The Duppy Read Online Free Page B

population!”
    Because he could see that I disapproved of this reckless driving, Hopeton leaned over from the cramped backseat where he was perched on the lap of a pretty brown woman who smelled of khus-khus perfume and asked if I would like him to administer a dose of duppy discipline to the driver.
    I said that would make me very happy.
    He reached over the seat and plunged his unwashed duppy hand straight into the driver’s potbelly, twisting and turning with grunts of concentration while he tried to get a good grip on the man’s gut. “Rass man eat too much pork rind,” he griped. “Make him gut slippery.”
    Finally, after much maneuvering and squirming, Hopeton managed to pinch the colon, causing the driver to hiss a sudden, “Hi!” through his teeth.
    Another tweak of duppy fingers and the driver winced and bellowed, “Whoa! I catch a stitch in my belly!”
    Distracted by the stabbing pain in his colon, he slowed down to the speed limit and observed all traffic signs and appropriate cautions for the remainder of the trip. Hopeton withdrew his hand out of the man’s belly and sucked air happily between his duppy teeth.
    I thanked him for applying the needful discipline to an unruly driver and we drove on in silence, the roar of the engine blasting in our ears while I thought ruefully about all the money I had wasted during my lifetime on milk of magnesia and Epsom salts.
    Yet I could well imagine how people would laugh in my face if I came back and wrote that Jamaican bellyache was caused by duppy gripping you colon, and that the best thing you could do for it was to eat plenty pork rind to make your colon slippery to duppy grip.
    They’d laugh so hard they’d pop.

Chapter 5
    With our driver now practicing motor vehicle courtesy and observing all road signs and applicable speed limits, our minibus ride on the Spanish Town Highway was cramped but uneventful.
    As we neared our destination, Hopeton leaned over the front seat and whispered instructions into the ear of the driver, causing him to brake to a halt at the roadside shoulder next to the old Ferry Inn.
    Hopeton signalled me to follow him out, which I did, climbing though the kneebones of bewildered passengers who looked around to see why the driver had stopped when none of them had asked to be let out and no one was waiting for a bus.
    “Why you stop, driver?” croaked an old woman who was sandwiched miserably between two sweaty men in the backseat.
    “I stop ’cause I feel to stop!” the man barked, turning around to glare at the multitudes crammed mutely behind him.
    He stuck his head out the window, drew a cantankerous breath of canepiece breeze, smacked his lips, and bawled to the world at large, “Now I driving off ’cause I feel to drive off!”
    With that he revved the engine and roared away, but only after giving the appropriate signal with his indicator and looking both ways to ensure that it was safe to merge into the flow of traffic.
    Hopeton slid down the embankment and strode off purposefully toward a canefield, warning me over his shoulder to please follow him closely.
    It was a hot and dusty midmorning. We pushed into the thick cane growth and glided harmlessly through the sharp leaves. In the distance the Blue Mountain range was crumpled and pleated in purple shadows against the skyline. Overhead a John Crow unwound on a breeze.
    I am a man who has always appreciated nature and valued local beautification programs, and even on my way to heaven I took note of my surroundings. Butu, on the other hand, don’t know bauble from bangle and bead.
    We plodded past a cane cutter who was panting and sweating in the hot sun as he thinned out the stalks with a machete. Instinctively I said, “Good morning, sah!” which drew an amused chuckle from Hopeton along with a reminder that I was dead.
    After walking a good distance we came to a rutted marl road and were about to cross when out of the canepiece oozed a fatty woman dressed in black