Finally: Andy won't let nothing hurt you, man.

It was after ten at night when we got back, which meant two pertinent things: the bar was closed, and it was dark. None of this would have been a problem, except for one additional fact: we were out of rum. Without rum, the suggested game of Presidents and Scumbags could not commence. Without rum, this would be a one-drug night. Marijuana only. A Jamaican tourist cannot get high on ganja alone (well, he could, but what kind of fun is that?). Two of my guy friends and I walked a little down the beach, to make sure that the stores down there weren’t still open. Seeing no light coming from them confirmed this for us. As we reached the point where we acquired this visible certainty, my two friends and I were standing right next to a Jamaican guy with a bag of various brands of cigarettes who was making a sale to some English-challenged Italians.

In the hierarchy of beach solicitors, where the Ganja-Coke-Ecstasy Man is the hard-driving business tycoon, the Cigarette Man is the little old lady who owns the antique store. The Ganja-Coke-Ecstacy Man smells the sale if your “no” doesn’t shoot from your mouth without hesitation. Even then, if it isn’t cogently and repeatedly presented, you’re in for the hard sell. In contrast to the GCE Man, who approaches you with furtive glances, as if he has a plumb secret to tell you, the Cigarette Man walks down the beach shouting advertisements for his wares. “Cigarettes! Who needs cigarettes? You? Anyone there? Want some cigarettes? Cigars! Cigars!” You say no to the GCE Man, he thinks you’re being coy, upping the aggressiveness of his pitch and possibly insulting you if you dare to walk away; you say no to the Cigarette Man, he believes you, possibly smiles, and moves on. With this in mind, I waited for the interlingual sale to be completed, then declined any nicotine but asked this Cigarette Man if he could tell us where we could buy some alcohol, preferably rum.

“Oh, yeah, mon. Sure. You want rum? I show you where you can get some rum. Who wants rum? You three? OK, follow me.”

A distant third behind “Oh, sure, go right up to that store,” or “Oh, yeah, I have some in my back pocket,” “Follow me,” from a Cigarette Man was still better than just about anything a GCE Man could say. So, of course, we did.

“My name’s Andy, mon. I show you where to get good rum. Just follow me.”

Not allowed to access the main road that ran parallel to the beach behind the resorts by walking over resort property, Andy led us down the beach a few hundred feet before turning away from the water in a non-resort area and exiting the beach through a hole in a chain link fence that led us into a neglected lot full of weeds, various discarded building materials, and the crumbled foundation of some kind of small former building. It was dark, and we were wearing flip-flops. Tetanus crossed my mind, as did blood-sucking Jamaican bugs. Oh, and homicidal homeless people whose slumber we may have been disturbing. Upon entering the lot, the road seemed way too far off to allow my luck to carry me through this field without some kind of injury, but a minute later, there I was on the other side, trying to exit the lot through an open gate that was occupied by a group of three Jamaican guys and one Jamaican woman sitting near what seemed to be a fruit and soda stand. It was dark, and there was no nearby light, so they were shadows, only somewhat visible in the yellow light of the far-off streetlamps.

Despite answering negatively to Andy’s question as to whether or not they had rum, they were not about to let that fact end any possible business transactions. One of the dreadlocked guys told Andy in Patois (I assume, as Andy then related it to us) that one of us could go with Mr. Dreadlock, back into the lot we had just traversed, and who knows where from there, assumably the beach, to get the rum, and the other two of us would stay here at the stand with Andy. Certain that this would lead to at least the mugging and possibly the direct transit to the afterlife of the one chosen to go on this trip, we stated that we were going to remain together, and at this Andy started off down the street, saying he was going to the nearest store. It was clear that he wanted to be done with these people, but wasn’t beyond being persuaded to follow their suggestions, if that was our wont. Not hesitating, another dreadlocked man from this group then instructed us to get in his car, as he would drive us to get some rum. After having heard the desire in Andy’s voice to be done with this group, and therefore all the more certain that this suggested car trip would lead to at least the mugging, and possibly the direct transit to the afterlife, of, this time, our entire group, we stated that we didn’t want to be driven anywhere, thanked them, and followed Andy down the street.

We followed him to a shop that we found out didn’t currently have any rum, but from which I was able to purchase some kind of homemade coconut candy which I had never seen before. The night would therefore be considered a success by me if I could get back to the room in one piece to eat this candy. My friends were of the same mind by this point, as I found out when we discussed it quickly while following Andy out of the store and back up a walkway to the beach, thankful to avoid the lot route back, as Andy was telling us that, “You safe with Andy. Andy find you rum. You no have no problems when you with Andy.” We thanked him for his trouble and offered him money for his time. He declined it, saying that we were almost to a rum-possessing outlet, and he was so adamant and seemingly good-hearted that we decided to let him guide us to this place.

Emerging again onto the beach, were quickly came upon a bar inhabited by, thank safety!, tourists. Immediately, my blood pressure began to drop back to something approximating normal. We walked up to the Jamaican bartender, where Andy and my friend together asked for a bottle of rum. “What kind?” asked the bartender. “Appleton, if you have it,” said my friend. “Appleton, sure,” said the bartender, turning and pulling a sealed bottle of Bacardi from the shelf, placing it on the bar in front of us, and saying, “Appleton. Here you go.”

We weren’t going to argue. We paid $25 for it, thanked Andy profusely for his diligent help (but, really, at least in my case, for not being careless with my life), paid him for his time, and went on our merry way back to the apartment, only having to decline drugs two or three times before safely reaching our room.
We would see Andy several times during the remainder of the trip, and he usually recognized us with a hearty “Hello, my friends. It’s Andy. How are you?” We planned on eventually taking a picture with him, or tipping him again, basically just for his pleasant ambassadorship, but, like most plans put off because of a perceived surfeit of time, we didn’t get around to it before leaving. However, he remains one of my most pleasant memories of Jamaica.