Robert Lalah, Assistant Editor-Features

It's getting pretty close to Christmas and, like any prudent shoes and sunglasses peddler, William Williams, who quite sensibly has been going by the moniker 'Billy' since he was a child, is making big preparations.

"How you mean, man? Den mi nuh mus prepare up fi di Chrismus? Mi nuh smaddy too? Mi nuh mus waan mek up some money too?" asked he in the shade of his small but well-built wooden stall along Constant Spring Road in St. Andrew. It was a Tuesday, and there were many potential shoppers walking around.

"Sunglasses, sunglasses! Clarke's shoes! Sneakers!" he shouted. Near to where we were standing, there were some huge speaker boxes and a man holding a beer bottle was rocking to the music blasting from them.

An elderly fellow was sitting on a rusty metal chair eating from a white container. There was a dog stationed nearby who jumped at the scraps of food thrown at him every few minutes. An Asian woman with pink and black highlights in her predominantly blonde hair walked up to Billy's stall and started looking at the shoes. "Mee can help you, no?" he said, slowly. I joined the woman by giving him a look of confusion.

Embarrassed

A vendor (left) sits by clothes for sale in Half-Way Tree, St. Andrew. - Rudolph Brown/Chief Photographer

"You want a shoes fi puts on you foot, no?" he continued, motioning to his feet with his hands. The woman looked at him blankly. "Mi a look a pair a boot, but you nuh have none," she said in thick patois that obviously surprised poor Billy. "Oh. No mi nuh have none right now, but by next week mi will have some," he said. The woman shrugged and walked away. Billy looked back at me, embarrassed.

"Anyway my youth, fi di Chrismus is just pure new stock. Mi a sell off di whole a dis and bring down some new thing fi di season," he said, smiling. The man who was dancing with the beer bottle beside the speaker boxes let out a loud yelp when a song he apparently liked, came on. "Oy! Tap yuh nise!" shouted Billy.

I said goodbye to him and walked further along the stretch. I came across a watch vendor who calls himself Pliers.

Now Pliers is not the most approachable of persons. In fact, you may be down right turned off from even glancing at his inventory because of the seemingly permanent look of disgust on his face.

"Mi nuh too skin teeth, for dem pickpocket and ol' hooligan dem will come try tek liberty. Mi a sell mi thing dem and mi nuh come fi labba labba wid a guy," said he. Pliers was wearing a handkercheif wrapped around his head, a black merino and green trousers.

I asked him how long he had been selling watches in that area.

Countryman

"Well mi is a countryman still. Mi rest inna Islington, but when Chrstmas time a come, den mi just come hustle a money inna town. Mi have pickney fi feed and woman fi mind, so wherever the money deh mi just haffi follow it," he said.

A tall man wearing a colourful necktie and brown loafers walked up to the stall. Pliers looked him over. "What you looking, boss?" he asked. "Nothing," the man responded, dryly. Pliers seemed to get even more upset.

"Den if you nuh want nothing, den wah mek you tan up in front a mi stall? Beg you move outa di way mek smaddy wid money get fi pass," he said in a loud voice. The man with the necktie walked away without saying a word.

I asked Pliers if he was able to make good money selling watches at Christmas time.

"Yeah man. Mi sell every kind a watch. Mi have digital fi di pickney dem dat can't read clock and some more expensive one fi di big people dem. Dat way everybody can get something right here," said he.

By now the sidewalk was getting cramped with potential shoppers and Pliers had little time for conversation. As I walked away, I heard him arguing with a woman who apparently took up a watch and put it back down.

"Den if you know yuh neva have nuh money, den wah mek you a touch touch up mi ting dem? Gwaan you ways!" he shouted.

robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com