Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

“Ey, Mopey Dick, you call the football association yet?” a voice asked. “The minister waiting on the budget.” Ryan stood over Eric’s desk cradling a stack of folders and tapping his foot.

To Eric, this gray-brick, two-story office complex housing the ministry felt like a prison with its creamy walls and sleepy sentinels, too old or too fat to run after any perpetrator. Its manicured presence seemed to mock the neighboring Regional Corporation to the back, whose yard was littered with mud-caked tractors, backhoes, and dumptrucks. In front, the busy Eastern Main Road bustled, slowing only on Sunday evenings and holidays. Eric felt trapped. His release would come later at his favorite bar, Spektakular-4-Rum — the only place that would still give him credit. As long as he hid there, the pressures of wife and work remained at bay.

“No, I’ll get to it after lunch,” he answered, turning his back to Ryan.

“I’ll let her know,” Ryan replied smugly before walking off. Eric’s failure would be another feather in his colleague’s cap of ambition. Maybe this time the minister would understand and send Eric back to the messenger department.

No one in the office understood how he had been promoted to clerical duties. He was disorganized. His work was always behind schedule causing delayed payments of community funds. This embarrassed the entire department that, prior to Eric’s arrival, had prided itself on its efficiency. For the five months that Eric had worked in this office, he had pretended not to notice the cold stares and sudden silences whenever he appeared. He was certain they were all conspiring to get him transferred, and he also knew that this current post was the head messenger’s way of getting rid of him after years of trying.

So Eric kept to himself. Whenever anyone approached his desk, he would cover the papers in front of him. He never used the lunchroom, and he remained at his desk unless he had to go to the men’s room or grab a bite to eat. At 12, when most of the staff was carpooling to Fai’s in upper Tunapuna or to the Valpark Shopping Plaza, Eric was never included. The corn soup lady in the market lower down the main road was Eric’s only option on days when he did not pack a lunch. Fortunately, the walk gave him a chance to get out of the office — away from Ryan and Jerry and the others.

Eric passed the butter-colored fire station with its silver training tower and fire tender. The adjacent police station had recently been renovated, but the demolished cars to the front and side made it seem like a car dump. Eric stepped forward to cross Pasea Road then jumped back as a car screeched past, its driver trying to catch the light. He ignored the expletives thrown his way and crossed. The snackette on the opposite corner was open, but Eric knew that the plastic-wrapped products would not be sufficient to stave off these hunger pangs. Only corn soup would fill the emptiness and keep him warm in the office.

He walked past vendors with clothes hanging and a man selling leather shoes from the back of a station wagon, offering his wares to passersby. A female vendor straightened her display of panties and bras as a maxi-taxi boomed past with laughing schoolchildren, then stopped abruptly to board another as irate drivers honked and swerved to avoid colliding.

Today Eric left for lunch earlier than usual, so there was no line at the corn soup stand and no need for meaningless bits of conversation with strangers. Good. He needed to think about how to execute his plan. He paid for his soup, covered the Styrofoam cup, and hurried back to the office. Before crossing Pasea Road, he paused and looked southward toward the Palladium Cinema. Its silver-gray gate was pulled shut. Cara loved the cinema. Eric thought of the many evenings they had enjoyed cuddling in the warm darkness with only the light from the screen before spilling onto the sidewalk with the crowd after a four-hour matinee. Once, during their courtship, they had left the cinema around midnight and walked through the dark alley that emerged at the back of the market. They had leaned against a wall to kiss, but had run off when a stranger approached from the shadows demanding money. Later they had laughed off their fright. That seemed like a lifetime ago. After they had married, trips to the cinema became a task to Eric and soon waned.

Now Cara would not be around to comfort him after a trying day, to help him laugh off the pressure. Before their separation, she had been there to listen to how he was given the most difficult projects to work on, and how the others had used every opportunity to report him. She had made him feel like he belonged — somewhere. Her soft voice would calm him, and she would bring him a cup of warm milk, sit beside him, and rub his shoulders until he fell asleep. But this time, she would not be there to tell him it was all right, that they just did not understand him. Eric decided that today was the day. He could wait no longer. If she refused to come back... No, she would come back. She loved him.

Later that afternoon, as he sat at his desk thinking of the empty house awaiting him that evening, his eyes brimmed with tears, and it took extra effort to breathe. Why had she left? Why? And who would take care of him now? How could she be seeing another man? She belonged to him. As he thought of her, the room became blurry and seemed to spin. His breathing became rapid and deep as though he had been running.

“Oh, geez, look at Eric’s face,” a voice whispered.

“Oh no, not again,” someone answered.

“This is the second time this month,” said another.

“I hear he have a heart problem.”

More voices joined. Indistinct figures moved in front of him. Their voices became merely a buzz under the sirens sounding in his head. Eric placed the Styrofoam cup on the desk and laid his head next to it, panting to catch his breath. His hands began to shake. The tremors moved upwards until his entire body was shaking. He bit his lips to hold back sound, but a whimper escaped, signaling an avalanche of choking sobs that caused his chest to heave. He raised his head gasping for air, but as he did, the swivel chair rolled back from under him and he slipped to the floor. He curled up in a corner between the wall and his desk and rocked. Various feet appeared under the desk, and someone was calling his name. His sobs became guttural moans, silencing the voices. Someone came around the desk and bent over him, calling, “Eric! Eric... Eric...” It was Jerry. Grabbing the man’s arm and clutching his own chest, Eric cried out Cara’s name, closed his eyes, and let his body go limp.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the lounge chair in the ladies’ restroom. He was not alone. A woman, her back turned, was pouring liquid into a small bowl. The ascending cane rows that led to a small bun at the top of her head and the small gold hoop earrings were familiar. He knew she would come. He had not been able to bear removing her name as “next of kin” on his employment file. Besides, she was the only real family he believed he still had. During that heated argument with his sister Kathy last Christmas, he had been warned never to come near her or her family again.

“Fine! Spoil them if you want. You go see,” he had warned. “You know that is not how Daddy bring we up!” Eric believed that Kathy’s children needed discipline. He had tried to explain this to her after punishing his six-year-old nephew for running around the Christmas tree. “That licking ent going to leave no marks, but he go remember not to do that again! What you worried about?”

But Kathy and her husband felt differently, and the three had argued until she finally asked Eric to leave. That was the last time he had spoken to Kathy. But it hadn’t mattered. He still had Cara.