An old man sat in a cracked leather armchair on an elevated porch cradling a porcelain cup in veined hands. On a side table, the water crackers topped with thin slices of butter arranged around the periphery of a matching saucer hardly seemed the handiwork of those hands. On the worn tiles next to him, a greying black dog was curled. The old man shivered and pulled the fraying robe tighter.

The old man's house was the oldest house on the lane. Its stucco walls were no longer clean and its shingled roof needed repairing. The porch, once open, had later been enclosed by wrought-iron grillwork, designed to look like clinging vines with small flowers. The white paint was peeling. This was his 80th year, and he'd been alone for the last seven. He seldom left his home anymore, and spent his days on the porch.

The sky was pale blue with clouds like stretched cotton. The sun was not yet warm, but the lane was already alive. A woman sat on the sidewalk outside the old man's house smoking a cigarette, a broom at her feet. There was a motley pile of leaves next to a rusting oil drum. She didn't get paid well, but who did nowadays. She chatted with the cigarette man, who was fixing a blue tarpaulin to his wood-frame stall. He sold other things too, and made a good living.

The old man remembered trying the herb, but it made him cough, and put him to sleep. He had stopped smoking cigarettes when his wife did.

A schoolgirl in a pleated purple skirt and a white blouse that seemed a size too small walked by on the other side of the street. The cigarette man hissed a greeting. The girl scowled and unleashed a phrase the old man had heard in one of those dancehall songs. When had music become so ugly? The old man remembered his wife's dancing shoes.

He couldn't see the newspaper man, but he knew he would be sitting under a beach umbrella at the far end of the lane, outside the wholesale. He sold only a few to the neighbourhood residents; most went to people who stopped their cars to buy one.

The lane was a bridge between the swank neighbourhoods on one side and the bustling commercial square on the other. The street was pothole-free and the sidewalks were wide enough. The old man made a point of marking the first 'uptowner' to pass through in the morning. For several years now they had started coming earlier and earlier.

He heard the engine, but it was coming from the wrong direction. It was a black BMW sedan, with black windows. He recognised the licence plate holder, silver mermaids whose flowing tresses met at the top and whose tails touched at the bottom. Bare breasts on display! The BMW stopped in the lane and a young girl the old man used to know stepped out. Loud, ugly music blared. She was brown and blonde and wore a pink 'b...yrider' (a distasteful word, the old man thought) and a white tank top. He couldn't see the other occupants of the car, but he knew who they were. The girl slipped on dark glasses and strutted in her high heels to her gate.

The sweeper woman cut her eye at her.

The cigarette man said nothing.

The girl opened her gate and walked past an emaciated dog with pendulous teats. The BMW drove off down the lane, the purr of its engine fading.

The old man scratched the neck of his dog, and the dog's hind leg kicked uncontrollably.

A dozen homes, a Pentecostal church, and a tavern bordered the lane. All were set back within low concrete walls, mostly dirty white, though one was bright purple and another was as blue as the house in enclosed. The old man used to have a clean white wall.

He had no time for the church, but he used to enjoy a whiskey at the tavern. His wife would pretend she hated bars, and had claimed she only went to keep him out of trouble.

The only graffiti on the lane said: "Gayness is ungodliness", spray-painted in black. It had been there for years.

The old man and his wife had met a homosexual once. He had seemed like a decent fellow.

The lane was now choked with traffic, bumper to bumper, extending out of sight. Horns bleated, blared, berated. Exhaust soured the morning air.

The old man knew many of the drivers. There was the banker who only drove Benz; the attorney who defended the drug criminals; insurance lady, whose husband cheated on her; wife-beater, businessman, son of businessman. Windows up, air conditioning on, eyes focused on the cars ahead, heads tilted to their mobile phones.

The old man carried the cup and saucer inside. The dog followed him.

He returned with his radio and tuned in to a morning news show.

His wife had given him no children, but he had no regrets. They had been together for almost 50 years and he wouldn't have wanted to share that time with anyone.

Soon the madwoman would pass by, spouting her latest obsession. A neighbour would bring him lunch in a few hours - chicken back, rice, vegetables. He had saved enough to live respectably.

The West Indies had lost again.

There had been a murder in St. James.

The traffic would soon dissipate. The heat of the day would come.

The old man concluded it was too early to take a nap.

END

- Bruce Alexander