Ya Ma, Bui!

The hopes and dreams of many are religiously shattered every year on the third Monday of September; the annual layoff day during the resort’s dry season. This season, like the summer air, is exceptionally dry due do the crippling effects of the pandemic, the constant turnaround of sick staff, the constant negative reviews because of the power outages, Hubert Minnis being the Prime Minister this term, Jesus leaving Earth, Eve eating the forbidden fruit, and so on. 

On this day, the sun’s merciless rays shine brightest on Dante as he makes the dreaded walk from the Poseidon’s Table Restaurant parking lot to the Human Resources office. He is one of the one hundred and fifty-seven people who received… the call. His slender body slinks from one patch of shade to the next with an agitated quickness. Despite his efforts, the heat continues to shoot arrows at his blackened skin. Dante was one of the (un)fortunate applicants who applied for the resort’s New Year hires. There are approximately forty-five each year, in accordance with the new government administration’s “Start The Year New” initiative; an initiative that required organisations with one thousand employees or more to hire at least twenty-five contract workers at the beginning of each calendar year. This seemed like a good initiative, considering the fact that unemployment rate was climbing to about forty-two percent, even before the pandemic, but those sneaky managers added a hiring clause at the end of a thirty-two page contract stating that the New Year hires were subject to layoffs without cause in the first year of employment if necessary. Fortunately for the managers—and unfortunately for workers like Dante—Bahamians do not read. 

The steps seem to extend and contract as Dante walks closer and closer to the door. He struggles to walk in a straight line: the heat is overwhelming him. Lucky for him, before he misses a step and falls, a sudden, intense wave of sorrow escapes from the door in front of him. A female worker emerges with all of her personal belongings in one clenched hand and a crumpled piece of paper in the other. She looks through Dante and zooms past without realising that she has pushed him out of the way, but although he recovers his balance, he seems to be in a trance. He does not react, for he knows that he is about to receive the same fate. 

He hesitates as he pushes the door, but forces himself through. A gust of cold air envelopes him. This feeling would usually comfort him after a long shift in the hot sun, but today, it only makes his body warmer. He slithers past the receptionist without greeting her. She is dumbfounded by this, considering the fact that he greets her every time he enters the building.

“Young man!” she says firmly.

Dante stops in his tracks. 

“Mornin’ mornin’ mornin’.”

”Don’t ‘mornin’ mornin’ mornin’’ me, sweet boy. What happened to you? Why you look like so?”

“My bad, jhred.”

“Ine no “jhred”, boy. Ise “ma’am” to you” she says snarkily. 

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says with an expressionless face, “I need to see Mrs. Yvette.”

“You get the call?”

Dante sighs while avoiding eye contact. The receptionist finally understands.

“Chin up, sweet boy. Go ‘head.” she says softly.

He walks away without uttering a word. He cannot bring himself to do it. He managed to walk away before she could ask him if he was alright. He knows that the dam will break if anyone asks him that right now. 

He approaches the office of Mrs. Yvette Powell, the current head of Human Resources, and as he is about to knock on the door, he notices that there is a sign on the door which reads: “THE DAY BECOMES BRIGHTER WHEN YOU SMILE.” In the periphery of his vision, he notices a security guard standing about fifteen feet away from the door. He knows why the guard has been placed there. He involuntarily kisses his teeth out of aggravation. Unfortunately, Mrs. Yvette hears him while sitting in her office.

“You better be sucking the grits out ya teeth, whoever that is out there!” she exclaims from behind the door.

Dante realises what he has done and releases a stressful sigh and gives the door two restrained knocks before entering.

”Mornin’ mornin’.” he says softly while gently closing the door behind him. 

“Hey, Dante.” she says with a soft smile, “How ya doin’?”

“Good… good.”  

He sits down in the chair facing her and she stares back at him from behind her desk. She gives him a look that says “It’s not me. It’s the higher ups. Don’t shoot the messenger.” He looks at her with intensity, and before she has the opportunity to speak, he notices a cardboard box behind her with a red Adidas jacket on the top of it; the same Adidas jacket that he came to work wearing this morning. She has clearly already cleaned out his employee locker. He covers his face with his hands and sighs deeply. Mrs. Yvette waits patiently for him to collect himself. After about ten agonisingly silent seconds, he slowly removes his hands from his face. His eyes are glassy. Mrs. Yvette gives him a pitiful look.

“You got the call.” she says softly.

Silence.

“You have eleven unexplained absences on your record. Can you tell me why that is?”

Silence.

“All absences either on Monday or Friday. Why’s that?”

Dante shrugs and says nothing. He suddenly begins to regret the nights that he spent drunk at Thirsty Thursdays at Vipers Strip Club and the Sexy Saturdays at Sugar Hill Lounge, not because he is about to lose his job, but because if he knew that he was going to lose his job, he would have spent his money at Cheetaz Strip Club instead. It’s the only strip club that has Cubans, and those Brazilian Butt Lifts look real… so so real. 

“Dante Rolle. Unfortunately, the Atlantis Resort has decided to terminate you effective immediately. Due to these unexplained absences—

“I know twelve other niggas on my team who missed more days than me. How come Ise the only one gettin’ the call?”

Silence.

“Vano, Cardo, Reese, Jefferson, all them niggas. And y'all call me?”

“Dante—”

“And Reese was beatin’ the breaks off Keisha in the locker room and I know y’all did see fuckin’ that.”

Mrs. Yvette hesitantly puts a thick document in front of him. She flips to the last page and points to the final paragraph with her finger.

“You’re a New Year hire, Dante. Did you read the contract?”

“So whatchu sayin’ is, niggas who been here longer than me could get away with murder and y’all ga let me go over a couple call outs?”

“Eleven, Dante. Eleven! That’s the equivalent of more than two weeks on the job. You only get ten vacation days a year and you managed to use them all in the first half of the year! You never requested paid time off, you never sent an email, you never even gave me a quick call, Dante. What did you expe—”

“Ine hearin’ all that!” he exclaims while viciously grabbing the paper in front of him. He haphazardly rips the document to pieces. The paper covers the ground below him. He abruptly stands, which startles Mrs. Yvette. “So Angelo could take two week vacations every other month to go around sweetheartin’, but y’all let me go? So Mya could steal tips from the bar but y’all gin let me go? Tina could yell at tourists and make a lil girl cry, but y’all lettin’ me fuckin’ go? No, bui. Y’all can’t be fuckin serious.”

His restrained anger can no longer be contained as he recalls the misconduct of his former colleagues. He reaches for the chair he was sitting in and throws it at the adjacent wall. Mrs. Yvette screams, prompting the security guard to barge through the door.

“Hey, hey, hey! What’s the problem Mrs. Yvette?”

Mrs. Yvette hastily grabs the box containing Dante’s paraphernalia and rushes over to the security guard. She avoids any eye contact with Dante and trembles as she hands the box to the guard. 

“This is his stuff. Escort him out please.” she says to the guard. She looks over to Dante who, despite the cool temperature of the room and the blackness of his skin, appears to be red hot. “Dante… I need you to leave my office. I’m so sorry.”

She cautiously approaches Dante in an effort to console him, but he pushes her out of the way. She stumbles and falls, her hip hitting the side of her desk. 

“Lord Jesus, Father God!” she exclaims with a painful moan. 

The security guard becomes enraged at the site of a woman being manhandled by this disgruntled employee and promptly drops the box of items on the ground in order to restrain him. 

“Let’s go, bossman.” says the guard in an overtly irritated voice.

“Whatchu ga do?” Dante asks proudly.

“Listen, bui. You outta order” says the guard in a menacingly calm voice.

“Ya ma outta fuckin’ order.” Dante murmurs under his breath.

“Whatchu say bout my mummy?!” yells the guard.

The guard tries to restrain Dante, but he pushes the guard away. 

“Ya ma deep, ocean-wide, soggy cunny outta fuckin’ order, bui! Ya big pussy!” Dante exclaimed. 

The guard ambushes Dante and gives him a strong right hook to the jaw. The two men find themselves in a fist fight, unaware of the mildly injured Mrs. Yvette who managed to sneak past them and call for backup. Two other security guards rush over to the office and separate the two men. The first guard seems to be fine, but Dante’s lip is swelling and he is beginning to develop an unsightly black eye. 

One of the new security guards motions to Dante to follow him out of the office. The guard puts his hand to his lip to signal to Dante that he must not say another word.

”Bui, fuck fuckin’ you, bui.” Dante says, blinded by his adrenaline and unaware of how aggressive he sounds. 

The guard motions for him to follow once again and he finally complies, but not before he shoots the large clump of spit, snot and blood he has gathered in his mouth at the shoes of the guard who punched him. The guard, who has been restrained by one of the other guards who came in, lunges forward while yelling an obscene amount of slurs at Dante, but all in vain as Dante walks out of the room without looking back. 

…

Later in the afternoon, Dante finds himself at one of the tourist bars on the hotel premises, drowning his sorrows in warm Kalik beers. The setting sun shines through the golden liquid in the bottle and the liquid shines soft rays of light into his one good eye. He sighs and stares at the bottle as he replays the scene at Mrs. Yvette’s office in his head. Maybe, he could have just asked more questions. Maybe, he could have come up with a plausible explanation for his absences. Maybe, he should have walked away peacefully. Maybe—

“This the last one I givin’ you, boss.” says the bartender as he hands Dante an opened bottle of Kalik, “Ya done had seven. First two was on the house since niggas fire you, but you gotta pay for the rest.”

”Yah, bui. Thanks.”

”Yah, bui.”

“Oh, here.” the bartender says while handing Dante a plastic bag full of ice. “You gin need that more than these hot drinks need it.”

Dante sighs and presses the bag against his swollen eye while downing the eighth bottle of beer. He is unaware of the young man who is sitting next to him and staring at his disfigured face. 

“What’s going on with your face, bro?" the man says while sipping on a mixed drink.

Silence.

“Where’d you get all them scars from?”

The man appears to be a member of the unseasoned race and sounds as though he is from a state in the Bible Belt. 

“Check ya ma deep cunny. Das where I get them from.”

“My what?” says the man, genuinely perplexed.

Dante kisses his teeth and resumes the rhythm of icing his face and drinking his beer; icing, drinking, icing, drinking. The tourist huffs and slowly walks away from the bar without saying another word. Dante looks over at the man as he walks away and wonders whether he should have explained what actually happened. Maybe, it might have been good to tell the story, to talk to someone about it and get some sympathy. Maybe, it would have helped to sober him up, but the conversation ended before it could even begin. Clearly, there was nothing to be said. 

But, in the wake of Dante's meaningful introspection, he remembers that it is Make A Baby Monday, and Prime Time Lounge is having a drink special; one shot for one dollar! After he pays his bill, he will have exactly six dollars and fifty-two cents left. He can get six shots and at least one half of an extra shot with that fat wad of cash. This dreaded day might not be so dreaded after all.