Selling Plants in a Government House Yard

Prelude

So common-place this had become—standing up on a bus to speak to commuters—it had lost that triumphant feeling. I’d become too good at getting the invitation over with, but, as with mastering any skill, practicing consistently in the right way had begun years before.

On campus, I’d done the Bible studies and agreed that my sins had exposed me to undeniable indignities, not including those which I was now to consciously seek out and purposefully endure as proof of repentance. One good way to manage your ego is to invite strangers to study the Bible. The humiliation is comparable to being caught doing something misconstrued, like putting a note into a friend’s purse (not taking something out).

Trying to Circumvent Preconceived Ideas

I wanted to explain myself, that I wasn’t a cunt like cunts who’d come before me, speaking in that way that sounded as if it were meant to be comforting, but aggravated because a “Fuck off!” would only confirm that you belonged to the Devil. However, to use your freedom of choice to continue seated, listening, suggested compliance. I wanted to explain that I was a cool Christian (I even had a tattoo) and that doing this hugely unpopular thing meant I was a rebel with a cause.

There wasn’t enough time to ease into the revelation, however. You could see people switch off at the word “church”, some might get up and walk away, some hadn’t planned their “Fuck off!” for occasions like these, though, and would let us go on while they tried to find a polite way to say it, usually until we pushed for some sort of commitment. Others might surprise you because it was difficult to avoid judging the ones we approached (always in twos or more) by their outward appearance.

A betrayal of trust started me questioning. Questioning broke the mold in which I’d been cast and I emerged my own God.

My new Bibles

My Own God

As God, I reversed into the parking space at this government building and went to find someone with whom I could play along that they were in charge. I would ask for permission to lay out my boxes of plants so later I might not have to be inconvenienced by a little person trying to feel big, asking who’d given me authorisation.

“Sharing the faith” Revisited

That familiar physical reaction to “sharing the faith”—the quickening heart and sweaty palms. But as I’d learned to overcome my fear of humiliation then, I would not stop, not give into the temptation to do anything else but what I’d come to do now. I would get to the other side by going through it. I would sell my plants in a government yard.

A round, short woman in modern horn rims cut me off as I gave unsolicited reasons why it shouldn’t be a problem for me to sell on their premises. She was asking what I had for sale and about prices, happy she had first selection of my passion fruit, thyme, sweet marjoram and basil plants.

I set up at the top of steps that went up, veered right and up some more to the first floor of the main building. I was as unavoidable as Jehovah’s witnesses at a bus stop.

Selling my plants in this government house frontyard was slightly less embarrassing than selling Jesus.

Soon I switched on the smiles, added superficial banter and made notes of who wanted things I did not have. I listened to woes regarding the monkey population wreaking havoc on kitchen gardens and the government doing nothing about it.

I saw someone whose face, in thick glasses, I recognised but did not place. I was too caught up in the frenzy that starts once enough people pull out money that others feel safe to do the same. He asked me about my stay in China (meaning Japan) and I started a sentence I couldn’t finish, trying to explain how he’s a “type” many Japanese women seem to like. It was like playing Taboo and one of the words you couldn’t use was ‘fat’.

I went for change from an office downstairs and left him to keep an eye on the plants. Behind Plexiglass, the high-bottomed woman there (she got up to get a file) held up her index finger when I opened my mouth, so I took my place as an annoyance and waited until it pleased Her Majesty to help me.

Personable Barbadians

I enjoy how personable Barbadians are usually, though. It’s easy to have a conversation with anyone. And that’s even when you don’t have a reason like I did. One skeletal old lady with dyed-red hair told me to come again on a Friday because there’d be more people. A woman with a corkscrew hairstyle said she had a pumpkin vine that grew up on its own and took over the backyard. She said her backyard didn’t look like anywhere anything but maybe a cactus might grow. A priest didn’t remember being a teacher and throwing chalk at the same round, familiar looking one I’d been talking to. The priest had a passion fruit vine that had grown up over a palm tree and killed it. He didn’t want anymore passion fruit vines to kill his remaining fruit trees.

I moved under the shade of a mahogany tree, down the steps and across the driveway because it would soon be lunchtime and people would have to pass me to get to the canteen. The conference being held on the compound went on and I had to return home, though. I made 45 dollars.

The guy with the familiar face, who’d spent the entire time leaning over the banister, had followed me to where I’d set up downstairs. He stays until he finally yelps, “He got something for me!” And runs off to retrieve papers from a man hanging out a beige van’s window. Then he climbs into the driver’s seat of a tour bus and, pulling it around a small roundabout in the courtyard (I would have demolished had I been driving) takes off with his familiar face.

It is a face I, in this moment, remember belonged to a brother in Christ!