part two
The plane we board is painted in the colours of a party--a Fauvist splashing from wing to wing; yet, the interior must be Magritte's brush--the incomprehensible image of human beings seated in comfortable chairs, moving the remaining pieces of a hot meal to their mouths with a plastic fork. All far above Tennessee. Or perhaps Atlanta, Georgia.
It's funny how I'm grabbed by the man beside me--his soft voice. Vaughn. Twenty-four; Jamaican living in Canada. U of T graduate: Lit, Philosophy, Religion. Chef's school afterwards, too. With the posture of a teacher, he gives me some of his baggage--the kind marked in Jamaican black, yellow and green, but assessed and analyzed as though by Canadian airport inspection. I find a weariness in the torn edges and bent zippers--evidence of a struggle not unlike the decisive kinds that happen between parents and adolescents.
Over Florida he hands me a number to call, a party to attend. He speaks also of his reasons for coming to Canada--reasons stowed for so long in the undercarriage of his identity, stuffed and hidden. His murdered friend; his stumbling pilgrimage away from shame. I learn later from crudely stroked graffiti letters that in Jamaica they call it hormone cancer. But our descent is uplifting; Kingston lights wave through an airplane window, distorted by a rising heat. Vaughn speaks to me of roasted fish, peppercorn and French cuisine. How easy it is to dice onions after learning.
After customs the group of us loads the luggage through the window of a large van, laughing about Lauren's ticket mishap and the juxtaposition of flowers and long icicles. Bob Marley welcomes us from the tinny radio speaker.
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