Tomas was pissed.

From my Merger rental he marched along the highway stumbling in ruts and over branches making him more and more angry. He delighted in kicking coconut sheathings out of his way. It was black dark. Trees all lining the highway road. No lights. He knew there was a mountain climbing straight up on one side of the roadway. He knew there was still sea a short distance through the brush on the other. There was no moon. There were lots of mosquitoes, no wind, humid.

Tomas was pissed.

He tore his wet shirt off, got attacked by swarms of knats, no-seeums and mosquitoes, put his wet shirt back on again slapping and running a bit, but it was too hot. 

“Shit. Motherfucker ” emphasising his words with nods of his head. “Nothing good about this place. Rod’s crazy, a crazy niggah.”

We had had an argument about the virtues of Haiti. We had gotten stubborn on both sides. Tomas thought the country poor, backward, too many beggars, too dirty, too funky to be lived in, maybe for a visit for a few days, buy some art work and get out again.

And, I had played a joke on him that he did not like. He was right and I should not have done it, but, it was done, eh?

“Shit! What the fuck am I doing here?”

He had stomped out of my place bound up the road, not knowing exactly where he was going but going there anyway. He was tramping along the roadway when he heard the mechanical moaning of a truck’s un-muffled engine approaching. He looked up and then down the road but saw nothing until the truck, with its lights off to conserve battery, was right on top of him. He jumped into a muddy runoff channel and cussed at the receding shadow and slow meringue beat. Tomas sludged his way back up to the pavement and stamped some of the mud from his sandals and from between his toes.

“Shit, motherfucker.” He looked back where the truck had gone and was boiling with rage. He remembered there was a small open bar on up ahead, so he trudged on, mud squishing underfoot, catching and slapping his sandals against the pavement. Another truck came rumbling up without lights but he was prepared for it, standing off the road on sand. He threw rocks at the rushing beast, yelling for the bastard to put his lights on. He stood there directing hate stares at the darkness down the road. “What the fuck he think he’s got them for...?” The quiet resettled in. He slapped a few mosquitoes. He knew he was not alone.

Tomas had studied martial arts, so he inched his toes to a balanced position, set his body to prepare for whatever struggle lay ahead. His eyes moved his head, studying the three hundred and sixty degrees around his point of earth. Tall grass and a palm grove pushed its edges toward him.

“Hey, “ he called, “ I know you’re there” he called.

Crouching, he slowly advanced upon a slight rustling spot listening for the rush. His arms were at chest level now, protecting and ready. A clunk, directly in front of him. He pinched his lips and breathed fear away. Another clunk.

“Come on, motherfucka ” he said quietly to the tall reeds. 

The startled cow blinked woefully, turned and rambled away through the grass, its cow bell clunking an uneven rhythm. Tomas blinked, staring at it disappearing into the field. Then looked around to see if anybody saw this incident, then laughed at himself.

The bar was almost empty, a couple of people dancing in the open air to an old juke box, socca-merengue-zouk of course. A couple of people sat at tables drinking, talking, laughing. The sea dully slapped the beach outside to his front. The moon finally made it over the hill ridge line to his back. 

 He drank a few beers, a few rums and felt lonely, even though people nodded invitations for him to join them. He decided to come back to my place and hit the sack. He decided again that he was getting out of this rotten country the next day if he could.

On the way back Tomas stepped in some fresh cow dung, so he stopped to dig it from between his toes with a stick. Across the highway some drunken men were laughing and talking loud in Creole while they staggered, arms around each other along the roadway going in the same direction as Tomas.

He replaced his sandal and began walking ahead, letting them know that he was not interested in their company. They ran across the highway to him. He loosened his shoulders and balanced his body and knew that if he went down two or three of them were going too, and the others would feel remembrances of their victory.

They surrounded him, speaking Creole in serious tones. One touched Tomas’ shoulder.

“Hey, I don’t play that.” he responded, staring into the man’s eyes.

“Ahh, Americains. C’est une Americaine blanc.” The one nodded, smiling to the others.

“Blanc?” Tomas got insulted.

“Oui, yes, a blanc.” another laughed.

“I spek English, man, brudder.” A skinny one, with a black tee-shirt with Madonna’s face and chest protruding, said smiling, “Gimme five man, high five, man.” He raised his palm and slapped Tomas’ proffered open palm.

They all had to slap his hand in turn, the Madonna man slapping it a second time.

“Okay, cool.” Tomas said attempting to walk on, but they had him surrounded. Seven of them. In a circle.

“I starve death in New York, man. America!” the man spit on the ground, then pushed the clear bottle with its clear liquid at Tomas. “Drink blanc. Clarin. Is good. Clarin. Make dick stay hard, man.”

Tomas had been a political activist for a large segment of his life, and now looking down where the man had spit he suddenly remembered that he loved his country. It was a surprise to him, he had been fighting it for so long, that he had forgotten that he was fighting America because he loved it. He took the bottle, keeping a glancing eye about him, put it to his lips then gave it back.

“I love America.” A big jawed man said.

“Me too.” Madonna contradicted himself.

Tomas tried to walk on again. A hand took his shoulder. He shook it off. “I told you I don’t play that.”

“W’as wrong you, blanc?”

“I ain’t no blanc.”

“You blanc, oui.” A finger touched his cheek. “You scared, blanc?” The man spoke in Creole to the others, they laughed, chuckled and giggled.

“Don’t be scared, Americaine. Don’t be scared of black mans. You in Haiti now. You with bruddahs now. You come here, to Haiti. What you come Haiti for, blanc? Dis no New York. No scared here.”

Tomas was alone walking down the road. The thought came to him and expanded itself that they were just drinking and really didn’t mean any harm. He was just keyed up. But, it was dark, it was lonely, they were drunk and they were poor looking, and they were black. So, he was supposed to think there was something bad about to happen, wasn’t he?

The moon sent slits of smiling lights upon the still sea. Cocopalms hushed and hissed in soft conversations. The water gurgled, turning over stones and sucking them quietly toward its vastness. A whiff of jasmine brought a smile to Tomas’ sweating face. He bounced along the road swaying now and then to a passing truck’s zouk rhythms. 

 The drums on the mountainsides, the conch calls on the sea.