Mr. Randon is Running

       By Shervin Ira Wood

The three of us stood almost at the back of the line. The people standing in front of us looked dark because of the brightness of the spotlight that was focused on the small white building at the top of the row.

 The faces of the people standing behind us lit up from the reflection ahead of them. There were some big people in the line but mostly the line was filled with children that were smaller and younger than us. They all looked hungry.

That’s why we were here. Mr. Randon had announced that he was running for election and somebody brought a printed leaflet to our house saying to come out tonight for the free food.

The other leaflet from Mr. Ubanks said that nothing in life was free and that Mr. Randon was a Jamaican black power man who was trying to take over the country.

 Philip’s daddy had told us that that is how fish get caught – by grabbing food in their mouth. But we still came because we wanted the cool drinks and sandwiches and because we had a plan.

Mr. Randon was at the head of the line greeting the big people. He was tall and skinny and blacker than a Ching Ching. His hair was short, scruffy and white, and he had a long white stringy goatee beard and wore thick round glasses. His black suit matched his skin and his white shoes matched his stubby hair and beard.

People said he was the smartest lawyer that ever came out of Jamaica. Philip’s daddy said that he was smart just for coming out of Jamaica. 

He was a real lawyer who had studied law in school in England. Most of the other lawyers on the island just opened offices and started being lawyers. He lived alone in the upstairs part of a small square concrete building with a silver zinc roof. People said that he had been married four times and that he grew rich each time and then ended up poorer than Job’s turkey again after each marriage ended.

 In the front of his house was a small platform porch with a railing and on one side was the staircase that ended two feet from the road in the center of town.

 To the right of his house about three hundred feet stood the Library and Town Hall and Town Clock and a few hundred feet to the left was the Post Office.

 Tall grass and bush covered the entire piece of land across the road in front of his house. That bush is where we planned to go after eating the free food.

The line was not moving because Mr. Randon was talking to someone at the front and the people started making noises. Then the children began coming out of the line and going past everybody and getting handfuls of sandwiches and filling their pockets with cool drinks.

 In about two minutes everyone was standing surrounding the two tables and grabbing the free food. There was no more line. Mr. Randon and the man he was talking to still stood where the front of the line had been, and did not seem to notice that the people were crowding around the tables. 

 But by the time we reached the tables there was nothing left to eat on it. My belly started growling because I knew there was no more cooked food left at home.

"Going to eat up Mr. Randon's food". I had told my older brother when I was leaving. He liked to eat, so he had quickly eaten my share and now the children and big people here had gobbled up all of Mr. Randon’s free food. So I had no supper to eat tonight, but I did not care because I was used to going to sleep hungry anyhow.

We just found a place to sit at the edge of the road and waited for Mr. Randon to begin his speech. The people kept milling around the tables even though there was no more food to get.

One old man arrived with a smoke pot even though there were only a few mosquitoes. I was relieved that there was no Police in the crowd, because that could mess up our plan.

 On the side and near to the front of the upstairs building was a big sign made of red letters: “Vote for Karl R. Randon” it said.

In front of the house and above the platform was Mr. Randon’s main campaign slogan in big black letters: “A Chicken in Every Pot”. To the left was a smaller slogan “The Three Year Marriage” and to the right was the third campaign slogan “New Fire Trucks”. 

A few people started to leave and I said to Philip “ Maybe there is no meeting”. Gus sat on the other side of me, and as usual he was very quiet. Gus was bigger than me and a lot stronger. He could run faster and pelt further and straighter than Philip and me.

Mr. Randon must have seen that the people were leaving because he stopped talking to the man and started waving his arms and saying to everyone: 

"Meeting starting now. Meeting starting now", he kept turning around and repeating it loudly to everyone, and the people came back and stood up against the barbed wire fence and faced the meeting.

We left our bicycles where they were leaned up against the fence posts across the street and a little way down from Mr. Randon's house. We walked where the people could not see us anymore and then we climbed through the barbed wire fence and made our way through the bush and back towards the meeting.

The glow from the light on the building made it was easy for us to find the three large clumps of bush that we would hide behind. We had found these earlier that afternoon when we were gathering our ammunition. We could see the backs of the people clearly in the reflection and Mr. Randon could be seen at his podium at the top of the stairs.

“Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen” he started with his proper British accent.

“I appreciate you all coming out to this my first political meeting in this election”.

“Tonight I shall address three issues that are causing a lot of problems to this society. Those issues are marriage, the high cost of food, and the lack of good fire trucks”.

He really sounded very British for a Jamaican. Philip’s daddy had told us that the only thing that his four British wives left him with was their Limey accent and the stubs from his checkbook.

“The first issue is the alarming rate of divorce and the high costs of divorce to the men of this country” he said in a strong voice.

A woman in the crowd shouted something back at him but I could not hear what she said. It must have been something that was not so nice, because he hesitated for a moment.

“Well not just the men. But the women as well” he continued.

“When people get married, their vision is clouded because their emotions are very strong. They think they are in love with each other and that it will last forever”.

“But alas. As we all know that is not always the case, and a high percentage end up getting divorced and fighting each other for years”.

The crowd was silent and Mr. Randon continued.

“I have the answer to this problem and if I get elected I will propose a solution that will end this problem forever”.

“Tell us the solution”, a man in the crowd shouted, sounding drunk.

“The first law that I will enact when I get elected, is the three year marriage law” he continued.

“When people get married they cannot say ‘till death do us part’ – that is so yesterday, and so1950’s”.

 “Instead it will be a three year contract that is renewable when the three years are up. The parties simply go to a lawyer and renew their marriage contract.”

“If one party misbehaves, they just don’t get their contract renewed”.

“No fuss! No fighting! No disappointment! Nobody goes broke!”

Some men started clapping but the women were quiet.

“Ready?” I said to Philip and Gus. We bent down and picked up our rocks from the heaps by our feet.

“One… Two… Three”.

When the marl rocks hit the zinc roof they made three loud bangs and Mr. Randon ducked and looked surprised. He regained his composure very quickly and he must have thought that the crowd really liked his idea, because he started smiling and clapping his hands.

“Hold” I told them, as Mr. Randon stopped clapping and everything got quiet. He looked very happy that his suggestion must have pleased his future constituents.

We hid behind the bushes and waited for our next round of pelting.

“And now!  The high costs of food that we all are forced to pay in this country!”

“The merchants are getting richer and the poor people are getting poorer!”

“This is not right!”

“Government needs to intervene to make sure children don’t starve to death from lack of food!”

The people cheered and clapped their hands.

“I know people are going hungry because just look at those two tables” he said, pointing to the two tables where the free food had been.

Someone in the crowd booed.

“When I get elected I will remove import duties from chicken feed and imported chickens!”

“When I get elected!” He paused for a bit and then shouted boldly:

 “I will order the merchants to give one free chicken per week to every family on the island!”

The people started cheering loudly and clapping. Mr. Randon was clapping wildly himself and waving at the crowds. He seemed to be enjoying the applause from his eager audience.

“One… Two… Three”.

A barrage of marl rocks rained down on the zinc roof of Mr. Randon’s house. Some of them crumbled when they hit the roof and bits of marl and rock rolled down off of the roof and sprinkled unto Mr. Randon and the street below.

Mr. Randon looked up towards his roof and he had a puzzled look on his face. The people kept clapping and cheering loudly but the sound of rocks hitting the roof made a louder noise. Then Mr. Randon put his hands as a sign for the people to quiet down.

“Halt!” I whispered to Philip and Gus and we hid behind the bushes again. Our pile of rocks was half done.

Mr. Randon put his hand up to his eyes and peered over the crowd towards the bushes where we were hiding. He could not see us but we could see him. He looked concerned but he was still smiling as if this was all expected. Maybe he thought his followers were very enthusiastic and over-excited. He brushed some of the white marl sprinkles off of his black coat and began again.

“This country needs fire trucks!” He started in this new topic with his most polished British accent.

“One… Two… Three”.

“Get him Gus,” I whispered.

We started rapid-fire pelting at Mr. Randon and his podium and his house and housetop. Mr. Randon just held unto his mike and tried to protect his face with his hand.

Then he seemed to lose his composure and must have forgotten his refined British accent. He started pointing at the bushes and cursing in the worse Jamaican patois that I ever heard.

“Hunna Likkle Bastads!  Hunna Likkle Bastads!”

The crowd turned to peer into the bushes and we started pelting at them too.

They ate all of the free food I thought to myself as I took aim at the fattest and tallest of the big people.

 Then Mr. Randon flew down the staircase and was coming towards the fence and the crowd started climbing the fence to come at us.

 The man with the smoke pot threw it in the bush and when it landed a fire blazed up. Everybody was shouting and screaming and coming towards us in the bush.

“Run”.

“Lets get outta here” screamed Philip, and we shot through those bushes faster than poor old cripple Miss Vienna had moved the time they put cow-itch on her.

The next morning early we got our bicycles.

Later that day Philip told us that his Daddy said Mr. Randon was no longer running because Mr. Randon is a Jacun and this island is not Jamaica.

Somebody also told Philip’s daddy that some little bad boys had pelted Mr. Randon and started a fire in the bushes by his house.

The grass piece burnt down because they could not get the old fire truck started.