The Duppy Read Online Free Page A

listening to a Mantovani record or reading a fat book—I don’t know why, I just felt queasy about admitting to a duppy angel that nothing in life sweeted me more than taking the rod of correction to rambunctious ole negar.
    However, he must have used his angel brain on me for he grinned and said, “If ruling ole negar is you pleasure, Mr. Baps, we have plenty dat need ruling in heaven, too.”
    My ears pricked up instantly.
    “Oh, yes?”
    “Plenty, sah. All lacking in discipline and fiscal restraint.”
    “Plenty who want to trust sugar and saltfish even if dey failed to pay on account last week?”
    “Thousands, sah. Hundreds of thousands.”
    “So you have shop in heaven, too, eh?”
    “Plenty shop, sah. City shop, country shop, supermarket shop, bazaar, emporium, and cold supper shop.”
    “But dese country shops, dey not like earthly shops you find in Jamaica?”
    “Oh, yes, sah. Down to cockroach and rat.”
    “Duppy fly, too?”
    “Yes, sah. Plenty, plenty duppy fly.”
    Meantime, as we were chatting, the dog was biting at my duppy foot over and over again, and each time his teeth snapped harmlessly though my duppy shinbone, he snarled and got madder.
    I looked down at him and asked Hopeton if biting dog abided in heaven, too, and he assured me that some Jamaicans could not relax without the tonic of an occasional dog bite, and if a biting dog was what I wanted to keep me-happy, one would be provided. That was how heaven was: What you wanted you got. What you didn’t want, you didn’t get.
    “So come with me, eh, Mr. Baps?” he pleaded. “I promise you, you goin’ love heaven. And if you don’t love it, you can migrate. And if you still don’t love it after migration, you can always crawl back through de culvert and live on earth in de bush as a Jamaican duppy.”
    I thought about it while the dog kept gnawing savagely at my foot, all the time keeping up with its rowdy barking.
    “Now, for instance,” I asked Hopeton, “if dis was a dog in heaven, could I give him a kick?”
    “Oh, certainly, Mr. Baps,” he assured me. “In fact, I going give you a little bonus. Kick dis one before we set off for heaven.”
    I don’t know how Hopeton did it, but suddenly my right foot felt as solid as a ram post, and I gave the dog a good kick that sent the brute tumbling across the yard and made him yelp bloody murder.
    The mistress of the house and the maid came rushing out of the kitchen to see what was wrong with their mongrel, who was cowering in the corner whining, and while the two of them speculated aloud about what could cause the beast to behave so, Hopeton and I sauntered through a backyard hedge and headed across the road for the bus stop.
    “Is duppy kick him, mum!” the maid was wailing behind us.
    “Don’t be an ass, Millicent! There’s no such thing as duppy. And if there were, they don’t kick.”
    “Duppy kick, mum! And duppy love to kick dog!”
    Sometime around midmorning we boarded a minibus crammed to the brim with passengers: Knee and elbow jostled side by side for breathing room; nosehole found itself wedged in dangerous proximity to obnoxious battyhole and unaromatic crotch; arm, head, and limb jutted out the windows and waved like surrender flag; ironed frock and fresh pants crease melted and wrinkled in the stuffy heat from the crush of bodies, while stale exhale and armpit exhaust made the stuffy interior stink like bat manure in a cave.
    During the trip we suffered through the expected vehicular indiscipline, with the driver tailgating, weaving recklessly, screeching around corners, and driving like he owned the road.
    I kept thinking to myself, “Now imagine, here I am dead and on my way to heaven in a minibus while this man drives recklessly with total disregard for the safety of the motoring public. Next thing you know he’s going to cross Flat Bridge at an unsafe rate of speed and plunge into the river and drown everybody aboard, adding to de ole negar duppy