Pieces

I remember it like it was just yesterday.

The smells come back first. You couldn't walk anywhere without the scent of roasted and barbecued meats hitting your nose, smoke rising from every backyard. Smells so thick you could feel it stop and sit in the back of your throat, smells so nice you didn't mind at all if they rested there forever. Then the noise came ringing through; music from every single West Indian island and nation reverberated through the air, pulsated through the concrete and tar shaking the foundation of every single building. Compas, Soca, Calypso, Bachata, Steel Pan, Meringue, Salsa, Reggae, Chutney, a list that would stretch on farther than the block itself. Then the sights return—a true concrete jungle—Maple Street roaring to life on a cool summer day, as people moved between the booths and tents set up with various games, past the stage where the DJ and the bands regaled crowds with their art and craft, setting the beat we moved to. The gap between friend and family, neighbor and stranger closed as all lines of border and property were obliterated. Man, woman and child walked freely between backyards and porches full of drunken revelry. The summer neared its close and this is how we celebrated.

We had all just gotten bikes. It was a great time to be a kid on Maple Street, so long as we never left the block. Never a day went by where the streets weren't littered with all the kids on bikes, riding as fast as possible, playing all sorts of games we had invented, from the relatively simple races up and down the block, to the extremely dangerous Chicken, an insane version of Tag. As such it wasn't such an odd sight when we took them out that particular day, weaving through the masses of people out in the street, laughing as our parents and neighbors yelled after us, tiny blurs zipping from one corner of the block to the next. Well, all of us except for me.

It was the best day of the summer—the whole world had descended on my block for all I knew—the one day of the year where I absolutely needed my bike, and it was broken. I had no idea what was wrong, something about the the chain which was kind of mangled up and off the gear. All I knew was that while everyone else rode, I sat and watched on the bright red porch of the house as everyone rode on their bikes. My bike had been broken for a while. My Dad kept promising to fix it time and again, but something always came up and he never got around it.

He also came back, but not like it was yesterday. It always took a bit longer for him. First it was the sight, his caramel complexion, the perpetual chin-strap beard and mustache that looked like it had never been shaved once in his life. His jeans and brown sandals, and the sleeveless shirt he always wore with some sort of cool white button down over it. Then the smell, old spice after shave, a smell I was fond of and was often found sneaking drops of to put on my own face. The sound never came back though, he was always a silent figure. Silent, but smiling. Always at the corner store with his friends, playing dominoes, drinking, laughing, always having a good time. He called it limin'—and today, this was the big lime, the lime the whole block looked forward to.

I had never been more angry with him than at that moment. It didn't matter that he always snuck me a piece of candy when my mom said no, or how he'd stay up late watching TV with me at night until we fell asleep. It didn't matter that he would take days off from work to take me to the beach, or bring home cheesecake from Junior's for dessert. None of that mattered, because he hadn't fixed my bike.

I spent the whole day letting my anger mount. First the sounds disappeared, nothing more than vibrations across the edges of my skin. Then the smells went, the many varieties of rice, the pork, the chicken, the corn and shish kebabs, beef patties and salt fish. And finally sight went, and suddenly the world mashed into a shapeless blob. The mass of people became nothing more than just a mass, swaying with the vibrations, insignificant, completely incomprehensible, just indeterminate forms of color that slowly faded to black. All of that went, except for the bikes. I could still see them careening through the crowds, barely able to slip past the grayish blobs of people. I could still smell the rubber burn as one kid slammed on his brake before sliding into the dark brownish blob of a table holding up the multi-colored blobs of food. I could still hear the laughs coming from the rider as the light orange-tinged blob chased after him shouting out something that fell on my ears as nothing more than a vibration of the air surrounding me.

After having enough of just watching the fun I went to the backyard of our house to brood some more, silently cursing out the man I called Dad, the man who claims to have raised me to be the boy I was that day. All he had to do was to fix my bike and this whole mess would have been avoided. Then I could have been one of the laughing, smiling kids amongst the formless blobs we called neighbors. Instead I stood alone on the back porch, staring into the garage which I suddenly noticed had lights on.

He came out shortly, being led by my bike, chain in place, looking almost as good as new. My sight came back, and I saw it was my Dad, a smile sat on his face as he wheeled the bike towards me. He said something, the sound coming back now, a sound I don't remember, but a sound that had meant "You're bike's good to go." I ran towards him allowing the smell to come back, the Old Spice after shave mixing with the oil and grease and sweat and dirt, the signs of his toil as he struggled to fix my bike. And then I was greeted by a new sense, his touch as he embraced me, his hand falling first on top of my head, then across my back as he lifted me up. His cheek grazing across mine, the stubs of hair tickling my face as I let out a giant laugh. And in that moment I forgot I was angry. I forgot that everyone else was out riding their bikes, dancing to the music, eating and drinking. I forgot even that time was passing, that the light gave way to dark, and the food ran out, and the drinks dried up. All that mattered was that my Dad fixed my bike.