The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2008

Finding Bob Marley

  Tory Hartmann

Auntie Glo thrusts out her left hand, nails first. A rock the size of a crumpled piece of gum foil balances on her fourth finger. I look to JJ to see if he has any reaction. After all, he’s the one getting a new father. But I can’t read his face. Four boyfriends down stream from when she had JJ, having a man around can’t be a new concept.

The men I’ve seen Auntie Glo with are usually short and swarthy. From what I remember, two were Latin, the last one Filipino, maybe Tongan, or maybe not. JJ’s father was black. Our family is white, but it’s never made a difference between me and JJ. He’s just a regular kid, and we’ve always been tight. We have other cousins, but I don’t like them or their spoiled snobby kids who tattle and brag. Not like JJ at all. That’s why we’re practically brothers.

This new boyfriend, the one who has given my Aunt Glo the biggest friggin’ ring I’ve ever seen, is tall, chisel-chinned, and pale as a Viking.

All misty-eyed, Auntie Glo coos, “We’re getting married in Jamaica and renting a villa. It has two wings. Charlie and I will be on one side, and you guys will be on the other.” She points to a photo of a house she printed from the Internet.

JJ and I move over to get a closer look. “It just looks like a regular house,” I say.

“No, it’s a villa,” she says, dismissing me. “The wedding will be here.” She pulls out another page from the mess on the kitchen table. “See this gazebo?”

The round structure stands in the middle of big-leafed plants. “Is Jamaica in Mexico or something?” I ask.

What are they teaching you in school?” Mom says, raising her arm like she might backhand me. “Jamaica’s a Caribbean island near Cuba.”

Auntie Glo hunts through another set of papers, finds a map, and points her flame-red nail at an island. Her nail and the island are about the same size. Eyes closed, she croons, “Jamaica is paradise.”

Mom and Auntie Glo exhale like they’re both on lung therapy.

JJ perks up. “Like where Bob Marley comes from?”

The two of them stare at us like we’re intruders. “It is if he was born in Jamaica,” my mother finally answers.

“Dude,” JJ says to me, showing his teeth clear back to his molars. “Marley!”

“Far out!” I mumble, wondering if Marley is a rapper. He couldn’t be the one in English class who was the partner of Scrooge. That’s too weird.

JJ and I escape to the family room, and all the way down the hall, he keeps hitting me in the shoulder. “Marley, man! Marley! You know, the Wailers!”

He knows I don’t get it, so starts to sing, “We’re jammin’… Jammin’ with you…” Just so I get the picture, he continues with, “One love…one heart…let’s get together and be all right.”

Ding, ding. I get it. “The black dude in dreads!” I say. “He’s cool, but I thought he died.”

“He did,” JJ says, sitting down and taking off his parka. He doesn’t go for my Game Boy, but just sits there stunned and mumbling, “Wow. Dude. Marley.”

At this point, I’m not thinking of Bob Marley. I’m thinking that I’m going to have a new Uncle, and even though he’s been around for a while, I don’t really know him. I keep looking at JJ to see how he’s taking it. “You’ll have a new dad, dude.”

JJ glares at me like I just ruined the best day of his life.

On the flight over, JJ’s unusually quiet, and I think maybe he’s depressed about having Charlie Chisel-chin as his dad. We get to sit next to each other during the flight, and he pulls out a folder and shows me all kinds of stuff about Marley: Where he was born, when he became a Rastafarian, where he died and the place he was buried, which is not really a grave, but a stone house called a mausoleum. We can’t find Nine Mile on a map and try to guess how far it might be from where we’ll be staying. JJ says it’s such a small island, we can probably hitchhike. Besides, there’s gonna be a million people going there.

 “Did you know,” he whispers to me over the background noise from the jet engines, “the twenty-fifth anniversary of Marley’s death is May 11. That’s next Thursday! Dude, we gotta go!”

I turn around to see if someone overheard us, but Mom and Dad are sleeping, and Auntie Glo is so focused on my soon-to-be Uncle Charlie, she wouldn’t notice if we were twirling knives. “How can we get away?”

JJ shakes his head. “No matter what, I’m goin’, man. Marley’s my hero.”

The house in Jamaica is pretty cool. It’s on two levels and has a pool table in the entryway and a foosball set up in a spare bedroom. The beach is awesome, blue water stretches out for freaking forever, and there’s not much wave action, so we can walk way out.

JJ likes the maids. They’re deep-black Jamaican women who fawn all over him like he’s a little prince. They’re probably wondering what tree he dropped out of. I mean, he doesn’t look like Auntie Glo, who’s as white as pizza dough, and his soon-to-be step dad is mashed potato pale. So there’s JJ, a glass of chocolate milk in the middle of all this white bread, and now we’re all sitting down three meals a day in a private home waiting to be served by a bunch of Jamaican women. Man, it’s pretty strange.  

JJ always helps clear the table, which I’ve never seen him do at his house unless his mother makes him. He does it to ask the Jamaican women about Bob Marley. I guess it’s a small island because everyone seems to know someone who knew him. One has a brother who used to play in a band with Marley. One knew Bob’s family in Trenchtown, and another has a mother who knows his mother. I have to admit, that’s pretty interesting. Then they tell us that our gardener used to live near Nine Mile and could actually take us there. I glance at JJ, and he looks like he just won the lottery.

Fila, the woman who seems to be in charge of everything, says she’ll ask Belvet how much he’d charge to take us on a day trip to Nine Mile. I ask her not to tell our parents. She winks and says, “Ya’man,” which is pretty cool.

JJ and I go outside and talk about how much money it might cost and hope we’ll have enough. Meanwhile, down at the snack shack at the beach, Marley songs are all they play. I’ve never seen JJ so happy. We swim, play some stupid beach ball games, and I listen to him talk about Marley’s life, his religion, his music, and, of course, his death. After a while I become interested in him myself, and at the grocery store, we buy a magazine-type book on Bob Marley and take turns reading it to each other. I learn that Bob’s father was white and his mother black and that he left home by the time he was 14. Cool.

This is Saturday. The wedding is Wednesday, and if we want to make the anniversary, we’ve got to go on Thursday the 11^th. Belvet’s price to take us to Nine Mile is $125. “Dude!” we yell at each other, knowing that it’s actually within reach. Both of us empty our pockets and count our money. If we can each con our folks out of a twenty, we’ll make it. Next problem is getting permission.

“Wouldn’t it be neat to see the place where Bob Marley is buried?” I say that night at dinner. Charlie rolls his eyes, his deep-set sockets look like tunnels into his head. JJ and I exchange hopeless looks, but no one notices because Auntie Glo and Charlie keep staring at each other and lapse into baby talk. Mom listens to Glo like she’s spewing the Gettysburg Address, while my dad never takes his eyes off the TV in the next room and probably never heard a thing I said. Nothing new, he never does.

When I bring up the subject again, Mom snaps, “You two boys just calm down, and find other things to do around here. You’re not going anywhere, you hear me? This is paradise, remember? Paradise!” Then she snarls, “Enjoy it.”

Mom won’t give me any more money for food at the snack shack, so in order to be able to pay Belvet, JJ and I figure we can’t spend anything. That means we’ll have to come back to the house for lunch and pass up sodas on the beach, which totally sucks. We’re still short and can’t think of a way to raise the rest, which depresses both of us.

The day before the wedding, more people come into town and rent more houses in the compound. We’re still hanging out at the beach, and for the fourth lousy day, we’re still bringing our own sandwiches the maids make for us, and so we don’t have to spend our money, we’re drinking warm water out of used cola bottles. The sun is strong and makes me sweat a lot, and I’m starting to feel pretty stupid and cheap. All I can think of is how good it would be to have a bag of chips and a cold drink, but JJ has my money and goes all stubborn on me.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. “Here we are in paradise, and I can’t even have a bag of freakin’ chips!” I yell at him. Then I blow off a little steam and tell him we aren’t going to make it to Nine Mile because we’re still over $40 short, so just give it up.  

“No way, man,” he says, “I’m goin’. I’m goin’ even if I have to walk.”

I push him and tell him he’s full of shit and to give me my money so I can buy a cold soda. He shoves me back, and I shove him, and pretty soon we’re rolling around the beach scratching and barking like a couple of pit bulls until the lifeguard pulls us apart.

“Mon, why you do that to each other, mon?” the lifeguard says. “No fightin’ here in Jamaica, just love. Love, mon. Bring da love. Have da peace. No fightin’ now.”

I shake JJ off of me and run into the water to wash the bloody scratch marks off my arms. JJ follows, and I can hear him behind me, but I’m so mad I won’t look at him.

The lifeguard follows us into the water jabbering on about love and peace and getting together, and I’d like to sock him one too, but JJ and I both nod and pretend to be okay.

“Ya’mon, we’re jammin’,” JJ says, but I can tell he’s still pissed.

We’re sitting, water up to our necks, staring out along the flat mirror of ocean in front of us. “Do you think that sharks will come because I’m bleeding?” I say, breaking the silence. “I hear they can smell blood under water.”

“You’re bleeding?” JJ shouts, standing up, searching for incoming fins and rabid, gray jaws. We both run so fast, we stumble and fall and get up again. It’s good to be laughing. I throw myself down on a towel, have a swig of lukewarm water, and wonder out loud if Belvet might give us credit.

Our savior comes in a strange package. Auntie Glo’s friend, Mina, a woman JJ and I have always laughed about because of her low-cut dresses and strong perfume, sees us walking back from the beach, runs out of her villa, and hugs us like we’ve been missing for weeks. “Here, here,” she says thrusting a twenty dollar bill in each of our hands. “You boys have a good time this week, okay? Isn’t this a paradise?”

JJ and I gape at the twenties, and then JJ springs onto Mina like she just liberated him from a concentration camp. “Thank you, thank you,” he says, clinging to her neck and kissing her cheek over and over.

Mina is so touched by his gratitude that she looks at both of us like we’re pitiful refugees from the Boy’s Club and must not have a dime to our names. “What’s this?” she says, pointing to the scrapes on my arm.

“Coral,” I say in a big, fat lie.

She tsk-tsks, and then JJ goes in for the kill. “Did you know that Thursday’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of Bob’s Marley’s death?”

Genuinely surprised, Mina runs a hand through her bleached hair. “Really? Is that a national holiday here or something?”

JJ shrugs and asks her if she wants to see where Marley is buried. I can’t believe it, but she’s actually interested. Before the day is out, Auntie Glo, my new Uncle Charlie, and my mom and dad have all approved our day trip to Nine Mile with Mina, like it’s not only educational, but their idea.

JJ and I go outside and dance around shouting, “We’re going to Marley’s grave!” It’s a freakin’ miracle.

The gazebo wedding was underwhelming. Auntie Glo and Uncle Chisel-chin declare their love until death do we part, while JJ elbows me and whispers, “Or something better comes along,” and the two of us crack up but pretend to be coughing. Right after, all the adults party and hit the booze pretty strong.

Next morning at six forty-five, we’re holding a paper bag filled with muffins Fila left for us, and sure enough, Belvet rattles up in his old Plymouth right on time. He takes us down the street to Mina’s place, and we rap on the door. Nothing happens. We rap again and again, and JJ starts to get anxious so he tries the door. What do you know, it opens.

He calls to her, his voice sounding thin in the big front room. I call out too, and the two of us look through the house and find Mina in a bedroom fast asleep on top of her bed and still in her party dress. One of her boobs is hanging out of her top, and I try not to look, but it’s nearly impossible. Her nipple is pink as a cat’s nose and I want to leave right then, but JJ goes up to her and touches her arm. She lets out a big snort and rolls over. There’s no way she’s coming around.

“Geez, man,” JJ says. “She’s gotta wake up.” Then he calls her name a couple of times and shakes her shoulder.

“She’s not gonna wake up, dude,” I say, not bothering to whisper anymore. JJ’s frantic, then I say, “Let’s leave her a note and just say that we couldn’t wake her up so we went anyway.”

JJ’s face relaxes, and we scurry around, write the note, and leave it on the dining room table.

I let JJ sit in the front with Belvet, who has on a big-ass yellow, green, and red Rasta hat that looks like a target. We ride up through Duncan and a village called Brown’s Town and head up into the mountains. Every five minutes I think we must be at Nine Mile, but the countryside goes on and on, and I see hillsides and meadows and long stretches of rock fences around scrawny animals. The farther we get away from the beach, the greener the land, the worse the roads and scruffier the towns. Finally, Belvet stops for food, and we go into a small, raggedy café where there are only two things on the menu: Lamb and rice or chicken and rice. There’s something else that bothers me about the place: I’m the only white guy here. I don’t want to complain about it. Like, I guess this is what JJ goes through all the time, and it would be pretty chicken-shit of me to start whining now. Besides, even if I did complain, what could anyone do about it?

I wish I had a Rasta hat, the kind with the fake dreads, and that I had a dark tan. Maybe then I wouldn’t stand out so much, but there aren’t any touristy stores here, so I can’t buy one. A couple of the old men glare at me like I’m a bad dream. Someone says something about Babylon and Belvet says something back, but I can’t understand it when they talk Jamaican. I eat with my head down.

Getting back in the car, I ask Belvet if there’re going to be hundreds of people up at Marley’s grave. He says maybe, maybe not. JJ and I look at each other in disbelief and ask why there aren’t more people on the road. It should be like we’re going to a football game or something. Belvet shrugs and concentrates on driving, which is a good thing because the road is a one-way street with two-way traffic. To make things worse, in Jamaica they drive on the wrong side of the road, and there are so many twists and turns and potholes that I begin to feel sick. JJ does too, and soon Belvet has to stop the car.

JJ and I stagger out to the side of the road, and he starts throwing up. Man, just hearing him wretch makes me do it too. Belvet comes over to us and lights a joint the size of a cigar, then offers it to us. “For sick problem, mon,” he says kindly. We look at each other, and JJ takes the joint and tries to inhale but wheezes a vomit-smelling cough all over me. I try it too, and then JJ has another hit, then I have another hit. Belvet gives us some water from a bottle, and after a few more puffs, we get back into the car. Belvet  puts out the joint, and the last thing I remember is a car barely missing us as we wheel around a hairpin turn. Man, I say to myself, it would suck if we die trying to find Marley’s grave.

When I wake up, Belvet is talking to someone at a gate, and I wonder if I’m in some sort of Rasta heaven, but this is the Marley place at Nine Mile. I feel lightheaded and would rather stay in the car and sleep, but Belvet is pointing up a hill and calling it Mt. Zion. My mouth is dry as salt and dust.

Dizzy and reeling, JJ keeps stopping to hold his head. An old Rastaman offers him tea from a paper cup. I wonder if this drink’s a part of his religion. JJ gets excited and he drinks it, but I don’t because it grosses me out. Then we go into a shaggy stone hut that has a lot of Marley stuff for sale. JJ leans against me, and I wonder if he’s gonna pass out or something. “You okay, man?” I ask.

He nods, and we listen to another Rastaman outside talk about Bob’s life: the way he went up the hill for water, sat on the rock of Zion, and he even shows us Bob’s pillow rock. Then we go into Bob’s house. For a long time, JJ looks at Marley’s narrow bed. I hear a squeaking noise and look around to see what it is. It’s coming from JJ and gets louder. Geez, he’s embarrassing me. Next thing I know, he falls to his knees in front of the bed, leans on Marley’s quilt, and begins to pray. The Rastaman seems pleased, but JJ’s freakin’ me out. I wait for him to stop, but he keeps on crying and rocking and praying and making weird sounds in the back of his throat.

A few other tourists come in and out, but JJ keeps on kneeling. I can’t think of anything more to pray about, I mean, the guy is dead, so what more’s to say after 25 years? “Come on, JJ,” I say, trying to get him to leave.

He shakes his head like I should go away and stop bothering him. Someone behind us begins to sing “Of my single bed,” the song Marley must have written about this very room. The whole house is so small it looks like a piece of stone cheese cut in half with a sharp knife. “Come on, dude,” I say again. “Time to go.”

JJ still won’t move, and now I can see his shoulders shuddering again. I glance at the Rastaman, and he doesn’t seem worried. Maybe this is ordinary behavior for other people, but for JJ, I know it’s not.

“JJ?” I say again, leaning down over his shoulder so I can talk into his ear. “You okay, man?”

Like he’s five years old and someone stole his Snickers bar, JJ’s crying pretty loud now. Rastaman nods like he knows just how he feels. I don’t know what else to do, so I go outside and wait for him. It must be 20 minutes before JJ comes out of the house wiping his eyes, which is probably the longest time any tourist has been in there.

Rastaman walks us over to the mausoleum and makes us take off our shoes before we go in. My heart is beating so fast. I mean, this is wrong. There’s no one here but us. Through the dim light filtering in from one high window, we stand in front of this big-ass marble rectangle about six-feet high. Rastaman says Bob Marley’s inside, then he raises his hands and begins singing, “Rise up this morning, Smiled with the rising sun, Three little birds pitch by my doorstep…”  

It’s like JJ has gone into some other world. I halfway expect another scene like the last one, but this time JJ just walks around the crypt and reads the poems, posters, and notes people left. Finally, we step out into the sunlight and walk up the path to find a shady spot. Rastaman sits down with us, which is awfully nice of him, and while I wonder if we’re supposed to give him a tip or something, JJ starts to blubber again. I look over at Rasta and shrug my shoulders.

Rasta pulls out a joint and lights up. I think he’s going to offer it to us the way Belvet did, but he keeps it to himself. “JJ?” I say, wondering if he’s even going to respond to me, “want to go home now?”

JJ stares back, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot like he’s been up all night. “I don’t have a home, man,” he says. “I don’t have anything.”

“What are you talking about? You have a home. And now you even have a new dad.”

“That guy?” he grunts. “In over a year, he’s never talked to me.”

His eyes brim with pain. I nod and put an arm around his shoulders and pull him toward me until our heads touch. “That sucks, man,” is all I can say. I press my lips together hard and ignore the lump straining against my throat.

The two of us stare out at the deserted path. There might be 10 people here wandering around, maybe 12. That’s it. On the twenty-fifth anniversary. This sucks. Through the leaves we can see the roof of Marley’s stone shack, and a thought slams into my brain like I’ve been hit full face with a baseball: No one cares about Marley. No one cares about JJ or maybe even me. Like a kindergartner, I begin to blubber and sputter.

Through a smoky haze, Rastaman stares at us, then nods. Before long, tears are drizzling down his cheeks too, and the three of us, like Marley’s little birds, sit there on the ground sniveling and wiping snot and tears onto the backs of our hands.  

Eventually, Belvet the driver comes looking for us. Squatting down, he gazes from one distorted face to the other. I can tell he’s puzzled. “What’s wrong, mon?” he says. “Dis paradise. Dis Bob’s house. No cry.”

JJ looks at me, and I look at him, and we start in again, this time our howls rise up through the big-leafed trees and ricochet into the cloudless Jamaican sky. Personally, I’m hopin’ we’ll wake Bob Marley.