The head cook and bottle washer, the ever-efficient Sonny T that he was, he managed as had been his habit for more than 35 years to serve over 30 men in under 40 minutes, run two jokes with those whom he saw as buddies, which generally included everybody, even the prentis (newbies) and sit down to drink a cool beer as he listened to their run ins of the day so far. A box lunch here, another passed over there, making its way down on the conveyor belt of calloused hands to the right owner.
“Duck!” someone would shout as food or drinks were passed overhead.
And no, that duck was not duck per se!
Basically, watch your head, as the steaming food passed dangerously close overhead.
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“Hot, hot, hot!” another would yell. “A not responsible if you get skaal!”
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The cook shop was livelier at lunchtime than at any other time during the day. Sure enough, old men on government pension would stop by during the day to place their bets on a lucky horse, staying to play dominoes or to drink an ice cold Guinness or Red Stripe Beer before leaving to tend to their farm plots; squandering the pittance that you ended up with at the end of each fortnight, not even befitting the number of years you slaved away in some office, factory, construction site or even over a large wash basin of clothes doing other people’s washing. Then again that was if you even remembered to go and buy the stamps at the local post office to fill in each slot of the pension book card, week after week, year upon year. Housewives would steal out of washing clothes to buy Lotto, Pick 3, Cash Pot or whatever quick lucky cash scheme was current. Kids returning from running errands for their mothers would stop to rest in the cool shade of the breadfruit tree sheltering the cook shop or just to buy a bag juice or a suck-suck from their mummies’ shop change, their minds already working overtime for a good line to explain away the difference. Even domestic animals and strays found one reason or another to draw brakes at Sonny’s Pizza Haven.
But lunchtime was special. You would have to be there to understand. Was it the bustling of the crowd as they fought to grab a seat? Trying to get one of the few good ones before anyone else did, so you wouldn’t have to stand and eat, one arm balancing the hot meal, the other your ice-cold drink. Trust me, you always needed a very cold drink. Especially with the noon day heat. What was so special about lunchtime? Was it the whispered gossip that took place? Was it the oldies but goodies music that Sonny put on especially for that hour? Was it the jokes? Was it the smell? No one quite seemed to know the exact reason why but whatever it was, transformed that hour to make it the best time of the day. Whether he knew it or not, his cook shop would always be full at lunch time and on a Saturday night, when he pushed the wooden tables; some held up by soft drink crates; out of the way, brought in his old turntable and cranked up a few tunes to create the workman’s perfect bar and dance floor.
Yes, Saturday Night Live at Sonny’s! It was a sight to see. Sure enough, there were many parties going on in Pleasant Valley on a Saturday night, more than a place like that would ever need or could even afford. But no matter what, the usual crowd never stayed away from Sonny’s on his usual Saturday night jive. It wasn’t about classy, it wasn’t about popularity, the liquor was the same. No one really knew why they always ended up there. It was as if they were drawn against their wills, not that they were resisting. It was all woza woza as they would say in Zulu. Whatever it was, no one was complaining. The fun they had went beyond words. Their deep bellied laughs, their stupid jokes, their cracks at each other, their shared secrets, their whispered sorrows. It all created a link, like a herd of cows vowing never to part, to be ever faithful until the butcher’s knife bade them part.
These men all shared a similar story. It didn’t matter if they knew each other personally or not. Their lives sang the same litany. Born in the ghetto to parents who like their parents before them had hopes and dreams. But life, life was not fair, it took more than hopes and dreams to make it ahead, no matter what the catchy slogan or the eloquent politician said. Circumstances inserted a thin line that made its impositions clear ‘ once born in a ghetto you were expected to die in one’, or something else was the bulldozer that crushed it all. They all had wanted to escape the seeming despondent life, to find a better one. After all the grass on the other side always looked greener, even if that grass was laden with pesticide. It was a rat race, but no one seemed to be winning.　If anything, all the rats seemed to be dying.
