Bearing Wetness September 23
It rained hard this afternoon, turning our football pitch into an urban wetland, replete with petroleum slicks and snowy egrets. It rains just about every afternoon, but it is sunny too, especially in the early morning and late in the day—two of my favorite times. Everything is obdurately moist and spongy. Puddles and pools grow, lawns ferment, mud spatters the backs of ankles. Even in my climate-controlled environment, breads mold in days, pretzels turn to salty cardboard in hours. My clothes-drier is a godsend; without that, and central air, I would surely be consumed by fungal slime mold. People call it seep, and it sounds threatening, so I stay vigilant with bleach and other defoliants—it is a jungle out there.
I have a number of little geckos and at least one very large one I have not yet laid eyes on, who is living, I think, behind by enormous flatscreen television. I only suspect the animal is huge because of the voice at night—a familiar kissing Besa, but with a register as deep as Xenon—and the relatively humungous dumps left on the tile floor under my set. I only hope he eats spores.
Yesterday we gathered at our muster points on the estuarial football pitch at 2:30, just as school was dismissing for a three-day weekend. Accusatory eyes were fixed on me, the chemist, as the one responsible for this untimely vacation delay, compelling faculty to take attendance, account for bodies, and corral strays with water-logged feet. They never blame the kitchen staff for the fire drill—always blame the chemist.
Full disclosure: Yes I did it. This was the second full-campus evacuation of the year, so far, and my laboratory apparently tripped the alarm on both occasions. The first time occurred week number one, and the younger elementary kids reportedly cried with fear. Because of me. This is not to say that I am necessarily committing infractions. All chemistry labs periodically make smoke, but my own plumes have been entirely within norms. Further, they are more smelly (e.g., sulfur, acid fumes, acetone, etc.) than particulate. My defense, however, is of no use—a reputation is to be made, however unearned.
For remediation, I am happy to consider steam ventilation—to open every window and free all conditioned air—letting in the patter of rain, the distracting birdsongs, and, of course, the constant seep. We have also disabled the smoke detector, which does not seem entirely legal, but it will at least keep us out of trouble for now. Still, the temperamental replacement is just as faulty. This is my ambiguous defense when the Westmoorings fire brigade shows up: Maybe it’s me, or maybe it’s the machine.
Over in the Valley Harp Panyard, a rendezvous occurs every Saturday morning of the school year, in which local Petit Valley children bring their math and english homework to a music hangar crammed with steel pans and drums of Resin Solution for future instruments. The Saint Anthony’s Boys and Girls Schools are, respectively, next door and across the street, but those austere parochial doors are closed today, and the little boys and girls are happy to be out of their uniforms. Oddly, they are also happy to spend Saturday mornings doing their homework here in this open-air rehearsal pavilion and occasional dance hall, with advertised monthly events such as “Priest Who Can Cook“ and “Tea Party & Concert“, as well as posted song repertoire, for A and G and G#: “Bailamos“, “Dis Feelin’ Nice“, “Grazing in the Grass,“ and “Careless Whispers.“ Despite the ramshackle obstacles and shoddy power sources, a few dedicated high-schoolers organize this Saturday morning gathering, while providing treats and tutoring, to rave reviews.
Petit Valley (pronounced “petty“ or “pity“) was formerly a cocoa plantation until the land was purchased by the colonial government in 1897, quickly sprouting city suburbs like PV and Diego Martin, home of Saint Anthony’s Catholic College. Without much commerce, these inland bedroom communities are pretty sleepy, although today there is an animated gentleman outside the Panyard, halting traffic and shouting nonsensical declarations at passersby.
Suvir, a self-possessed student with business aspirations, thinks the old fellow is probably still drunk from last night, but the little kids and adolescents inside the hangar are unfazed by the audacious display—they have seen bad behavior by adults before, some at home. While they set up chairs and tables for math and refreshments, the man charges in from the street with some apparent purpose, hollering to me in metallic echoes beneath the vast corrugated shelter.
“Excuse, Suh,“ he says, smiling and pointing to the hand-made sign on the wall, as if this place might be his. The kids who know him assure me it is not.
“When you huv a moment, suh, please, I need to talk to yuh.“ The elder’s request is respectful if somewhat urgent, though he obviously means to emote the spirit of the script at the end of his outstretched finger: “A Very Warm Welcome Is Extended To All Visitors Of This Panyard—Home Of NLBC Valley Harps.“ Beside it is another sign: “No Pants Under Bottom.“ The spirit of this place can evidently be quite spirited indeed, but all shall be properly dressed.
Perhaps this guy plays in the steel pan orchestra—I’m sure he dances to one, in any event, judging from his street antics. The kids urge me to be careful, to just ignore him politely, and I am gratified by their willingness to protect a vulnerable outsider. I’m also intrigued by their wariness. Suvir has profiled the situation clearly and explains to me, “He saw you before, as soon as you came in, someone he can get money from.“ It is like I am wearing a poster to the unscrupulous.
The boy apologizes for the poor behavior of his grownup countryman. Then we promptly crack open the bag of skittles and return to English, distinguishing gender and tense, practicing words of action. My eyes wander over to the man in waiting, surrounded by the skirts of A, G, and G# oil drums, and yet another sign overhead: “No One To Be Seen Bare-Backed In This Panyard.“ I am reassured that I will not lose my shirt.