MASH UP CHAPTER TWO

MASH UP CHAPTER TWO

We move quickly, aware that this part of Belize City is far from the safest. My arms are burdened with speakers. Will and Trey carry another set of instruments and equipment. Will presses the alarm fob and his truck awakens with a happy chirp.

I glance around in fear. The sound of the car’s squeak echoes off the alley walls. I half-expect the shadows to move and reveal a bunch of burly gangsters with guns aimed at us.

The shadows do move and I jump in fright when a voice calls out, “Hey!”

Trey starts laughing at my reaction. “Relax, man.”

We all stop and peer towards the side entrance of the bar.

“Hey, hey!” a chorus of female voices echoes off the alley walls.

Oh, it’s just a bunch of girls.

Will and I continue our march toward the pickup truck while Trey stops in welcome. I glance back and spot the four women from earlier teetering toward us on sexy high heels. I’m a man. I notice beautiful women.

I like to see their curves, the points of their chests. I’m not immune to any of the feelings that a typical guy endures. But I don’t mess around with the bar girls too much. I want something more than an easy lay and the drama of one night hookups.

I turn away from them and continue toward the truck, allowing Trey to take over. He’s far more encouraging of their attentions. Will climbs into the truck. I’m not sure what’s up with him. Will doesn’t even look at the girls that throw themselves at us after every gig. One time, a bold woman in San Pedro, a beautiful island off the coast of the city, put her arm on Will’s bicep. The guy stiffened, shook off her touch and immediately walked away.

Something was up, but nobody had the guts to ask Will about his personal life.

Hoping that Trey is keeping the girls occupied, I secure the cover over the truck bed and slam the box closed. Turning around, I stop short, almost knocking over the tallest in the crew of well-dressed ladies.

“Hi.” She smiles at me.

I smile back, “Hello.”

My shyness prevents any attempt at conversation.

“You guys were really good.” She purrs.

“Thanks.”

I accept the compliment.

In the beginning, the flattery we received was always limited by our race.

You sing awesome … for a white

boy.

You guys have a nice reggae sound… for a pack of Americans

.

The accolades are slowly trickling in without any reminders about our paleness and I smile. She takes my grin for encouragement and sidles closer to me.

“The night isn’t over yet.”

I know what she’s getting at. I glance at my watch. It’s after twelve o’clock.

“It’s over for us.” I nod, moving her gently away. I tread toward Trey who is already collecting phone numbers. “Come on, Don Juan.” I mutter to my best friend.

I gesture my head toward the car. It’s hit-and-miss whether or not Trey will follow after me. Sometimes, my best friend becomes otherwise “occupied” with a girl he picks up in a bar. Tonight, he is convinced to leave his faithful followers. Trey winks at each of them before hopping into the back of the truck.

Nothing is said as Will maneuvers the car out of the alley and through the dark streets of Belize City. We don’t speak a word. If it were just me and Trey, we’d be psyched, shouting at the top of our voices and howling at the moon in excitement as we rode out the performing high. Since Will came into our lives, however, we turned things back and notch and our after-show routine is decidedly low key and self-reflective.

I pull my hoodie over my head and gaze out the window at the passing scenery highlighted by the silver beams of the moon. Little cardboard houses on toothpick thin stilts reveal the area’s deep poverty. There are no lampposts in this area of the city. We pass a tiny park where the swings blow eerily in the breeze. The wall dividing the park from the football field is covered in graffiti.

As we drive over the abandoned San Cas bridge into the north side of town, the houses get bigger and soon the wooden houses are overtaken by cement. We maneuver through the empty streets and drive into the neighborhood close to the Caribbean Sea. The streets are clean, the lawns are well-kept and the houses are two stories at the least. Trey gets off first.

“Hey, man.” I fist bump my best friend through the lowered window, “Nice set tonight.”

“Yeah.” Trey grins, “We could have ended on a better note.”

Will leans forward and ducks his chin, “What could have ended on a better note?”

I put a hand out toward Will, “He wasn’t talking ‘bout the set, man.”

Trey wiggles his eyebrows and Will scoffs, once more facing forward.

Shaking my head, I laughingly shove my friend away, “Go get your beauty sleep, Johnson.”

“Goodnight, ladies.” Trey calls before turning on his heels and rushing into his brown brick two story house.

Will starts the car and we rumble forward in silence. Will isn’t too keen on long conversations and when he does speak, people tend to listen. There’s something about Will that’s strangely engaging. Trey and I both recognized it the day he walked into the Johnson garage.

“Trey, slow it down.” I commanded my enthusiastic seventeen year old friend.

“Dude, don’t be a girl about it.” Trey scoffed, twirling his drumsticks between his fingers.

Seventeen years of tried and tested friendship allowed that kind of terminology.

“Just shut up and slow it down. This is reggae, not soca.” Trey stuck his tongue out at me but obeyed.

I strummed my guitar and sang into the old, rusted mike we’d bought at a discounted price at the local music store. We played through the tune uninterrupted until I noticed a giant of a shadow cast before us. I glanced up and noted the tall, solemn guy always hanging by himself at our high school.

The guys dubbed him ‘Big Will’.

Nobody messed with Big Will. He didn’t mince words and he didn’t fight, but nobody wanted to prod him far enough to test that theory. “Yo,” Will nodded at us and stepped deeper into the shadows of the garage. “I want in.” I swallowed, not brave enough to tell him no.

“What do you play?”

He shrugged and stuck a hand in his pocket. “Keys.”

I exchanged a glance with Trey. He seemed as frightened as I.

“Come on in.” I spoke for the both of us.

Since that day, Big Will started to hang with us. He still wasn’t very talkative and sometimes, Trey and I were weirded out by his quiet appraisal. When he did speak, he was like a fountain of wisdom, not a seventeen year old high school senior. Whatever the reason, we were dubbed Will’s crew and after his acceptance of our presence, nobody dared to mess with us.

Tonight, I feel a different kind of tension in the cab. Will’s jaw is working like he is gnawing on a

tambran

sweet. I don’t know if I should say something. Will has always been the voice of reason in our crazy trio.

“You cool bro?” I ask finally when Will grunts for the second time.

“I’m fine.” He replies.

Feeling uncomfortable, I accept his response. I’m not a psychologist. That answer is satisfying enough for me. Will parks in front of my house with the sweeping stucco stairway leading to the front door on the middle half of our split level home.

“Thanks, man. Could you give me a hand?”

Will nods and gets out of the vehicle to cart the speakers on his shoulders to the side entrance, past the pool, to the little garden room that I’d converted into a sound booth.

“That’s it.” I duck my chin at Will.

He salutes me with a finger to his forehead and then turns to go. Something feels off.

I call after his lumbering figure that has already turned to walk away. “Hey,” Will turns around with his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

“Whatever you’re going through, man, we’re here for you.”

He appraises me for a long minute and then dips his head and walks off.

That was weird

.

I yank my keys out of my pocket and lock the sound booth before trekking into the house through the back door. The foyer is dark except for the blaring light coming from the flat screen television in the living room.

My dad likes to fall asleep in the couch with the television watching him instead of the other way around. I like to mess with him by taking the TV off. He wakes up immediately. It’s hilarious.

I don’t, however, want to start a fight or earn a lecture so I tiptoe to my bedroom. Closing the door lightly, I flip on the light and place my guitar on its stand near my bed.

My room is large, but filled with guitars, speakers and amps so it seems cluttered and small. Huge posters of famous reggae artists

cover every conceivable space on the blue walls. My mom hates coming into my room. It irks her to venture in here and see the images of ‘all those blacks with dreads’ staring her down.

I now do my own laundry because of it.

I kick off my shoes, grab my phone from my dresser, stick my headphones into the slot and press ‘play’. Moving to my bed, I lie down and allow the sweet tunes of Peter Tosh crooning about freedom in the ghetto to flow over me.

People won’t ever understand my dedication to this genre of music. It’s true. My ancestors have never experienced the horrors of slavery. My family doesn’t live in the ghetto. In fact, I haven’t seen a homeless man or woman in our part of town since I was born. I’ve never cried because my friend died in a gun shooting. I don’t feel the pain of hunger or the discouragement of poverty. Reggae was born from this state of disadvantage. My obsession makes no sense.

And yet it makes perfect sense.

“

I don’t want no peace. I need equal rights and justice.

” Peter lulls me to sleep.

“Jace! Jace!” I groan and blink my eyes open. Sunlight streams through the window, lighting on the tall form of my mother who is staring down at me with a frown. I stretch and sit up.

“Mom, could you not yell at,” – I check the alarm on the side of my night table – “8:30 in the morning?”

“Get dressed, Jace.” Mom taps her foot on the plush, blue carpet and stares me down. “We’re going to church.”

I roll over and bury my head in the pillow. “Mm-hm. That’s nice.” I ignore her and run back to the comforting arms of slumber.

“Jason Kelly, get up from that bed or so help me I will personally deliver you to God myself.” I know she means business, so I suck up my lust for sleep and swing my legs off the bed.

“You happy?” I ask her.

“Very.” She huffs and turns to walk out. “I’d feel sorrier for you if you didn’t slink into this house after 12:30 on a Saturday night.” I roll my eyes.

Every once in a while, mom gets the religion bug and forces Dad and me to go to church. She was raised a good Baptist girl. I think she feels guilty for our perceived debauchery.

“Mom,” I groan, “you know I hate that church. It’s so boring.” “We’re not going to that one today.” She passes me by.

I rub my face. Leaning against the doorway, I ask. “Then where are we going?”

“We’re going to the Gym.”

Dad moans pathetically from the hallway, “Why would we go to the gym on a Sunday morning?”

Mom sighs and points a finger at the both of us, “Just get ready.”

Muttering about how unholy it is to be up before ten o’clock on the Sabbath, I grab a pair of dark jeans and a button-down shirt that needs the least ironing. I dreaded these religious episodes with my Mom. Our family is totally moral. My dad is faithful to his wife. My mom takes care of the both of us. We don’t lie regularly. We don’t cheat. We don’t curse people out.

Hey, we’re all good.

I jump into the shower. As the hot water pours over my body, my exhaustion fades. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I move to the foggy mirror above the sink and wipe away the fog on the glass with my palm.

I stare at my reflection. I have a broad forehead, inherited from my father, pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I strain toward the mirror and smile happily at the breeze of whiskers on top of my upper lip. It’s still in the peach fuzz stage, but I’m excited at the prospect of a beard one day. I have too much of a baby face. I’m hopeful that facial hair will help.

Mom knocks on the door, “Jace. We’re leaving in five minutes.” She warns.

I quickly pull on the black jeans and button up the shirt. I smooth some moose into my hair and let it rake the ends straight up. Mom picked this haircut out. Don’t ask me why I allowed her to do that. She was harping on my reggae gigs, my hobbies and my appearance so I told her to tell me what to wear if that made her feel better.

She did.

Now I have to wait at least three months before my hair can grow out again.

Yippee

.

I glance once more at my pale face. It amazes me that something like skin color, a shade that I did not choose, is giving me so much grief. I turn my chin to the right and the left. My color is never going to change and I don’t want it to.

I’m proud of the fact that my parents come from good people who work hard to teach their kids the importance of business and responsibility. I’m proud of my great-grampa for fighting in World War II and coming home alive. I’m not ashamed of who I am or where I come from.

I just happen to like something different. I can’t control that as much as I can’t control being white.

I sigh and push my philosophical musings to the back burner as I finish getting ready.

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MASH UP

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