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complain about the long waits at the American border and his encounters with policemen in Florida. He considered most Americans as boldfaced braggarts, which was a big shock, because in Trinidad, I always felt they were not too different from Canadians. His name was Jim and although he was as red as a flask of wine, the way he stared crossly from on top of his glasses reminded me of Uncle Boysie dealing with a troublesome customer. Another man, who from a distance looked completely grey, down to his skin, said he had lost two brothers in the war. They spoke about thiswar quite often, and as though it had been fought just a couple months earlier.
    This was new to me: in Trinidad we had no wars (except the ones from our history texts about Captain Jenkins’s ear and those with Spanish armadas centuries ago). It felt sort of strange sitting so close to people who had some connection with a war I had seen only in the old movies starring Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, and sometimes while they were discussing some battle or the other, I would wonder how my Mayaro friends would react if they could see me with all these pale, wrinkly old-timers who were always wrapped-up in thick sweaters with Christmas bells and decorations. I felt they would shake their heads and laugh and make jokes—or
picong
—about my new friends who smelled sometimes like stale milk, and who talked with long gaps and stared outside as if they had forgotten what they were saying and who woke up coughing from little naps. I think they, too, would have been surprised that no arguments broke out between those who had lost family members in the war, and Norbert, who boasted about the fairytale cities his parents once lived in like Bavaria and Dresden. In Trinidad there would have been bottles flying on all sides because everyone there seemed to collect and save all the insults thrown at them. Every now and again, someone would mention Cabbagetown and I would pay extra careful attention as if I was in Mr. Chotolal’s history class. Once, Norbert mentioned an Ebenezer Howard fella who had designed something or the other in Cabbagetown. I almost told him that theEbenezer name made me think of wrinkly, giraffe-neck men in pyjamas with long sock-hats hanging over their ears but when I glanced around the table, I felt that maybe it was a good thing I kept quiet about this.
    The orangeish girl glanced over regularly and I felt she was wondering what I was doing with this pack of old people. I wanted Norbert to call out to her again but all of a sudden he seemed to be more interested in a new topic: the scheminess of doctors who were prescribing all kinds of drugs for healthy people, and these drugs companies that were making tons of money by inventing useless drugs, even for dogs and cats. One day I told him about old Lopi who claimed he could cure diseases with secret Spanish prayers and who prescribed fever grass and aloe vera and hibiscus flowers for this and that sickness. Roy stared at me with his coated eyes and said, “Damn voodoo rubbish,” which got me a little mad, not because I disagreed but because he was so quick to criticize. Norbert then began a speech about natural drugs and different types of diets. This topic went on for a week or more, and to tell the truth, I was getting fed up with all this health talk. I believe his friend, judging from her quietness, also didn’t like this new direction. She began to go outside with Roy for a smoke whenever he got onto this topic. During those times Norbert complained to me about the chemicals in cigarettes but never to her.
    One day I saw him alone in the coffee shop. He was dressed in his usual dark suit and greeted me in another strange language so I didn’t make much of his friend’s absence. Later, he told Roy that she was on a trip to the Statesconcerning her new business. Roy began to cough and went outside with his western paperback. I waited for Norbert to bring up the cigarette