Dawn first appeared as a rosy slash in the belly of darkness. Then like pig guts more blushing brilliance tumbled forth. Sight of it caused Mango to shudder as he sat perched in the catbird seat overlooking Cabo Verde. Wadded paper contained attempts at poetry. All he had accomplished during his watch, he felt, was a laundry list of island color. Palm wine had contributed thirty minutes of ecstasy and hightened self-esteem, but then he was betrayed by it. And he was left with confusion, despair and a head-ache.
He put away his writing tools and took out the things he would need to service the enormous lantern and its mechanism. Mango lovingly maintained the lighthouse with holy lubricant and polish.
Work absorbed his misery like a sponge.
It gave him a sense of purpose.
Thank you, Master Johnny! (singing in his heart) Thank you for awarding me this responsibility.
Once again Mango swore off palm wine.
At the end of his chores he clambered down to the floor. He would walk the labyrinth and meditate upon the glory of mankind.
There had been a dreamy time of innocence, growing up with his mother and two older sisters in a pinewood house painted with pastel rose and aquamarine and cradled within a warren of red hibiscus. His mother brewed a tea from the hibiscus, and he matured like a songbird.
One evening as she sat on the front step Mango came to his mother.
"Mama, something happened to me last night."
"Tell me."
"I wet myself."
"You peed?"
"No."
She placed her brown hand upon his shoulder and inhaled the descending perfumes of jasimine and honeysuckle. The moment had finally arrived, and now she needed to explain some things, beginning with his nocturnal emission.
"It was a manly essence, Mango. Meaning that you are growing up fine. We call it semen, and this will require some understanding."
His chest swelled with pride. I am becoming a man.
"Tell me more about last night," she commanded.
Mango related this strange vision he'd had of his sisters visiting his room and how one of them had climbed in with him while the other sat on the edge of the bed. Their ghostly hands explored his body. Cool fingers combed the black angel-hair of his groin. Before leaving, each sister kissed his head.
He woke to the cock's crow and discovered this strange new substance coating his foreskin like warm mucilage. In the dark it frightened him. He could only imagine that it was blood.
*
As artfully as she could, his gentle mother explained fertility and birth.
Her daughters returned from having beer with soccer boys from down the road. They were tipsy, hee-hee. They tiptoed up and greeted her.
"Eve'nin, me-mah."
"Hello, girls."
They sat with her on the step and marveled in the lavender air. Their mother asked, "Have either of you ever visited Mango in bed?"
"Nooo--" They warbled.
One day Segundo Navidad fell asleep beside his shoeshine bench and quietly died. The sun went down and the neon sign for the bail bondsman's office came on. In garish crimson and cherry the words: HAD YOUR DAY IN COURT? NOW IT'S TIME TO SEE ME! The body lay illuminated by the Coca-Cola machine that sold drinks to folks getting a shine.
Segundo had Down's Syndrome. In the cruel island argot he was Saxby's Idiot. No one knew him. They saw only a mottled gray gnomish man with harsh mongoloid features. Mango was first to discover Segundo in death. He examined the corpse with morbid curiosity, and then stole the shine box.
He later converted it to a portable field desk for writing poetry.
Mango's first poem was about Segundo Navidad.
Written while drunk on stolen palm wine.
A demonic voice within Segundo's head ranted hideous blasphemy that no one could hear. Imprisoned inside the brain of an idiot a self-aware mind suffered a torment so exhaustingly painful that no mortal could endure it.
Mango had several working titles.
His favorite was "God's Special Son." He visualized a soul scourging itself through eternity.
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