Do Mad Men Fall in Love?

After hearing the St. Cecilia bell, Sergeant hustled toward the sidewalk through the rubble and bush that surrounded his shack. He took his place near the front of the property, perched on top of a solitary column, no gate or fence on either side. Apart from being Sergeant's throne, the cement column's other function was as a reminder of where a neatly cobbled entrance must have welcomed guests to this once stylish Kingston home.

The St. Cecilia girls sashayed and pranced in large noisy groups, dressed in their scarlet tunics and gleaming white shirts, as they headed past Sergeant. That day he decided to wait until he saw her approaching before starting to sing, so she would know that his performance was especially for her. Atop the column, his sun-lightened dreadlocks glowed in deep shades of copper tint, contrasting against the light brown hue of his skin. As the schoolgirls passed him, whispers then giggles erupted from each posse. And when each girl thought the next had forgotten Sergeant, she cast a glance behind her to his serene and handsome face, lingering over the solid arch of his jawbone or the broad span of his shoulders. Just a few years older than the St. Cecelia sixth-formers, Seargent had an appeal not entirely erased by his madness. Had Sergeant been a U.W.I. student dressed in a polo shirt and his dreadlocks shaved to a neat crew cut, or even been a clerk in one of the nearby government ministries wearing neatly pressed polyester pants bought from the sidewalk vendors downtown—indeed, had he been anything but crazy, not one of those girls would have scoffed at his glances.

As the sea of red uniforms began to disperse, Sergeant saw her make the corner by Miss Gracie's food stand. She was among the last groups of girls. He hopped off the column and turned his attention from the road to the open lot behind him. Then he began to clap vigorously, as if trying to get the attention of dozing pupils. After his imaginary band rose from its slumber and spread out in front of him, Sergeant's arms began to rise and fall in unison, sometimes reaching outward, as if he were poised to take flight, his head bowed, soaking in the pleasure of silent music. Then suddenly his arms would glide violently in a sharp horizontal line, beheading the music and marking the break from one bar to the next.

She neared the column, along with several other sixth-form girls on the verge of high school graduation. Their white blouses and scarlet skirts with matching ties differentiated them from the younger girls in pinafores. She was generously proportioned with ample thighs and hips that swung at a slow but steady pace under her skirt. Her coarse, tightly kinked hair was neatly cane rowed in circling swirls that peaked into a bun, and the loose, fine wisps of baby hair that framed her face were tidily held in place by a thin layer of hair oil. Bright, evenly spaced teeth contrasted against her coffee bean skin and fleshy lips, and she smiled as she walked up the street, despite the taunts of her friends.

"Keshia, Keshia, look! See your mad-man friend there! Seems like we can start to set the clock off him every evening!"

"He must be vex with you today, Keshia. Him not singing!"

"Maybe him find another girl, Keshia!"

Keshia straightened her tie as she threw her friends an exasperated glance. "Listen, if you girls goin' harass me every time we pass here, I goin' start walking the long way." Then in a hoarse whisper she said, "And all of you need to stop bawling out my name. Next thing him start calling out to me!"

They all quieted down and looked straight ahead as they neared Sergeant, madly waving his hands in the air at clumps of brush and curlicues of cerasee vine. Then Sergeant returned to his sitting position, his band left to carry on without his conducting expertise. He locked his feral gaze upon...