Commentary

Gordon Robinson, Contributor

Whenever Ernest H. Flower was at the domino game, you knew that a tall tale wasn't far away.

And so it was that night, as he grew bored kibitzing Gene Autry and me versus Dessie and The Beast. Regular readers remember Ernest, a young, lazy, incompetent articled clerk who earned the nickname 'Haemorrhoid' by a combination of his middle initial and complaints about "piles and piles" of work on his desk. As entertaining company but a domino novice, he wasn't allowed to play. Soon, Haemorrhoid was once again waxing lyrical about his apocryphal African experiences.

This time, his story began with Haemorrhoid, temporarily resident in Ethiopia, coming into ownership of a rare exotic bird. So uncommon was this bird, in fact, that its scientific specie name (a 'Rarey') reflected its singularity. However, it was a most expensive eater, only consuming a special type of birdfeed costing two arms, a leg and a testicle. Haemorrhoid couldn't afford to keep the bird, especially since his somewhat ditzy fiancée, whose beauty and obliging ways far exceeded her depth of thought, had misunderstood his use of that humorous caricature of his conundrum to mean that she was marrying a ridgling. She issued an irresistible ultimatum. There was no alternative but to dispose of the bird.

Rarey's homing instincts

That's when his troubles began. He discovered another of the Rarey's talents. It couldn't be disposed of. It had an ultra-sharp homing instinct so that it mattered not what he did, where he went, to whom he gave it away, the Rarey returned to Haemorrhoid's home within the hour. Eventually, he consulted a highly recommended, though somewhat dodgy exotic-bird specialist, contrarily named Conn Naught.

Conn researched extensively in World War I records (the bird was initially discovered in 1914) and, finally, after collecting a sizeable fee, he advised Haemorrhoid that the only way to dispose of a Rarey was to travel with the bird to the Grand Canyon in Arizona, put the bird in a wheelbarrow and turn the barrow over (with bird still inside) at the edge of the famous canyon originally carved out by the Colorado River. Conn deduced that the canyon's echoes somehow destroyed the bird's homing instincts.

So, Haemorrhoid set off on foot (no Rareys allowed on trains or planes) from Ethiopia, as part of a tribal convoy, across the continent to West Africa and then by boat to the good ol' US of A. After intense arguments with customs officials, for whom a Rarey was a hitherto unseen rarity, he was allowed in. Then he travelled, by bus, to Arizona. Finally, months after leaving home, Haemorrhoid and the Rarey arrived at the Grand Canyon. He bought a wheelbarrow from the nearby seven-eleven and loaded it with the Rarey. He pushed the barrow almost to the edge of the Grand Canyon where he intended to turn it over when he was stopped by an old hillbilly who was vacationing at the historic landmark. "Hi y'all," the ol' timer drawled. "What've you got there? Dagnabbit! That there looks like a Rarey."

Exotic-bird expert?

Haemorrhoid couldn't believe his ears. Was it possible that he'd travelled all the way from East Africa only to find a hillbilly exotic-bird expert at the edge of the Grand Canyon? "Yes it is," he replied.

"Well, what're you gonna do with it?" asked the hillbilly. Haemorrhoid faithfully repeated his story and assured the hillbilly that he would be turning the barrow over as soon as he reached the Canyon's edge. "So, you've come all this way just to turn it over?" asked the old timer incredulously.

"Yes sir," replied Haemorrhoid respectfully.

"Doggone it!" retorted the old timer. "That's a long way to tip a Rarey!"The moral in this story applies to all Jamaicans engaged in tipping - a pastime more suited to cold-weather locations like Wisconsin. Tipping is best without witnesses or, generally, circumstances pointing inevitably to the culprit's identity. And a word to any itinerant pastor contemplating acting as chauffeur for accused drug lords/fugitives from justice. There's really no need to travel many miles to the local interior if all you intend to do at the end of that long journey is turn him over. Either tipping or turning over is easily accomplished at your friendly neighbourhood police station.

In Wisconsin, all tipping is done at night. And, despite the surreptitious requirements of the sport, it's something that, once you get the hang of it, you usually keep on doing it for heifer and heifer. Amen.

Peace and love.

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Feedback may be sent to columns@gleanerjm.com.