see two legs escaping from the front of the van and heard mumbled mutterings coming from a head inside the hood.
"Heh."
" Like it eh want to start today, like it need ah res. Ah go walk, bring de phone."
"But Daddy!! De cordless duh work out de road!"
"Jes bring it!"
"oh fadda!"
"Aye i will tell yuh mudda!"
"Mee too!"
" Ok ah will bring allyuh back some snacks from de bakery... what you want milk cake?"
"yessssssss! ah going to tell ren!"
As he slowly laboured up the hill with his hands stuffed into his pockets, waving to neighbours, playing with children on the road, all I could think was.. " I hope I grow up to be just like him."
We would hear his steps coming down the stairs, listen for when he went into the bathroom to put his pants on, comb his moustache while crunching low in the shape of a backward C so he could see his head in the mirror and then swagger out the door.
With something that sounded like humming, mostly like a 1968 Indian Move tune, he would start the van. The orange and white Patrol. One try, followed by a series of stueps and then..."Kerrie!"
"Yes, Daddy??," a sound from under de tank.
"Bring some water fer me to put in de van."
"Oh god!.
"Stueps, duh oh god me yuh hear!"
"But Daddy!"
"Duh but daddy me you hear!"
then a whispered..."This blasted shit..." "He will hear you Kerrie! and find we!"... from the other hider under de tank.
"You shut it!"
Walking slowly into the house, i tried to count how many times a day the van needed a drink of water and how best to convince my father that as much as he tried, nothing would bring the Patrol back to it's 12 years ago standard of perfection. But that was like trying to get an Indian man to eat yam and dasheen on Sunday for lunch.
With a glass of water in hand, I went into the garage to see two legs escaping from the front of the van and heard mumbled mutterings coming from a head inside the hood.
"Heh."
" Like it eh want to start today, like it need ah res. Ah go walk, bring de phone."
"But Daddy!! De cordless duh work out de road!"
"Jes bring it!"
"oh fadda!"
"Aye i will tell yuh mudda!"
"Mee too!"
" Ok ah will bring allyuh back some snacks from de bakery... what you want milk cake?"
"yessssssss! ah going to tell ren!"
As he slowly laboured up the hill with his hands stuffed into his pockets, waving to neighbours, playing with children on the road, all I could think was.. " I hope I grow up to be just like him."
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