Connections

“Blan! Blan!” Turning, I see nothing. “Blan! Blan!” This time, with a yearning pull on my cargo shorts. Turning and looking down I discover the culprit. A boy, his perfectly round head peaking at my waistline, dark and full of life, he looks up at me in awe. His eyes glistening in the dessert heat and toes gasping from his shoes I cannot help but surrender. “Bonswa” I say. “Mwen remen America Mizik!” he replied in excitement. Embarrassed, I kneel to meet him on an equal plain, “I don’t know?” I say, for I cannot speak a lick of Kreole. “Hahaha” he shrieks. “I am Michael Jackson!” he says. His eyes jaunting directly at the ground, he pops his hip and flicks his hand toward the sun. I smiled. Standing and turning to walk away I notice a familiar and forceful beat that seems to be coming from all around. I turn back to the boy in astonishment. He now stands at the front of synchronized group of five lines, each six deep. His shoes now full, glimmering in the dessert sun and wearing a Baby GAP cherry red leather jacket, they begin. Pumping his fist and pelvis in sync with his entourage they preform beat it. They know every word.