Night Time is Grave Time

It was a rare thing to see two women digging in the same garbage can at the same time. Rare and almost impossible to do, but there they were, on a very important mission. Like their lives depended on it, because it did. In the back alley of the market place, next to the big drain that overflows every time rain fell, Flamingo and Trix were searching for their next meal.

“We should sleep in Tunapuna cemetery tonight. The food there will be a feast you never had,” Flamingo said to Trix. She pulled out a banana peel and peered into the empty skin, before tossing it back into the trashcan.

“No, San Juan is the cemetery to be sleeping in tonight. Last year I was fed good, good,” Trix replied.

“No, Arima we should sleep,” Flamingo said.

Trix watched her search her matted curls to stick a hairclip she found. Her thin fingers struggled to part the remaining hair she had and she stuck her tongue out for concentration.

“We should stay here in Curepe,” she said when Flamingo finally got the hairclip in.

It did nothing to enhance her appearance but it was blue and matched perfectly with the washed-out blue thin-strapped dress she wore. Besides the dress, she wore a white tall socks on her left foot and a purple striped short sock on her right.

“We are in Tunapuna, you nut,” Flamingo said to Trix.

It was tradition, an All Souls and All Saints tradition. Every year while millions trick or treated around the globe, the population of Trinidad treated the Graves. Instead of candy and costumes, they had wine and well-oiled dishes.

The Halloween parties were hanging out at the local bars, drinking alcohol, getting into drunken brawls, and passing on the nation’s roads.

As the night set in the real gathering began. The locals in each village put on their best wear, black or white, and carried the candles that they had catching dust down the streets to the cemetery.

The local bars enjoyed this time because it meant more drinking which in turn meant more money. Flames of fire lit up the immediate path and humming could be heard coming from the various cemeteries.

Many families brought meals, plates with potatoes, chicken, and greens wrapped in foil and bottles of cheap wine. By midnight almost every Grave was cleaned, lit up and food was served. By morning it was gone, replaced with empty plastic scattered about the cemetery, broken glass, and candle wax that melted on the concrete and dirt.

The flowers were trampled and it stayed so until the street cleaners came to do their job the next week.

“There are three things that never get satisfied,” Trix then said to Flamingo, holding up her forefinger before putting it down.

She pulled out an old shoe, sticking her finger in it then trying it on her feet. The boot was three sizes too big and she handed it over to Flamingo. It would never fit Flamingo because her feet were two sizes smaller than Trix which meant the boot was five sizes bigger.

Yet, she still tried it on. The boot consumed her foot and she stood in it.

“Something, something, and the Grave,” the woman continued, pausing with her pudgy arms on the rim.

Trix stared in Flamingo’s direction, looking down the alley, and squinting. The area took a sharp turn and the place was lined with garbage cans. It was a regular place of feasting because of the market vendors.

“The Grave is always hungry, huh,” Flamingo said and pausing from her search, rubbed her exposed belly trying to soothe the ravenous growl. “Always hungry like us.”

They both stood, arms on the rim of the trash can looking ahead.

“On Mr. Robert’s grave they put a plate of fried chicken,” Trix said.

Her focus drifted off and a blank stare plastered across her face.

The memories of Mr. Roberts and Big Brown stealing the neighbor mangoes to sell in the market filled her mind. She used to chase them with a big bamboo stick that her father had drying in the backyard. And no matter how much she chased them away they came every year during fruit season and stole the neighbor’s mangoes.

“Ham and cheese sandwiches in Tunapuna was what I ate,” Flamingo said.

“Ham and cheese is nothing compared to fry chicken and chips.”

She licked her lips showing her toothless smile. The faint smell of fried chicken that filled the air caused Trix's stomach to roll and a little way off an employee was seen opening the backdoor to the alley and dumping a black trash bag.

Flamingo then pulled out a half-eaten sandwich with its sausage falling out and the lettuce soggy and dripping from a spilled soft drink. She stuffed the sausage in her mouth and tore the sandwich in half and handed it to Trix.

“No, but at least I got ham. It was not even Christmas,” Flamingo said and she sunk her teeth in the bread. She chewed and in two bites the sandwich was done and she continued digging through the bin.

Trix shook her head and took her time with the sandwich. She took small bites chewing 32 times because she only had a maximum of ten teeth in her mouth. She was at least ten years older with gray patches peeking out from under the head tie she wore.

Her clothes were long and plentiful. There were the rainbow-colored pants with three patches and two gaping holes, the halter top that stopped right under her bosom, the maxi dress that was no longer a maxi but mini dress with a huge rip down the back, and the over-sized coat made from fake animal skin.

There was the soiled cardboard that hung on her back fastened by an old bag strap and pieces of cloth. It was an accessory she never left behind and it served as her bed which she did not share with Flamingo. It was also the occasional umbrella unless she felt for a bath and a chair for when she was tired of walking.

“There is an old legend,” Trix started but was cut off by the loud honking in the main street.

Though the alley was behind the market the main street ran parallel to the alley street and they could see every car, maxi, and person that passed. The day was winding down nicely.

The market vendors calling out, shouting at their patrons, begging them to take the last goods so they could return home to prepare for the parties that night. It was the best time to lurk around the market because everything was on sale.

They threw in two and three extra goods for the same price. Though the goods were old and wrinkled, if you looked properly you could have gotten a great bargain.

Many locals knew that and they filled the isles, clad in their $150 dollar pumps, tight skirts, and fake designer bags.

“Baked potato pie and gravy,” Flamingo said zoning in on Trix. “Only in Tunapuna.”

A microphone came on shouting, “Everything must go. Sale, Sale, Sale.” There was always a sale on the market streets. Buy one get one free. 50% off all items or Trix’s favorite, buy one and get the other for half the price.

“In San Juan cemetery I got ham, baked potatoes, and macaroni pie last year. And the year before that I ate turkey with corn pie. I even got a little wine.” Trix stepped away from the trashcan to chase Gringo, a small stray dog.

They had named him Gringo after they found him digging up the dirt around a cemetery plot of a man nicknamed Gringo. Flamingo had decided to throw a few rice grains for the mingy dog from the food she had gotten from an old man. That was a year ago and ever since, wherever Flamingo and Trix went Gringo was not too far behind.

He looked like an old brown carpet that had been left out in the rain and he was whimpering, sniffing around the trashcan at the end of the alley. Trix continued to chase him but he didn’t move an inch. He looked at her pulled his lips back and showed Trix his teeth, wagging his tail.

“This is all your fault. If you didn’t feed him at that cemetery we would not be here chasing him everywhere.”

She tried once again to shoo the dog away and he took a few steps back, far enough to be out of harm’s way but not out of sight. Trix picked up a nearby bottle and the dog bolted.

“He’s a little hungry doggie like us,” Flamingo said.

She walked across to the next garbage can and pulled a white Styrofoam box peering into it. The grease stuck to the box staining it and Flamingo passed her finger and licked it. Trix joined her bending down and picking up a coin next to the can and stuffed it in her small pouch.

That was another item she never went anywhere without. It was slung over her shoulder and rested at her waist and was hidden from sight, inside the coat she wore. The Arima dump had many valuable items, lots of coins that weighed down the majority of the pouch she had as well as some one-sided earrings and old batteries.

She made the trip to Arima once a month closer to the end of it when the old stock was being shipped out to make space for the new ones. On the last trip, she found a trolley that was now parked at the side of the alley wall with a majority of bottles she would be selling to the bar owner.

Flamingo riffled through the can, eating scraps from old KFC boxes and chewing the bones to pieces. Gringo popped up behind a black plastic bag, easing himself towards the pair. Flamingo caught sight of him and her eyes trailed to where Trix was standing. She was riffling through her trolley, carefully packing items.

She waved the dog over, throwing the chewed bones scraps to him. “Don’t let Trix see you,” she muttered, and as if the dog understood he jumped down in the small drain and hid behind the trashcan.

“I told you to stop feeding that mingy dog,” Trix said making Flamingo jump. She popped out, her hands on her hips, and gave her a glare. The dog whimpered, cowering in the drain when Trix came over him.

“Leave him alone. He did nobody anything.”

Trix huffed in annoyance and picked up the empty glass bottle that was standing next to the drain.

“San Juan cemetery has corn and coleslaw with your fried chicken,” Trix said. She drained the bottle in her mouth and looked at Flamingo.

“But BBQ chicken with potatoes is found a lot in Tunapuna.”

Flamingo watched as the last dregs of beer fell into her mouth and Trix shook it vigorously. Trix walked across the trolley and brought it near. She piled a few cardboard boxes that were lying on top of a black bag into the trolley.

She pushed it forward, the rickety wheels sticking in every crack in the road.

“So where are you sleeping tonight?” Flamingo asked Trix. She halted the trolley and looked at her.

“San Juan cemetery, that’s where I will be.”

Then Trix pushed her trolley onto the main street, pausing for the oncoming traffic to slow down then quickly ran across the road. Flamingo on the other hand moved to another trashcan with Gringo on her heels.