The Jamaican Ninja Bert!! Read online

  She could not out-wit Bert. He was too intelligent and too lie. Barefaced-lie, so she would never win. More tears were forming in her eyes. She kissed her ring and repeated her mantra for faith and strength. ‘For better or worse. God don’t make him kill me.’

  She looked in his eyes and all she was seeing was the man she fell in love with, Bert Kemp, the doctor she married, Dr. Kemp, her husband. Her marriage meant the world to her. Her vows were her bond. Through thick and thin, for better or for worse, Til death do us part.

  He looked like a sensible man in his eyes, she knew, or just could feel that he wasn’t a total goner, his sanity was close. She just had to stick in there and be with him, by his side. Fight the fight. She needed him there. But he was acting ludicrous.

  She disregarded what her sister and her mom said. He’s no goner; the sensible side is still alive inside him. She clung on to thin hopes of him returning to being Dr. Bert Kemp, back to normal; wearing his shirt and tie and getting out of her green blouse and tights, that he wore every day now, that he now called his ninja suit. He would wash it every now and again and sit in the sofa naked waiting on the suit to dry on the line. He refused to wear nothing else but his ninja suit.

  She snatched the plate towel out his hand and almost screamed at him,

  “I’m leaving you if you don't go to see the psychiatrist tomorrow.”

  “But watch yah! Babes . . . Mi a psychiatrist too. After none a dem boy deh, can't psychiatrist good like mi.”

  Marjorie took out her pearl earrings out her ears, rested them on the counter beside his neatly folded brief, and put both hands on her head. She wanted to shower, she remembered her sprain foot was wrapped in bandage; maybe she would just wipe up, tidy off herself since she was hot. She should be worrying about Bert disappearing and never return to the year 2012 but somehow she wasn’t worried. In a surrendering voice, she begged him,

  “Just one time Bert, please. Just allow the doctor to at least look into your eyes. That's all.”

  Bert was swift to snap back at her and her pitiful begging.

  “Save your money!”

  "What?”

  “You deaf? Save . . . You . . . Likkle . . . Money.”

  “What you mean? You going to see Dr. Arnold?”

  “Marj why a fi him name you bring up? You and Dr. Arnold always going to the gym together, Nancy seh uno always close a the gym. You a gi mi bun wid him through him chest thicker than mine and him have abs?”

  “No Bert! Stop talking foolishness. You going to see him tomorrow?”

  “A gone murder him one day, You want bet mi?”

  “Stop talking foolishness Bert. You seeing him no longer than tomorrow, tomorrow, right?”

  “Save your money.”

  “So I’m asking, you going to see Dr. Arnold tomorrow?”

  “No. But mi a go to see a psychiatrist tomorrow.”

  This was Marjorie’s first break through. The very first time she was getting him to agree to seeing a psychiatrist. God knows she tried persuading him countless times but he always refused adamantly, admitting that he didn’t require the services of a psychiatrist. Today was the first step, a day for her to remember.

  “Thank you. Thank you Bert.” She finally smiled her first smile.

  "No problem Marj. Mi ago psychiatrist mi own self.”

  Marjorie’s heart flattened a thousand times.

  “But . . . But Bert ---“

  He sailed a stop hand signal in the air, right up to her face and his nakedness swung and slapped on both of his thighs.

  “Shut up babes.” She shut up and was now listening to the honour roll, university graduate, Dr. Kemp. He continued to command,

  “Pass the mirror mek mi look inna mi eyes and tell you wha a gwaan inna mi head.”

  Marjorie stood still, her ‘good good husband gone good good mad’. It was slow but it was coming to her reality. She stared at him. Bert walked off to the bathroom, butt naked, his little bat-bat shaping like a little triangle, squeezing smaller as it came down toward his thigh. He was walking swift and boastfully.

  He stood in front the face basin, staring in the mirror and he saw that he had a problem. He shouted,

  “Marjorie! Marj! Mi see a wha a the problem baby!”

  CHAPTER 6

  CLIVEY NEED PILLS FOR SMALL CASE OF FLU

  “You not dying Mr…”

  “Yes. Mi a dead. Beg you a injection nuh please, Jesus loves you.”

  Clivey McFly had a small case of the flu, his temperature was a little higher than normal and he had a slight headache behind his eyes, just a minor one, that’s all. Nothing too big.

  But Clivey was impatient, he wanted to be better at the same time, so he did every Godly thing in his powers to cure the little flu. As usual, he went for his first option, to smoke a fat weed out his binoculars. It never helped. He boiled some leaf of life bush tea with a stalk of weed in it. It never helped. He boiled some chicken foot soup with a stalk of weed in it. That never helped either.

  He tried all of this in less than an hour and saw no results.

  He decided to go and visit the doctor about his slight flu. He went into the binoculars of weed he had, made up a bighead spliff, lit it up and headed out, thinking, mi flu affi get fix today.

  Dr. Meikle stopped writing, straightened up in her black leather chair, shoved an open file with Clivey’s name at the top further up on her desk, kept the pen in her hand then greeted him with a pleasant smile,

  “Good afternoon Mr. McFly.” Looking up from the file to her client’s face. She was bedazzled in curiosity as soon as her eyes were set on him, she asked,

  “What’s that you wearing around your neck?”

  “A binoculars.” Clivey answered, “A nuh one tie.”

  “Excuse me, a what?”

  “A binoculars my dear. Something I generally value. I hide my treasure inside it.”

  She stared at the hundreds of orange freckled spots swarmed around Clivey’s nose and perfectly sprinkled on his face. It was cute. He had light brown eyes and dark orange eyelashes. Her face was soft and she smiled, almost blushing. She realized she was staring too hard at his soft red lips and snapped herself out of it saying,

  “Ok. And I guess the cowboy hat you’re wearing means something too?” She smiled at him and twiddled with the pen in her hand.

  “Nuh really. Is the peacock feather a the side mi love.”

  Her whole demeanour changed. The soft look she gave him changed to an incredulous stare. After a second, she frowned and adjusted herself in her seat as if she was disappointed about something. She got stern.

  “Ok. Could you please remove your binoculars and cowboy hat so we can examine….”

  “No I can’t let you exam my binoculars or my peacock feather.”

  “Not them, you. Aren’t you sick?”

  “Yes, mi a dead.”

  She rested back in her black leather chair, rested one elbow on the hand-rest, the other hand on her neat and tidy desk holding a shiny black pen while she swung the chair slightly, side to side, waiting for him to continue speaking.

  But Clivey stopped in his tracks, right there so.

  He was done describing what happened to him. ‘Him a dead’. And that's it. With much professionalism, she urged him to give more details.

  “So . . . like what’s happening to you?” Her hand was gesturing as she spoke. She spun her wrist around and around, kindly signalling him to tell her more, something deeper. “Why you think you’re dying?”

 

  "Mi a dead fi true Man. Mi head a tear off. You see di whole a right yahso . . .” He used his index finger and ran it side to side across his forehead like a windshield wiper on high-speed, showing her where in particular on his head was tearing off. “Right cross yahso doc, di whole a dehso a tear off. And mi a cough pure blood, mi joints dem deh pon fire. Mi belly uneasy, mi dehydrated, mi little teely naah stand up and wha again? . . . Oh, and mi giddy bad, every minute mi giddy
. Mi giddy all right now, you nuh see how mi a spin?”

  Dr. Meikles had no idea Clivey was half mad. She took his complaints quite seriously. Clivey wasn’t smiling when he was reeling off the long list of problems that was wrong with him. He exaggerated them a tad bit and added one or two symptoms on top of his symptoms. Only to make sure he got a strong sedative for his problem that would provide him with relief right away.

  Plus as Bert would say, ‘A suh Clivey extra from long time anytime it come to pills, tablets or injections. Him extra bad.’

  “You not dying Mr…”

  “Yes. Mi a dead. Beg you a injection nuh please, Jesus love you.”

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “Yeah, by all means. Mi a one ever hot Christian.” Clivey admitted, “Pentecostal. If mi never have copper color mi woulda bleach out like mi pastor. Jesus loves you, you hear?”

  “Ok , I don’t get it, but yeah, Jesus loves me.” She scribbled down a scrap of information on a paper on her desk, raised her head then asked, “What kind of injection are you asking for?”

  “Any type as long as it strong.”

  “Mr. McFly….”

  “No. Just call mi Clivey.”

  “Mr. Clivey, ok. Let me run some tests then I’ll give you an injection if the needs be so. Ok?”

  “No. I want the injection first. You can run the tests later. On Christ the solid rock I stand.”

  “Yes Sir. On Christ the solid rock you stand but you’re not understanding me. In order to properly deduce your ailment and prescribe the appropriate medicinal dosage and treatment we must first run some tests.”

  “You a gwaan like mi a ask you for the biggest syringe and the longest needle. Mi ago pay fi it enuh.”

  “Poor thing. Mr. Mc . . . I mean Mr. Clivey, it seemed as the side effects is terribly affecting your head. We can’t just give you a strong injection Sir, it can kill you.”

  “Are you serious? You seriously not giving mi one likkle injection and mi a pay fi it?”

  “No Sir.”

  She folded her hand across her chest and rested back in her executive recliner chair. She had no smile on her face. Other sick patients were waiting.

  “We have to test you first. Do you want to do the test or not?”

  “No. Since mi can’t get the injection, can you please sell me six packs of the urine test please?”

  “Urinalysis”

  “Yes.”

  “Six?”

  “Yes lady. Mi have problem fi pee-pee. Mi mussi have urinary tract infection pon mi bladder.”

  She cracked into a smile. Maybe wondering how toxic he was he to need six.

  “My name is Ms. Meikle or Dr. Meikle. What brand?”

  “Any brand will do me just fine.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. Jesus loves you Ms. Meikle.”

  “Yes Jesus loves me Sir, but as in ‘you’ need all the urine tests?”

  “Not me alone! You mad? One a fi mi best friend too.”

  The nurse looked relieved, at least he was sane.

  “Him name Bert, it look like him belly pregnant, so him need a urine test too.”

  “Him? Bert is a man?”

  Trying to cut out Clivey’s crap, the nurse sharply asked,

  “Mr. Clivey, what symptoms do you have? I really don’t have time to waste.”

  Clivey took out a fifty dollar bag of weed and began unwrapping it.

  “Are you serious? You can’t smoke weed in a doctor’s office. Don’t you see the A/C is on?”

  “It can’t turn off deh mek mi just blow out da one yah quick?”

  “Listen to me. I’ve no time for games, it’s either you tell me what’s wrong with you, let me examine you or get out this instance.”

  Since he needed help, Clivey proceeded to dictate to her what kind of pill he needed.

  “Do doc, mi a beg you, gi mi one powerful pill. Mi can't manage dem breed a pain yah. Dem a mad mi. Mi forehead feel like mi a push out pickney through it.”

  His forehead was sweating in the A/C. Maybe he was actually going through some very severe head pain for real. Nodding her head and sympathizing with what hell Clivey must be going through, she replied,

  "Don't worry, I’ll see what I can do, but first I’ll have to at least run some tests on you.”

  Clivey didn’t want to be kicked out without getting the pills. He cooperated,

  "No problem that. You ago see seh mi a dead.”

  She escorted Clivey into the testing room. Clivey looked around and saw posters of naked people with body parts labelled. He saw a small white bed. He looked at her suspiciously. He knew he was sexy, he wondered what she was up to. Next, she asked him to sit on the bed and in a professional tone she said,

  “Ok now Mr. McFly, take off your pretty-pretty shirt.”

  “You bright eeh! Fi wha?”

  She looked at the ugly son of a brute and wondered why was he behaving like an idiot, was his Miami-vice shirt even still in style? In a firm but still professional voice she said,

  “I told you already, I want to run some tests on you to see if I can find out what’s wrong.”

  Clivey made up his mind he wasn’t going to have sex with her no matter how hard she tried but he wanted some strong pills.

  Unwillingly, he took off his colourful shirt. Dr. Meikles couldn’t hide the frustration as she let out a loud puffy sigh. She wanted to get this over quickly and done with Mr. McFly.

  She ran some tests on him. He had a slight temperature but not too high and a very strong smell of weed.

  She asked Clivey how he felt as she touched him on various parts of his body. Clivey was a big Christian. He didn’t believe in sex any at all, not even after marriage. Thirty-three and he was still a virgin as he’d always say to Bert, ‘Mi a gwaan hold the fort’. He observed her closely when her hand was lowering down close to his teapot, making sure she wasn’t up to any hanky-panky.

  He knew some of the doctors were tricky and molested patients all the time under the guise of testing, especially the gynaecologists, so he had a plan just in case she tried to make any advancement at him. He was going to smash her in her forehead with his binoculars. One serious konk, sure to leave a cocoa lump in her forehead.

  She didn’t touch it. She got off the hook he thought, narrowly saving her forehead from his original Porro-prism binoculars. Sex was disgusting to him.

  As she told him to open his mouth wide and say ‘ahh’, she realized that he didn’t have a strong smell of weed, he was weed.

  She asked him several medical history questions and some health questions too. Clivey tell lie about every single one. Even when the doctor pressed the top of a silver pen-like device and a light came on for her to look in his eyes and she asked Clivey to look up. Clivey locked up his eyes and said,

  "Mi caan dweet.”

  "No Man, Mr. McFly, it won't take five seconds, just open your eyes and look up towards the ceiling.”

  "Mi seh mi caan dweet. Tek di bright light outta mi yeye.”

  She squeezed back the top of the device and the light turned off. She dropped her hand to her side, breathed loudly again and insisted.

  “But I need to run the tests. Don’t you want me to see what's wrong, isn’t it that’s why you came?”

  "No. Mi nuh come fi do nuh test, test, test, test. Like mi a damn experiment. Mi come fi di pill dem. Some strong tablet mi want.”

  “But I’ve to know exactly what's wrong with you to prescribe the correct medication. Don't you think?” Clivey didn’t bother to answer the idiot. He just wanted the pills, fullstop.

  “Mr. McFly, please to open your eyes Sir, I don't have time to waste.”

  "Mi seh mi caan dweet. A tru you nuh know how mi yeye dem feel like dem a drop outta mi head. Dem feel like two rock stone, mi coulda barely open dem up fi come up yah this morning. Just gimmi di pill dem yaaw.”

  Dr. Meikles was not only frustrated, she was thrown aback by his comment. It didn't sound too right
ed to her. Obviously, his sickness was doing him bad. It was giving him hallucinations it seemed. She scribbled down her observations on her patient’s card that she had in front her on her on the white bed. Clivey gave a clear description of the pills that he wanted again,

  “Just prescribe your most powerful pill gi mi.” And to encourage her urgency he added, “Prescribe it before mi dead.”

  Dr. Meikles prescribed what she saw fitting for his illness. Her hand was flashing across the paper she was writing the prescription on. She stopped, looked up and advised him,

  "You won’t be able to drink any alcohol while on this medication, ok.”

  “Yeah Man, that criss, through mi a Christian, mi nuh really drinky-drinky.”

  “And you can’t smoke marijuana while you on it either.”

  "Mi nuh touch dem thing deh Man, mi cool.”

  The pills she prescribed were very expensive, big and blue. The prescription stated seven pills. Two pills were to be taken each day, one in the morning and one in the evening after meals until the pills were finished.

  Clivey checked Bert and asked him for some money because he only had fifty dollars in his pocket. He told him he needed the pills urgently or else he would die. Bert stole out Marj’s bankcard, withdrew the money and gave it to Clivey. Clivey went to Pharmacy and filled the prescription. He lay waited the pharmacist who filled his prescription for all seven pills to see when she was going for lunch. As soon as she left, he went back inside the same pharmacy and filled the prescription again. He simply told them that he didn’t bother to buy the prescription because he didn’t have enough money, so he went home to get it . . . Now Clivey had over one dozen pills and he was supposed to have only seven.

  Even though the pills were to be taken after meals, Clivey never bothered to eat. He was dying to take the pills.

  He rolled up a fatty-bum-bum spliff, opened his bible and read a verse out of St. John’s. Then he took seven of the pills. The pills were very difficult to swallow and they looked like short blue eggs. He took the pills one behind the other, lighted up a next big head spliff and went to sleep.

  He couldn’t sleep in peace to how he felt badly after he took the pills.

  Especially in his belly region. He fretted about his bladder. Clivey’s head pained him bad, bad whole day, cold sweat washed him from head to toe. The poor fellow didn’t stop seeing doubles and triples. That day was one of the worst day Clivey ever went through in his life.