Broken Record

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Leisure Beach

Doc is nearing retirement but reenergized doing medical missionary work in the dangerous inner city of Kingston, Jamaica.WI. Doc earns a new knickname as a volunteer team leader for a faith-based medical outreach organization working in the Caribbean .Doc meets a new patient, a damaged rasta "gangsta" drug dealer known as Jubey, whose tragic ordeal sets Doc on a different sort of healing mission when he is back in the United States.


Whenever prompted to  reset a password and /or create a new one,  Doc drew from a cache of  the ridiculous names of corner bars  or  stores  that he  had encountered  when delivering  primary care in some of  the poorest neighborhoods of Kingston.  He  might have combined   the names of  Jamaican establishments  like Jerk Heaven, Gangsta Grill or Bammy Bar  with his  latest car tag’s alpha-numerics. Occasionally, he  juxtaposed the  names of  neighborhoods where his mission  teams  had served, adding on the name  of the “Don”, the extant drug lord  and powerbroker there at the time. Those benevolent tough guys holding sway and swag in places called  Myrrhvilla   and Hellshire  always  had incongruous  gentle nicknames, like Jonty and Buffy - fun to morph into passwords like Bammybuffy, or JontyJerkoff.


Ferry was his  all time favorite shanty town which was  within breathing distance of a garbage dump. Global Healers, a non profit ministry always  held a two day clinic  there. For   volunteer like Doc, an academic physician from New York City,  it was the  most marginalized  of places  he visited  during what his first wife  had chronicled   as his “ do gooder phase”.  Therefore, ”Ferry smelly” became a frequent, unlocking password prefix   when combined with  one, or the other of his  two wedding anniversary dates.  The latter  six integer  suffix to his rhyme served to help him  to not forget that milestone date in any relationship.


Drug dealers and  men playing dominoes  on street corners were more  common than street signs in  the former British colonial residential style neighborhoods of Kingston gone to pot! Pairs of idle men and boys  could be found standing and playing  at garishly patterned game boards positioned at cocktail  table  height.  Lacking signage and   definitive GPS  directional cues, naive tourists might be tempted to navigatedt he slum maze at their own peril in search of Bob Marley’s beloved Trenchtown .While few  tourists ever dared to venture to the inner city ,Doc knew his way around the block.


The players  on the corner were not at work because there was  no work to be had.  Game  after game  was played outside the  corner bars in a ganga haze which escalated the  ennui  with equal intakes off  the humid  air and marijuana and  a chaser of Red Stripe beer.  On the opposite corners,  Rasta men  in matted  dreadlocks or  wool tams, or skinny boys in droopy drawers and unseasonable black hoodies  were engaged  in dangerous work.  Instead of slapping tiles on a board, these enterprising brothers were slapping glassine envelopes of heroin, crack cocaine or snack  baggies of buds  in a quick, magician’s sleight-of-hand and a deft  exchange of Jamaican  or American dollars, the latter  of which were preferred. .




Doc   had just seen his last patient for the morning and he was preparing to take a break after resetting his damn password again .He was waiting for the lockout time to elapse so he could gain access to a medical journal  he wanted to consult. ”Jesus  Christ,” he muttered. What was happening to his acute memory, the sixty year old wondered?

When creating  passwords, he could earn much stronger ratings from the password police  when he recalled  and used  the combination  names of  religious women he  had lived  in community with  while leading  these medical missions to Haiti  and now Jamaica. His wives had allowed him to travel there because these same nuns locked him in  the convent at night!



After unlocking his laptop and  regaining access to online medical websites, essential  resources to bolster his  clinical acumen  in the third world, he congratulated himself and took a break.  He  wandered  out  the back door, passing  the overflowing fifty-five gallon cauldrons of garbage festering in direct  sun, adding to the  already ”perfumed” air. There were four our men in competition standing at  two  brightly colored boards,  suspended between saw horses, playing Dominoes in the shade of a large tree.

He joined them in the   merciful shade and asked no one,“ Is it okay if I watch?”

“ Ya Mon, ya Mon,” he heard one mutter.

“Ya like to watch, huh, Doc?”

 Others  nodded their assent, keeping  their heads down as they   expertly   handled  the smooth tiles, slapping each  tile  down  with emphasis applied.

Selecting a better vantage  spot, deeper under the banyon tree  and, more importantly,  down wind from the fetid garbage stew, Doc  closed his eyes  and listened to the  game progress,  a rhythmic click ,click  click…slap  after slap,   the  dominoes landing one after another. There were small stones being deposited in the respective corners of the board, but Doc had no  clue as to  whether  or not this was a third world type of wagering  or a means of  keeping  score. Doc’s medical education was deficient when it came to game playing.


One of the players looked up and asked him

” Are you from Massachusetts, Mon?”

“No,” he responded, “New York.”

The Jamaican  pursued his questioning with  an angry  slap of a tile.

“Do you ever travel to Boston, Mon?”

Doc responded,“Yes, occasionally, for meetings. I have business there once in awhile.”  

Then, Doc added, ”My son is a commercial pilot based out of there  but I  don’t see him much.”


“I migrated. I migrated   there  to Boston when I was nineteen,”  a mulatto playing dominoes told Doc.

  Jamaicans with relatives  living abroad in London  or Brooklyn or elsewhere outside the West Indies  use that specific action verb …  to migrate; I migrated ; he migrated; they migrated . It suggests  one might leave or move, but  there was always a possibility to “soon come back”; that the movement away was  not  a permanent relocation.  Rather, it might be seasonal or have  some  expected cyclical pull.  However, for poor people seeking opportunities  foreclosed  to them  or unavailable in a poor country like Jamaica,  it  was sadly not always a  truism, especially if there was no compelling or economic reason to return home.


Growing bored , Doc went back inside to check on his  team. The waiting room was still chaotic and crowded and noisy with women and children; there were no  men in the  waiting area.  A constant stream of medical students shadowing their  supervising  physicians crossed the  waiting room to  the improvised  spaces  Doc  had  assigned for the purposes  of taking histories, “laying on of hands”,  and treating  and dispensing medications  for those patients presenting to  the free clinic staffed by American volunteer health professionals.


As  medical team leader, he went  to each provider encouraging, asking  and answering questions, and reminding them to keep hydrated,  to pace themselves and  break for lunch  when appropriate.  After his rounds, Doc took another cold water bottle, and stood outside under the metal  awning and turned on the heavy satellite phone Verizon had provided gratis for the  trip.  He hoped  he could divine a  strong signal in order to call his son.  The damn heavy  phone was  as much of a mystery to him as  was his son. 


A light skinned  Jamaican  headed in his direction and  joined him in the shade of  the overhang. They stood close, side by side, on the narrow stoop and Doc deferred his call, laying the heavy  phone on the railing.

“Gotta cigarette, Doc?”

”No, sorry, don’t smoke”, he answered . 

Hearing the Doc’s negative response, the older man pulled out a substantial  spliff and fired it  up. 


Doc and his group experienced  frequent and  unavoidable contact  highs  when working in  these clinical  outposts because of the pervasive  pot smoking. Regardless of whether or not the temporary  clinic was held  in  empty  school rooms recessed for  summer  or  in parish  halls or  community centers,  ganga was the elephant in the room. 


The community center ‘s yard where the strangers  met that day, was overrun with goats and scrawny curs depositing dog shit and goat pellets   everywhere; fecal material  now  sautéing in the eroded ground cover   and adding to the stench outside Doc’s pop-up clinic.


“ Do you soon  go home to Massachusetts?” the man  asked the American doctor.

“No,Mon. I live in New York, not Massachusetts.” Doc said, mimicking the Jamaican  patois.

“Do you ever get to Boston?” the man pressed on.

“Sometimes,” Doc reminded.


Doc’s inquisitor was staring imploringly at Doc with  one  droopy  eye which  further  exaggerated the  slight asymmetry to his facial  bone  structure.  Doc took him all in- clinically and critically.Doc thought the man  might be a prospective patient.



The man’s   steady, bloodshot gaze was  unnerving. The ends of short grey dreadlocks  were not well  constrained  inside the   man’s woolen  tam worn  in  the ninety degree heat and humidity.

 One or two  tips of salt and pepper dreads  had  escaped  from underneath the hat’s woolen perimeter giving the appearance of a flying critter about to escape the  beehive atop the man’s head.


 Doc rubbed his  own wet  head of short hair and thought what person in their right mind would wear a watch cap in the sweltering heat.

Doc invited the patient to come inside,saying to him,

“ It’s a little cooler inside,” 

“Do you want to see  or talk to  a doctor today?


Doc held the door open, and followed behind  his new patient  wondering  what else might be hiding or growing beneath the exaggerated, elongated wool snoods  worn by the  Rastafarian. Doc  was curious to get a history  from the male patient  of the day and discover whatever was  going on inside this man’s head.


In the examination room, Doc started a review of systems,  by asking ,” What brought you to clinic today? And, please tell me your name again.”

“Nathaniel Farrington. But, people call me “Jubey,” he said, spelling  out J-U-B-E-Y for Doc. He started to tell Doc in very faltering phrases that he had  bad headaches.

Doc took his patient’s blood pressure right away; it registered in the normal range.

“Tell me how long you’ve been having headaches? When did they start?”Doc asked, as he tested Jubey’s pupils’ reactivity to light.


Jubey's  history was then regurgitated  for Doc.  Jubey started out  his story saying that he   had  had two partners in  a business venture in Brockton, Massachusetts.  Together, he and his two  mates  had enjoyed  financial  success in an   expanding enterprise that was  flush with cash. They owned a record  store which also served as a discreet and  easily accessible distribution point for  another commodity they were spinning: street drugs.  Life was good and getting better for the three friends. Their newfound prosperity was short lived, however, when one of the trio  named Johnny Mitchell  got greedy and fucked them both. 

Jubey  underscored this saying, ”Doc, he was bad, bad Mon.  Bad to Jubey. He done  Jubey  and me Mon, Desmond, some terrible wrong  tings!”

Apparently, Johnny  Mitchell had not only withdrawn  the entire balance of funds on deposit in  their Boston bank account, but also had plans to flee the country.

 Johnny  Mitchell did  abscond to Jamaica, but not before taking the opportunity to  plant a  stash of  crack  cocaine in their other  partner’s apartment, and then alert  the narcs. The  tip off was an act of  cold revenge  Johnny  served up uniquely for Desmond  because Johnny had suspected Desmond was “hugging up” on his woman. 

The anonymous  call precipitated  a pre- dawn raid  of  the unwitting partner’s crib  and  a five year prison term for  the hapless Desmond Mitchell, no relation to Johnny Mitchell, and certainly no longer any friend or business partner to someone who had fucked  him over so badly.


Jubey  was  unemotional in relating the events to Doc up to this point.

 Doc thought to himself about how he now knew a “hellava lot of colorful gangstas.”


 Jubey went on sharing that  when he confronted  that rat fuck Johnny about the missing money   and his  damn  treachery  at  Desmond ’s expense,  Johnny  violently  exploded and brandished  a sizable gun which he put in  Jubey’s face. In  the ensuing struggle for the gun, Jubey and Johnny wrestled toward the  open door, tumbling outside onto the small deck. There, Johnny overpowered Jubey, 

“Then,that mother fucker shoved me offa  faw story balcony,“ Jubey said casually.

But, not before Johnny’s gun had discharged  and singed Jubey’s neck where Jubey was now pulling down his collar to  show Doc a purplish powder burn hickey and keloid.



Doc was engaged in active listening, not hurrying his patient’s story as he was  wont  to do at times. Rambling patients who were poor historians  were common in his New York private practice, but none so compelling as Jubey.  When Jubey  revealed that he had incurred a serious head injury,  in addition to  having numerous  back and facial  fractures,  Doc said, standing up  and thinking out loud, ” No shit, Sherlock”.  He  asked Jubey to take off his hat so he could examine his head and neck.


Jubey  reported he had been in a medically induced  coma for seven days as a result of his  four story fall. He only  remembered waking  up in the neurosurgical ICU  at Boston City Hospital, ensconced  in a full body cast,  his head immobilized in a metal halo screwed into his skull -ever so grateful to be alive but dying to scratch his nose.


“He don put the hurt on me Mon, that Johnny Rotten bastard.” 

“When did this all happen?”

“Back in the mid eighties.”


Jubey  said that he had a son whom he had never seen, and  to whom he  used to send money  every month until he lost track of the boy’s baby mother.  When the letters started to be returned to him unopened, Jubey had lost interest  when he fathered  other children by another baby mother  after he came back to Jamaica.


“ When you go to Boston, Doc, please, could you look for his mother, Nisha Clark to find my son?  She lived in Brocton, near Boston?” 

Jubey went on, “I’ve never seen ma boy.  He’d be about thirty.” 

“What’s his name.?” Doc asked.

“I don’t know, Mon. I  tole ya, never seed da boy. You gotta help me connect  to him, contact him.  I mean cause Jubey be gettin’ old.”



Thinking  how easy it was these days to stalk someone  on the internet, Doc said, “I will certainly try when I get home.”

“Jubey, would your wife want you to find him, or reconnect with  her for that matter ?” Doc probed.

“I dont know, Mon, I never knew de boy. Me not eve married to Nisha Clarke. She was a crack whore, but she gave me dat son …so she not all bad; she give me my boy. He lives in Boston where I  once had a record store.”


Jubey began  to tell Doc the  story  once again, in the same halting cadence, in  the same haunting recitation.  Word for exact word, sentence by sentence.

“I owned a record store in Boston.  I had two partners. We had a good business until….”


As Jubey  was repeating the traumatic saga to Doc, the physician  concluded that the resultant  traumatic brain injury that had accompanied a four story fall from the balcony might have permanently jammed Jubey’s “play” button - one Doc could neither  pause, rewind  nor turn  off.  He was a broken record, playing the same scratched groove in his  damaged brain until someone could lift the needle and  enable it to move along.  Jubey  repeated the facts  over and over; very matter of factly,  and ,sometime with moreemotionally  tinged  verbatim rendition  as Jubey relived  the injustice and injuries inflicted upon him, the  pain  he suffered and the still unresolved hurt over his son.

Doc ,while empathetic, had grown  impatient about the third time Jubey launched  into the tale,  and wanted to lift the needle and press ahead .


Doc  also knew he needed to get back to work.  But, somewhat  perversely, Doc was intrigued and   wanted greater insight  and more  details.  He continued   to probe ever so gently into  Jubey’s still raw  emotional  sores,  the deep seated, unhealed  wounds of a troubled man,  hobbled by treachery and greed  and robbed of his life. Doc  really wanted to help Jubey,  someone  who had gained and lost so much at the hands of a dirt bag named Johnny Mitchell.




“What happened to the  guy who pushed you? Johnny Mitchell, was it ?”asked Doc.

“Yes ,Yeah, Johnny Mitchell, da fucker, scum mother”, Jubey  spit out.

“He migrate  back to Jamaica and look to soon come to  kill me after he done time in jail  dare in Massachusetts.”

“Da crook, Mon, he opened a bar wit me money, in a nearby parish to here. Everyone know what Johnny did to me. He done more bad shit around this place too, to  more folks too. Not just to Jubey.”


Jubey said,“When they found out what he do to Jubey, how he was so, so very  bad shit, dey want to kill da bastard.  Dey want ta  go kill him for Jubey’s sake.”


“Dat fine  by  me, but Dey went and  done killed the wrong Johnny Mitchell. Not da bad one!  Da wrong one!”

Some poor bastard with the same name had been executed in a drive by shooting outside of a corner bar in the next parish.  Doc could not conceal his shock. 

Jubey continued, “Da bad one, well, he heard ‘bout the  kill on and he runs his black  ass up   the blue  mountains.  He  run scared and hides like a damn pussy he be.”

“Is is still around, do you think?” Doc interjected.

“No, Mon, the fucker die of a heart attack and de sugar.  He don get dead up in da mountains, drinkin coffee one day. There ain’t no doctors up dere  in da mountains, ya know, like down  here today,” Jubey added,“Serve the fucker right.”

He actually spit this time on the  exam room floor, punctuating his declarative sentence with a phlegmy 

period and missing Doc’s sandals by inches.  Doc told Jubey to get dressed and asked him not to be spitting.He had not asked for a sputum specimen,and Doc was hopeful Jubey did not have TB.


“ How did you get to America  in the first place.?” Doc asked Jubey as he was rebuttoning his shirt.

“I was sent by  a Mister Porter to Toronto.  He be my sponsor for  a  pretend  job there in Canada.  Mr. Porter then  come and  we drove to Buffalo, make a delivery there , and then go on to Boston. He wanted me to stay there to  sell cocaine there. So I did.”

“Cocaine, crack cocaine or Cocaine?  Doc questioned.


In telling his story repeatedly, Jubey relished  that he had once made and blown a lot of money in his day.  “Had  a BMW roadster, no top, fine ride, Mon. I park it outside the record shop I bought , Mon, with my partners.”


Jubey had hit play again.


Doc stopped him there. “Wait, do you remember falling from the balcony?”

“No, not really,” Jubey answered. “I woke up a week later wit the bad headache for sure. I used to have a lot of money.  In the house, we had piles of money and plowed furrows  of cocaine on the table.”


Doc resumed his medical history taking,

“Did you go to rehab? Did you get detoxed?”

“No,Mon. I dont never touch dat damn shit. It’s bad,mon.  You know dat, doc!”

“Did your wife use cocaine then?” 

“Ha, I done tole ya  dat Nisha was a crack whore.  She not married to me. She be the baby mama of my son. I never saw him.  Can you find him,ya tink?”

A tear rolled down Jubey’s weary face.


Doc said, “Look , Jubey,  I will really try to find him for you.”

Doc promised he would try on the internet first.

 “Do you know what that is, Jubey?”

“I think so, but look around town  too, to see  Nisha Clarke in Brocton. She will know where my boy be staying. Nisha Clark.”

“And if I find her, or him for that matter, what do you want me to tell them? “ Doc wondered.

“I want to know my son.”,Jubey  said, wiping away another tear.


Doc was  embarrassed to ask  Jubey at this point in the encounter for more contact information. “What is your full  name, by the way? Not your nickname.” 

“My name is Nate Llewellyn. They call me Jubey.”

“Yes,where do you live, Jubey?“ Doc pressed.

“I am always here at the house here. They all  know me in the office ,” Jubey answered.

“Do you have an address, Jubey ?” 

“Yes, but no phone, but call here,  dey know where  Jubey."

“Okay, I ‘ll get the phone number  later from the social worker,” replied Doc, jotting  himself a reminder.

“Will it take you a couple of months? Will I hear from you, Doc,  in a couple of months?”Jubey begged.

“I don’t know how long it will take me, Jubey,” Doc told his  deflated patient. “Please understand. I’ll try  to let you know something as soon as I get home to the States.”

 Doc  was now very  determined to do good by Jubey if it were entirely possible. Plus, Doc thought it an ideal way to fit in a visit with his own son in Boston. 


“Ok,” said Doc. “What about we take a picture so I can send it to him or show  it to him  if I find  your boy? Would that be okay?”

“Okay, Mon. And we take one of you and Jubey too.”

Doc  snapped the picture  and showed Jubey  his  digital image in the view finder.   Jubey  smiled his approval. Then Doc enlisted  a medical student  to take a shot of the two them standing together.  The resulting image  the student had captured was of  the two new friends in Jamaica.  In the photo, both were smiling  broadly  and standing stiffly,  and joined by  a shared mission. 



Finding Jubey’s  son was easier than he had thought.  An old fraternity brother of Doc’s was a detective in the Boston suburbs, someone whom Doc  approached delicately  for assistance   with  a discrete record search that was not an  abuse of  power,  and to whom he justified the outreach as  a humanitarian favor for Doc’s new  friend.  Doc’s fraternal  forensic frere  proved to be an invaluable asset in his   quest  to gain more knowledge about the migrants.  Records revealed that Shonisha  Clark, not Nisha, had a  long record  for  drug possession, prostitution and assault with a deadly weapon.  She was a dead end; she was dead.


Johnny Mitchell had a long rap sheet too, but Doc  knew, and what  Massachusetts authorities didn’t  know, was that  Johnny had died in Jamaica of clogged arteries from too much jerk chicken and curry goat. The dossier Doc held  revealed an  outstanding warrant for possession, extortion, domestic violence  and rape.  Doc concluded: “Johnny Rotten” indeed. 


As far as police knew, Mitchell  had skipped  bond and, presumably was “in the wind”, or  back to Jamaica according to the dormant entries in the file.


Doc did not inquire of Nate Llewellyn, aka Jubey.  Doc did not want to know, even though  on some level he  already knew …that  Jubey  was no choir boy either.


The detective pointed out to Doc a  telephone number listing for a  Desmond  Mitchell, aged thirty, who was the  named  emergency contact.  D. Mitchell was the  signatory on  the  release papers  for Shonisha Clark Mitchell’s body.  A scribbled signature on the  bottom of the  form from the  City Medical Examiner’s Office authorized the removal of the deceased for  a proper pauper’s burial.  Nisha was in Potter’s Field or whatever it was known as in Boston.


Once back at the hotel Doc went online.  After entering Desmond Mitchell’s telephone number on, a home address  in Alton, and that of a business, DMZ Records on Logan Street in Brockton  popped up .


Desmond Mitchell, he thought, the last name is Mitchell,  and not Llewellyn.

Well, Jubey had admitted  to Doc  that  he had never been married to NIsha. Had  Desmond  been sired by Johnny or Jubey? Had Desmond made her an honest woman?  But  the son’s first name was Desmond. Wasn’t that the last  name  of the other  guy Johnny had set up and who did  hard time when  Johnny Mitchell stiffed him?


If Desmond was not Jubey’s son, it would be another blow  to the head… and heart of a  beaten  man. Doc decided then  and there that he would  not give full disclosure  to Jubey if his  suspicions were now confirmed. 


Desmond  Mitchell was at the counter of the vintage record shop on Logan Street when Doc  entered. Desmond looked up  when the door bell sang and swept the mangy cat off of the counter, flinging it to to the floor with an aggressive shove and greeting Doc at the same time.

 “Good mornin, Mon”.Welcome  to DMZ. Peace and love,mon”


DMZ Records was dimly lit,  its contents row after  row of  organized bins filled with LPs, 78s and 45s  in dust covers. The embarrassed  cat with hurt  feelings had   wandered toward Doc . There was only one other customer  in the store holding an album cover very close to his eyes  in an effort to read its notes. Probably had  forgotten his readers, Doc suspected.

Doc  put on  his own glasses  and began his ruse and the hang nail torture of digging between  too tightly packed  record albums in an attempt  to extract  just one particular record  album he had come to  purchase.  He tried to appear casual as the cat  approached him and slipped between Doc’s scissoring feet, slowing his progress  as he made his  way  toward the counter. Doc wanted a better look at Desmond who he saw  was wearing an  oversized  Bob Marley tee shirt over  baggy, saggy jeans.


In what amounted to the  spot on, ironic  question of the day, the Marley fan asked Doc,

“Can I help you find what you come after here  today, Mon?” 

Doc replied that he was  after an album by obscure Ska band  that he  heard in Jamaica years before and that his son liked too.

“Do you know the Black Jacks?” Doc asked.

“You know the Black Jacks’ music , Mon?”


Then Doc mentioned that he spent a month in Jamaica pretty much  every year . 

“We go down to  deliver medical care in  some of the poorer inner city neighborhoods of Kingston.”  

And then he rattled off place names.  

 “Like Trenchtown …where your man, Marley, hails from. Ya, Mon,” said Doc, trying too hard to be cool.


 Doc went on,” We work in   Whitfield, Tivioli Gardens, Myrrhvilla, Hellshire, Ferry.”

“Well, good for you. Mon. God bless you.  Ferry. Damn, dem people  need all da help dey can get, livin’ dere in dat shit hole.” My mom, she was  from near Ferry.”

 “You been a some places dat no tourist ever  gonna come soon again,” said Desmond.

“Oh, yeah”, agreed Doc,”no way!”

“It’s dangerous, Jamaica…way too too  violent  a place.  Kingston is da very worst,” Desmond offered, ”but, dey need you doctors.” 


Desmond  related that his father had died of a heart attack up on a coffee plantation in the hills.
“Ain’t no doctor, no hospital at all up dere in da Blue Mountains either. Yeah, me dad, he  hit da deck with da big one, da widow maker,  as dey say.” Desmond continued, “My mom, here in Boston, she not last long after Johnny find death in Mandeville. She soon go too.  Died of a broken heart ‘bout three weeks later, once she heard about me old mon passing.”


As Doc was processing  the young man’s remarks, he noticed the cat coming back down the aisle toward him. The mangy cat began to rub against Doc’s  shin, nuzzling its head up and down, seductively  purring and doing figure eights between his ankles.  Doc bent down to pat the cat and saw that  there was a black leather collar, with a small  silver  tag around  its neck. Doc saw the engraving  spelling out the name “Jubey.” 

Just as the name registered, he heard  Desmond at the counter  shout out the cat’s name “Jubey” very  loudly, and  slammed down  his closed fist way too hard on the  Black Jacks album that  was sitting  on the countertop. The other customer looked up.  Desmond scowled at the cat and down at the damaged and useless record .“ My mother’s  mother fucking  cat.  Bothering de customers all de time.”“Jubey, scat! Bad cat.  “Dat dare cat be my  only inheritance from dat  woman,” Desmond told Doc. “My father, he …well, he at least give me da record  store … and me life.”


Submitted: April 19, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Sebastian Leach. All rights reserved.

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