THE MOORE THINGS CHANGE – A friendly rascal

HARD TIMES IN BARBADOS continue to bite. They don’t always bring out the most creatively honest schemes in people through entrepreneurship and innovation.It’s 11:30 a.m., Thursday, July 15.  I enter SuperCentre supermarket at Warren’s to buy a few items to supplement the wife’s shopping. As is usually the case, only the extra large trolleys are inside the shopping area so I go outside to wheel in a smaller cart.That’s when it happened. One of the friendliest “black brothers” greets me like a long lost cousin. He knows me so well that I find it unkind to say to him: “But I don’t know you. Refresh my memory.”He tells me he is awaiting his wife who has taken their two children to the doctor upstairs, on the second floor. He supports my “crusade” against noise pollution and cites two instances where “unconscionable” people in his district have been making decent citizens like himself uncomfortable in their homes.He read my latest column in the Sunday Sun in which I noted the plight of Mr Kevin Armstrong’s three-month-old baby who can’t take the Friday night noise coming down to Clapham from the Pork Limes in Wildey.He hopes that I am wrong in my prediction that the vuvuzela will soon be here. “Carl, boy,” he commiserates, “yuh gine have more noise to deal with.”Two charming ladies pass by and speak to us.He asks about the new on-line newspaper. I mention the trend in the United States where the 100-year-old Wall Street Journal has gone fully on-line and has stopped printing on paper. I wish it well because I know what it is like to start a newspaper.He recalls the early days of The Nation. Then, his cell phone rings . . .  or vibrates. I do not hear it. As he speaks to his “wife” who seems to be ready, I take the opportunity to end our little meeting after a good ten minutes and I go towards the smaller trolley I’ve come out to collect.He beckons me to hold on. He needs to borrow $36. Before I can react, I’m asked to “make it 60. She needs $60.” I pause, sceptically, but my heart overrules my head and I reach into my pocket. I have a $100, a $10, a $5 and two $2. The closest to $60 is the “Sir Grantley”.He tells me to write my telephone number on the folded newspaper in his hand so that he can call me tomorrow with the money. The “brother” is so warm and friendly, and knows me so well, I hand over the $100 bill. I trust him.A nanosecond before it leaves my hand and enters his, something says: “Carl, you’ve been duped.” I am sure I’ve been deceived because he hurries off – not upstairs towards the doctor’s office where his wife is – but east towards Warrens Motors, and disappears.I listen-in on a conversation between my head and my heart as I push my trolley into the supermarket:Head: “Carl didn’t even ask that criminal his name. Is he getting dotish in his old age?”Heart: “Let’s give the fellow the benefit of the doubt. Wait until tomorrow; see if he keeps his word.”Head: “Don’t plan on it. Carl ain’t going to hear from that criminal again.”Heart: “He’s honest.”Friday comes – no calls, but Heart is hopeful: “Give him a few more days.” Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. I email the Editor this column at noon on Wednesday.Head repeats: “You’ve been taken. It has nothing to do with hard times. There’re always criminals around. There are more during hard times. The man is a petty thief. The reason you don’t know him is because you don’t know any petty thieves.”Philosophically, I write off the $100 and promise to be more cautious. I always assume that most Barbadians are honest. I’m usually right.Carl Moore was the first Editor of THE NATION and is a social commentator; email [email protected]