LIGHT TRAFFIC

© Carolyne Weldon

Earlier today, after I was done interviewing King Kutz Barbershop owner Peter Liburd (more about this wild venture later), I went to get a coffee to warm up a bit. Out in front of the Second Cup stood a tall, thin, Black man I’d seen around the neighbourhood before. Not exactly homeless looking, but obviously not balling either. He followed me into the coffee shop, and as I waited for my latte I saw the young guy behind the counter, the one with the neck tattoo and the sculptural hair, sigh resignedly and pour him a small coffee. The man, who hadn’t even opened his mouth to ask for it, thanked him profusely and hollered at the Filipina girl working the espresso machine. “Hey Melissa!” he said, super jovial, “Looking good today!”

I still have a while to wait before catching my bus so I walk over to his seat, by the front window and ask if I can join him. “Sit down, love,” he tells me. “What are you drinking, Bisou?” I introduce myself and ask for his name. He tells me his name is Jeffrey Osbourne, but soon adds that Jeffrey is not his real name. He explains had another name before, but that things got complicated. “I was supposed to have another name when I was born, but right around that time my mother had a lot of Jewish friends and they had a son named Jeffrey. So I ended up being called Jeffrey.” He sips his coffee slowly, staring at the street outside. Judging by the color, it’s at least half coffee, half cream.

He asks me what I have on he “agen” today. I tell him I have to go back home and transcribe an interview I just did over at King Kutz. He shakes his head gravely and says, “Oh yeah? At Kingsies? Yeah? Good stuff.” Jeffrey, with his grave features, wiry beard and small black wool hat perched on top of his head, asks me what I think about Fidel Castro not being seen in public anymore (“I have a feeling he’s gone. In those dictations, they only tell the people what they feel the peasants should know.”) and about Obama’s coming to power (“Obama is super human, man, he’s extra human. We gotta stop looking back and start looking forward, at what’s in his speeches now. We gotta wait and see. Wait and see.”)

Jeffrey then offers me a smoke. (“Viceroy. $5.25 for a pack of 20. Not bad!”) I tell him cigarettes are one of the vices I’m battling but that I’ll join him for one anyway. “It’s Friday after all,” he tells me, shaking his head understandingly. “Me it’s more the beer, and other stuff.”

Outside, I ask him if he has kids. He puffs on his cigarette for a moment and says, “Well, the word is that I have a daughter.” “Is that the word on the street?”, I ask him, laughing. Jeffrey smokes some more and says. “I was 13 and the girl was 12. Apparently the girl came looking for me a couple years later, my sister told me, but I never saw either of them again.” Trying to be reassuring, I say that if it’s meant to be, he’ll meet his daughter one day. He starts chuckling and blurts out, “Yeah. Maybe. But I ain’t going on Oprah though. Uh-uh. I ain’t doin’ Opie. Whatever happens I ain’t goin’ on Opie. You can forget that.”

After we toss our cigarette butts in the snowbank and I prepare to leave, Jeffrey looks at me closely and says, “All you need is to know thyself. If you got that, it’s all good. Then you can manoeuvre fluently. Like lube-tube.” As I wave goodbye, I thank him for the chat.

Manoeuvring fluently. That’s exactly what I hope to achieve.