MANICHAEAN
10-21-2012, 03:43 AM
Jamaican Kiss.
Sandra had been an eye turner in her day, not so much in the facial features which still bore the adverse imprint of an upbringing in the Kingston's Mountain View district, but in the body. He had, many years back, invited her for a drink when she had finished her dance routine one night at the Sagittarius Club in Montego Bay. Back then, the legs were long and supple, the backside as tight and hard as a carved block of mahogany, and the movements fluid and mysterious to his unjaundiced tourist eye. Somehow, they had struck up a relationship and he had loved her then and the island which was her home.
Over the years they had drifted apart, but now he was back. He was not sure in himself what to expect. He knew she would have visibly aged and thickened out, like himself no doubt? But there was still that curiosity in him about that particular period of his life. It was, he was sure, more than just a final wallow in the trough?
The barman approached.
"Another one sir?"
"Why not?" he responded.
He had earlier built up a quick rapport with essential members of the hotel staff, and Augustine the bar tender had been no exception.
He had left Sandra upstairs to do whatever women fortuitously do for extended periods in order to get ready for dinner. This gave him an excuse for what the Americans refer to as "quality time," or as some Englishmen of a certain strata of society, are prone to put it, "a swift half."
He remembered initially saying to Augustine, "Can you do me one of your Jamaican*specials?"
"Sure, sir. What mood are you in, and what mood do you want to be in?"
David had laughed and it had been infectious.
"Are you a doctor as well as a barman?" he had enquired playfully.
"A combination of both sir, just like me cocktails, all mix up, mix up."
White teeth had shone and smiled in a dark, warm complexion.
"Well," David had said, entering into the banter, "Not that I'm normally akin to self analysis, but I'd say my present state is "apprehensive", desired state "to be back in love again." Can you deal with that?"
"I have just the right medicine for you sir," had been his riposte." It's called the "Jamaican Kiss". It's my own creation and I know you will enjoy."
And on the eighth day, God's disciple in a hotel bar in the Caribbean created a cocktail combining: white Jamaican rum, Japanese Midori melon liqueur, orange & pineapple juice, coconut cream, syrup, and it was blessedly garnished with fresh nutmeg and orange zest. It was shaken, not stirred and God looked down and He was well pleased with his humble servant.
The glass had glistened before David like an Alberta winter backdrop and it had beckoned like a glacial temptress imbued with decadent promise. He had raised it to his lips. Incipient anticipation had coursed through his senses. The Holy Grail. It was of a sublimity that; on the tongue and the back of the mouth, had slid like a polished awakening into the comforting darkness of his inner recesses.
His second one was now before him and Sandra appeared, diminutive and quiet, ghetto face to the fore, like a boxer entering the ring.
"Hi," he said. " Would you like a drink before we go in?"
She viewed him first, then the barman and spoke.
"See now, me want something cool, you understand me now? What are you drinking Honey?"
"It's called the Jamaican Kiss."
"Enough of such foolishness Honey. Yer not easy yer know. Give me a fresh orange juice."
They sat opposite each other on two stools. It had been a long time since they had been apart. Behind the tough appearance in public, he knew she was tender and lovingly submissive when it was just the two of them together.
They had laid naked on the bed, passion spent.
"Inna mi heart," she said, breaking into the more familiar patois. "You unlike mi, yuh have gold spoon inna yuh mout. Yuh no short a nothing. But from wah mi see, yuh look like yuh coulda do wid a lickle loving. So see mi yah honey, ready fi kill yuh wid love."
He smiled at her and both sets of eyes said it all.
He was home, back from the soulless world of Babylon, in a place where the inhabitants invariably seek an identity somewhere between harsh existence and the emotional legacy of a diaspora from an Africa unknown and so far away. He was back where; the sacred and the sufferer, the town madman and the Rasta, the poet and the village goats were all part of the ingredients.
Sandra had been an eye turner in her day, not so much in the facial features which still bore the adverse imprint of an upbringing in the Kingston's Mountain View district, but in the body. He had, many years back, invited her for a drink when she had finished her dance routine one night at the Sagittarius Club in Montego Bay. Back then, the legs were long and supple, the backside as tight and hard as a carved block of mahogany, and the movements fluid and mysterious to his unjaundiced tourist eye. Somehow, they had struck up a relationship and he had loved her then and the island which was her home.
Over the years they had drifted apart, but now he was back. He was not sure in himself what to expect. He knew she would have visibly aged and thickened out, like himself no doubt? But there was still that curiosity in him about that particular period of his life. It was, he was sure, more than just a final wallow in the trough?
The barman approached.
"Another one sir?"
"Why not?" he responded.
He had earlier built up a quick rapport with essential members of the hotel staff, and Augustine the bar tender had been no exception.
He had left Sandra upstairs to do whatever women fortuitously do for extended periods in order to get ready for dinner. This gave him an excuse for what the Americans refer to as "quality time," or as some Englishmen of a certain strata of society, are prone to put it, "a swift half."
He remembered initially saying to Augustine, "Can you do me one of your Jamaican*specials?"
"Sure, sir. What mood are you in, and what mood do you want to be in?"
David had laughed and it had been infectious.
"Are you a doctor as well as a barman?" he had enquired playfully.
"A combination of both sir, just like me cocktails, all mix up, mix up."
White teeth had shone and smiled in a dark, warm complexion.
"Well," David had said, entering into the banter, "Not that I'm normally akin to self analysis, but I'd say my present state is "apprehensive", desired state "to be back in love again." Can you deal with that?"
"I have just the right medicine for you sir," had been his riposte." It's called the "Jamaican Kiss". It's my own creation and I know you will enjoy."
And on the eighth day, God's disciple in a hotel bar in the Caribbean created a cocktail combining: white Jamaican rum, Japanese Midori melon liqueur, orange & pineapple juice, coconut cream, syrup, and it was blessedly garnished with fresh nutmeg and orange zest. It was shaken, not stirred and God looked down and He was well pleased with his humble servant.
The glass had glistened before David like an Alberta winter backdrop and it had beckoned like a glacial temptress imbued with decadent promise. He had raised it to his lips. Incipient anticipation had coursed through his senses. The Holy Grail. It was of a sublimity that; on the tongue and the back of the mouth, had slid like a polished awakening into the comforting darkness of his inner recesses.
His second one was now before him and Sandra appeared, diminutive and quiet, ghetto face to the fore, like a boxer entering the ring.
"Hi," he said. " Would you like a drink before we go in?"
She viewed him first, then the barman and spoke.
"See now, me want something cool, you understand me now? What are you drinking Honey?"
"It's called the Jamaican Kiss."
"Enough of such foolishness Honey. Yer not easy yer know. Give me a fresh orange juice."
They sat opposite each other on two stools. It had been a long time since they had been apart. Behind the tough appearance in public, he knew she was tender and lovingly submissive when it was just the two of them together.
They had laid naked on the bed, passion spent.
"Inna mi heart," she said, breaking into the more familiar patois. "You unlike mi, yuh have gold spoon inna yuh mout. Yuh no short a nothing. But from wah mi see, yuh look like yuh coulda do wid a lickle loving. So see mi yah honey, ready fi kill yuh wid love."
He smiled at her and both sets of eyes said it all.
He was home, back from the soulless world of Babylon, in a place where the inhabitants invariably seek an identity somewhere between harsh existence and the emotional legacy of a diaspora from an Africa unknown and so far away. He was back where; the sacred and the sufferer, the town madman and the Rasta, the poet and the village goats were all part of the ingredients.