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White Noise By Jess Batie (Preferred Name) Come see the real city. See Ochi. The little brown hatchback sedan ambled along the road until we reached a sign announcing our entrance into Eltham District. Every rotation of the tire against the bleached gray asphalt brought me closer to an unfamiliar destination, but authentic Jamaican food and a good time was promised. A respite from my 9-5 cubicle and all the corporate politics that came with it was needed for my soul. My days were presently running together like spilled color paints on an artist’s pallet. While out one night at a local reggae club in Ocho Rios, Val and I met Julius, who also served as our unofficial guide for the day. “Where are we going exactly?” Val poses the question in a teasing manner. Julius had played coy the entire ride, finally relented and replied, “I’m taking you gyals to mi family’s restaurant. Good food, real food, none of the stuff like the resort.” Val and I snicker at the slight dig. Several blocks over and up a few treacherous hills, we arrived at a small building on a corner lot painted a fluorescent shade of coral. On the cracked concrete stoop on a small porch, a young girl sat twirling her fingers along the ends of her elaborately braided hair and playing with her cellphone. Our car doors slamming closed grabs her attention and she jogs over to Julius. He introduces her simply as his little cousin and nothing more, no name or formal introduction. The girl’s clear brown skin radiating in the late afternoon sun peers at us warily. She nods her head in greeting and remains silent while the four of us enter the dimly lit building. Inside the walls are painted the same pink orange hue as the exterior, with the addition of a mural. The mural subjects were all women partially nude and wrapped in vines of flora. Great detail had went into highlighting their shapes, sizes, and brown features. A banner under the mural reads a verse from the book of Psalms ‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty...’ To the right of the entrance are three sets of brown chairs and card tables. Julius motions us to take a seat at a table closest to the lone window. Another cousin comes from around a small bar, with two clear plastic cups, a small bottle of Wray & Nephew white rum, and two bottles of Ting Soda. Thanking her for her hospitality, we wait on today’s special of jerk pork and rice and peas while talking and listening to the reggae playing on the radio. The music, the smoky aroma of the food, and the free flowing rum seems to attract the entire neighborhood. People file in one by one greeting each other in streams of lyrical Patois, until the only room left is a small area in front of the bar where several people are now swaying back and forth to Bob Marley. Our trip coincides with Tuff Gong’s birthday, an unofficial holiday here in Jamaica. After the best pork I’ve ever had in my life and a few turns on the impromptu dance floor, I find myself sitting outside on the porch as dusk settles over the neighborhood. Still nursing a glass of rum, I run my fingers back and forth over the sugared rim of the glass. Across the street, a group of children and two women carry baskets of what appears to be laundry as they trek barefoot through a jagged gully so littered with trash and refuse it could moonlight as a landfill. It’s dusk now and the sun is nothing but a few rays of light disappearing beyond the horizon. “Is this Love” begins playing inside and on cue a gentle rain begins to wash the neighborhood of its saccharine humidity and sweltering heat. I don’t get up from my perch on the porch to find refuge from the rain. Instead, I remain there while it lulls me into a calm, like white noise.