McPherson: Apparently I'd do Well in the Caribbean

The other day I rode my moped – a ‘76 Motobecane that I call “Francois” – up to Market Basket for a few groceries. The weather was perfect, one of those New England spring days that has you waking up with a smile and keeps you in the best of spirits right through to bedtime.

My wife and I bought mopeds from Port City ’Peds years ago, back before they even had a name. It was just two kids from UNH fixing up old scooters and selling them to eager and grateful patrons like ourselves. For eight years now we’ve looked for any excuse to leave the humdrum of daily life behind for a ride around the Seacoast. Believe it or not, even a trip to the grocery store becomes a mild adventure when you’re straddling a 49 cc engine.

As I approached the store, I noticed several black ladies sitting along the window of the Petco nextdoor, next to where I like to park Francois. Even from a distance I could see that they were laughing and talking, half of them sitting on the window sill and the others standing around, all clearly having a good time.

Riding up, I shut off Francois’ motor and pushed him up onto the walkway, heading for my usual spot. As I did so, the ladies all stopped talking and were looking right at me. There were six of them altogether, and if I had to to guess I’d say they ranged from 25 to 65 years of age.

After a second or two, they started chattering again and I noticed they all had very strong accents. Probably Jamaican, from the sound, but certainly Caribbean in origin. Walking past them I made eye contact with one, smiling and nodding hello. She smiled and nodded in return.

Reaching my spot, I popped Francois up on his kickstand and turned to walk into the store. Looking toward them, all I could see were twelve eyes looking right at me.

I started to feel very self-conscious as I walked past, especially when I realized they weren’t just looking at me: They were obviously talking about me as well!

Like I said, their accents were strong, and they were speaking in slang, or at least a very relaxed fashion, but it was as clear as day that I was their center of attention. First, they lowered their voices; nevertheless I caught distinct phrases, like “look at ‘im” and “ooh, ee’s nice.” They were also giggling and nodding in my direction. Walking past I was so embarrassed I just kept my eyes straight ahead and tried not to let them know that I knew that they were all talking about me. The last thing I heard before the automatic door closed behind me was, “look a’ dat big mon.”

Now, I’m anything but “big.” I’m tall; almost six feet. I try to stay in shape – eat right, regular exercise – but at 190 pounds I’ve never thought of myself as big. Maybe Caribbean men are on average slightly shorter? I have no idea.

Once inside, I caught a glimpse of myself in a reflection. My beard is way out of control – my wife keeps dropping very subtle hints, like “when are you going to get that thing shaved off?” And my hair is longer than normal; the wind from the ride had it standing straight up. I suppose that all made me look bigger.

I do know that by the time I got away from those giggling ladies my skin was so warm I thought it might burn right off my body.

Sadly, I only needed a few items; I wanted to spend as much time in the store as I could, hoping the ladies would move on and therefore spare me the discomfort of running that gauntlet a second time. I wandered a bit, taking my time, browsing along aisles that held nothing for me but the promise of delay. I used the restroom, I scanned the newspapers; I stopped to chat with a neighbor’s kid who works there. Anything to eat up some time!

Alas, I could wait no more. Other matters demanded I get on with my day, so I headed for the checkout lane.

Glancing outside, I saw they were still there.

Worse, they were all still laughing, slapping their thighs and looking toward the store.

They were waiting for me.

Walking out, they all got quiet again as I passed. Reaching Francois, I clumsily transferred my groceries to my backpack, conscious that they were looking at me again, talking about me again.

The comments kept coming, and at some point I realized they weren’t trying to be discreet anymore: They wanted me to hear them.

More importantly, they wanted me to know that they knew that I knew that they wanted me to hear. I was mortified.

Time slowed. I pulled my backpack on, popped Francois down off of his kickstand, and pushed him past. I knew that so long as I didn’t make eye contact, didn’t acknowledge them, I might get away from there with a shred of dignity.

But they weren’t having it. As I pushed Francois down the ramp and into the parking lot the comments kept coming. Still, I didn’t look at them.

I was beginning to think that I would make it. I threw a leg over the ’ped and started peddling furiously, praying to a God I don’t believe in that it would fire right up, getting me out of there quick.

Nope. Francois chose that moment to be disagreeable.

So instead of a smooth getaway, there I was peddling like a fool as these ladies giggled, laughed, pointed, and had the time of their life – and all at my expense.

Then, just as Francois came to life, I heard one of the women say – loudly – “look a’ da’ big mon on ‘is hot bike!” Except when she said “hot” it came out “haaaawwwwt.”

That did it; they broke me.

Looking up, I looked right into the eyes of one of them.

And that was all they needed. In unison all six burst into uproarious laughter, pointing at me and howling with delight. “Have a nice day ladies” – that’s what I think I said, but who knows what jumbled foolishness actually made it out of my mouth?

As I rode off, I hoped that everyone ignored the ruckus and confused my red glow with a bad sunburn.

Riding back home I smiled brightly, embracing my own discomfort. Some say such cat-calling is unacceptable in our ever-so-enlightened society. Clearly these ladies didn’t get the memo, and I’m grateful for that: Every once in a while, we all need to be reminded not to take ourselves too seriously. When I got home and told my wife the story, she laughed at me too. “Sounds like you’d do very well in the Caribbean,” was all she said.