“Being West Indian matters?” Ian asked.

“Not anymore. But I must admit that it used to.

“In some ways it makes things easier though. It adds another set of shared assumptions. Y’know … you don’t have to explain certain jokes and you might have similar expectations of how you should act and how you should raise children and that kinda thing. But no … being West Indian isn’t so critical to me anymore. Today everybody has to step outside themselves and learn about other people, other ways of thinking.”

“I can’t believe you used to be so stupid,” Ian said. “To limit yourself to one kinda pussy like that.”

“I never said I used to limit myself,” Fire said, bitingly. “And it’s not a pussy thing. And I’ve already said it was a foolish thing to say.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“Well I meant to.”

“So why you getting so hype?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. I can hear it in your voice.”

Fire was annoyed now, but he didn’t show it as he gave his explanation.

“I used to feel that way, because to me West Indian women were my mother, my aunts, my cousins, my teachers, the first girls I fell in love with. And so I was drawn to them in a special kinda way, even after living abroad and traveling the world.” Then he felt something unraveling inside him. “But why do I have to explain this? Isn’t this how most men feel about the women that raised them?”

Ian shrugged.

“So when you stopped thinking this way?”

“I can’t remember exactly. Some time in my twenties, I guess. At college.”

Ian chuckled.

“When you start to fuck whitey?”

“That has never been my style. You know that. There are boundaries that still remain.”

They became quiet for a while as they attacked the corn and listened to Shabba. There must have been about ten cobs on the fire, and they were all gone in less than thirty minutes.

Out of the blue, Ian began to laugh. Fire looked up from his cob and asked him what was up.

“Boy,” Ian said, “just listening to Shabba right now I just got a mental picture of him face when him come.”

Fire burst out laughing and sprayed Ian with spit and corn mash.

“Is awright, man,” Ian said, wiping his face with his shirt-tail. “Is awright. But seriously,” he continued, “if your woman have a fling with Shabba it wouldn’t make sense take her back. Shabba woulda blow her engine and twist her chassis. Oil woulda start seep inna her crankcase.”

Fire was cracking up. Ian was on a roll.

“Bwai, Fire, me woulda love borrow Shabba wood and just walk down de street wid it out and terrorize women. Just frighten dem.”

“Ian, and you say me talk plenty fuckery?” Fire said.

“You think is joke, Fire? Me woulda love borrow Shabba wood. Cause me sure say Shabba wood is about twelve inches long.”

“Ian, nobody no have no twelve-inch wood! In any case what de fuck would a man do wid a twelve-inch wood?”