The Doorman and the Shaman

I told myself that I loved the calamity; that the chaos was a necessary fruit in my garden. I needed it like I needed fried chicken and jerking off, maybe even more so. 

My calves were tangled in female hair. Faces couldn’t be seen and all that could be heard were screams, grunts, and exclamations like “BITCH!”, “CUNT!”, and “FUCKER!”.  Female bodies were at my feet, strewn along a Chinatown thoroughfare, clawing at each other like ferrule cats in spaghetti straps. A thud reverberated throughout the hollow concrete whenever a skull hit the sidewalk.  

This orgy of horizontal violence twisted my bearings like I was standing in rushing rapids. Occasional glimpses of my red kicks through the sea of locks and flailing arms kept my balance in check; kept me from being swept down river. My colleagues were somewhere close, I could feel them, but none of them joined me in the thick of it. I looked up to see the newest guy in our crew standing at the edge of the crowd. The reflections of wrestling drunkards danced in his unblinking, virgin, Filipino eyes. 

“Call the fucking cops!” I shouted, breaking his trance.

One of the girls at my feet, an acquaintance and local DJ, started to take more hits than she was dishing out. It became clear that she was losing this battle. A chubby Asian girl in a red dress ended up spooning my DJ pal. She grabbed her hair and yanked back with vengeful force while a white girl in a black dress threw down a karate chop across the DJ’s neck. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She momentarily writhed in pain before regaining her laser-like bitchiness.

I had seen enough. 

I picked up the DJ, threw her over my shoulder, and ran her to the other side of Hotel Street, but not before she used a free hand to slap some guy in the crowd across the face. I set her down on her own two feet - a position she hadn’t been in for quite some time. She started to cry.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” she pouted. “I’m so drunk right now, but I know this is going to hurt in the morning. Shit!”

I chuckled at her uncanny sense of self-awareness. Her opponents found their way off the sidewalk and were conspiring with a slew of buffed looking local guys who seemed keen to play the role of Captain Save-a-Ho. Hoping to avoid any further altercations I hurried the DJ around the corner and put her in a taxi just as Pacific blue police lights crawled up the block.  

Soon, beams from police flashlights mixed with those from my fellow bouncers who were still trying to disperse the crowd. The energy generated from a gaggle of girls, practicing their catty kung fu, subsided. 

I reclaimed my spot at the door to the club. I greeted a group of patrons with a smile, and politely told them to have fun as they scurried past me into the club. 

It was midnight on the dot. Two more hours until closing. 

****

Sean knelt before me in the dark. He cleared his throat and gathered himself before starting to sing an Icaro. I still had the events of the previous night on my mind, and I’m sure I still had some poor girl’s hair attached to my body. I was dealing with a certain level of achievement that my ego wouldn’t let go of. It was another victory; another notch on my belt of Chinatown street cred. Last night I saved a DJ’s life. But as the deep tones of Sean’s ultra-rhythmic voice eclipsed my spatial awareness, my ego dissolved quickly in a sea of visions. La medicina was taking effect.

Sean’s singing voice was an intense departure from his overall demeanor. Although men like Sean operate in a shroud of mysterious trickery, he presented himself as a very relaxed and humble Canadian dude under sunlit skies. But at night, in ceremony, in complete and total darkness, he transformed into a singing jungle cat with the healing larynx of God. His sound was a technology all its own. 

Almost immediately, I could feel Sean’s song interacting with the medicine. Gentle quakes rocked my stomach back and forth as though a small tree boa were slithering around my intestines. I was being transferred into another dimension. Like an infant ape sitting before a symphony I clenched my fists and swam in the Amazonian rhythms filling the empty space around me. My whole body began to move in a seated dance. My arms moved like they were beating invisible drums. The backs of my eyelids become other worldly.

The culmination of sounds, sights, and lights in the darkness acted on my soul like an ancient language that I somehow was able to interpret, though, not through my five senses as I knew them to be. 

A voice from my subconscious, Mama’s voice, told me to open my eyes. I did as I was told and shuttered at the sight of a fully-grown jaguar draped in Sean’s clothing singing to me. His song became more powerful; like his voice was chipping away at everything I had ever known. Suddenly, the memories I held of me as me completely disappeared and were replaced by an uneasy familiarity. I was being returned to the place where I was created.

This, in part, is the magic of Ayahuasca when taken by a wayward man with a soul whose intentions are good.

Lessons Learned on the Way to My First Film Festival

I’m not at a point in my adult life where my scant wardrobe is organized behind the golden doors of a spacious, walk-in closet. Actually, I often brag about living out of two suitcases. But since moving to Brooklyn a year ago, my clothes are in a constant state of limbo. Somewhere between cheap luggage and cheaper, off-color hangers.

Rarely does my morning routine require much consideration when it comes to which outfit I wear. Like a contestant on The Prince is Right, I blindly reach into the orgy of clothes on my floor hoping to grab something to cover my torso and a lil’ something to cover my pelvis. A loose sock or two rounds out my ensemble. It’s hard not to go home a winner.

When I received news that my first film, ReleaseD, had been chosen as an official selection at the 2019 Trinidad and Tobago Film Festival CARIFESTA Edition I unexpectedly became extremely fashion conscious.

For the first time in a long time (read: ever), I would be traveling with a purpose. Throughout the entirety of my life, minus my travels as a Navy man, I glided into tropical locales without much of an agenda other than rascality. 

When it came to how I would dress for my first film festival, I wanted my attire to reflect the inner rebel; the outlaw storyteller, filmmaker, and capturer of time, place, and soul that I so yearn to be.

I decided to take a page out of M.I.A’s handbook on righteous glam and went digging for my coveted green, camouflage t-shirt. As soon as I popped my big head through the shirt’s hole, the un-holy war against commercialism, in the name of rugged individualism, was on.

My affinity for rebel-artist M.I.A might be the genesis of this whole experience.

The immigration line at Trinidad’s Piarco International Airport crept along like a cumbersome python; one scale at a time. It was Trinidad, though, and I knew not to expect anything less than island time – my favorite kind of time. I waited for my turn at the immigration counter with my scraggly chin held high, projecting every ounce of my renegade nature through the forest green scheme on my form fitting t-shirt. (Nothing hides the imperfections of a 35-year old’s “dad-bod, but no kids” frame than Army issue camo.)

Although, it seemed as if my camo was working too well. No one was picking up on my artsy, sniper vibe. No curious onlookers. No small talk. No, “So, what brings you to Trini?”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to find an airport attendant looking up at me.

“Sir, would you mind stepping out of line, please, so that I can talk to you privately,” the rail thin, male attendant said from behind a pair of glasses.

I obliged without question, hoping that maybe this would be my big moment. Maybe the airport staff had picked up on my aura of importance and decided to rush me through the line.

The attendant brought me around the corner, well away from curious ears.

“Well, Sir, you see, camouflage is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago.”

“What?” I asked, thinking I misheard him.

“Everything is okay, Sir, but the shirt is illegal. It’s not allowed here. Maybe the immigration agent will make you take it off at the counter when you get there,” the attendant said.

“Look, if there’s a bathroom around here I’ll gladly change into something else,” I said motioning to my suitcase.

“No, no, no, Sir. That is unnecessary. I’m sure everything will be okay,” the attendant said. He escorted me back to my spot in line.  

My egocentric wish for attention was suddenly being fulfilled, but not for the reasons I hoped. Everyone around me was wondering why the bearded, tatted, ruffian-looking fellow in camo had been pulled out of line. Years of working as a seedy bouncer in seedier nightclubs didn’t exactly give me the look or feel of a doctor from Medicins Sans Frontieres. I’ve been told that I have a serious case of RBF (Resting Bouncer Face).

The immigration line moved a few inches. Yet again, I felt another gentle palm on my shoulder. This time it was a grandmotherly woman in the Navy blue uniform of the immigration authority.

She leaned in to whisper. “Sir, has anyone talked to you about your shirt?”

“Yes, actually,” I responded.

“You know, camouflage is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago. My God, why did you wear that shirt? They’re going to give you grief at the counter,” she imparted in strange rhythms. 

“Is there a bathroom or a changing room I could duck into quickly? It’s no big deal. I can put on another shirt,” I said. I rolled my suitcase in between us.

“No, no – just stay in line. Maybe they won’t notice. If they do, they’ll confiscate it, surely. What are you doing here anyway?” She asked with a slight snarl on her face.

“I’m here for CARIFESTA. I’m a filmmaker,” I said just above a whisper, hoping someone might hear and actually care.

“You’re an artist? Why the hell are you dressed like a bank robber, then?” She wandered away shaking her head.

More eyes were on me now, and the stares were wrapped in gossipy chatter about what I might be guilty of. A fashion violation was the furthest thing from their minds.

Cocaine trafficker. Arms dealer. Male sex worker.

I continued to inch towards my impending showdown with an immigration agent who may or may not want me to take my shirt off; may or may not fine me for dressing like a criminal. A stern masculine voice cut through the line behind me.

“Sir! Sir!”

I looked back and saw a crew cut, chiseled, immigration officer motioning for me to leave the line.

“I know, I know, my shirt is illegal.” I stopped him in his tracks and continued in a tone that revealed my state of frustration. “Can I just change somewhere, please?”

“Sir, camouflage is prohibited in Trinidad and Tobago. People might think differently of you with that shirt on. Please go change. There’s a bathroom over there,” he said, pointing me in the right direction.

A few moments later, I returned to my spot in line dawning a plain, blue t-shirt. Tourists and returning citizens burned holes in me with their eyes.

“Made you change your shirt, huh?” The extremely perceptive woman behind me asked.

“Yeah,” I responded with a wry smile.

“That’s a shame. The other shirt looked a lot better on you,” she added.


Needless to say, I’m ready to submit two films for TTFF20 consideration, and I already have my outfits laid out:

My humorous debacle at the airport was in no way foreshadowing for things to come that week. TTFF19 CARIFESTA Edition was an amazing experience for this first time filmmaker. It was an honor to sit amongst some of the most far reaching imaginations in the Caribbean film and art world, and I continue to be thankful for the response given to my film, “ReleaseD.” Aloha. 

Words by Keoni K. Wright
www.keonikwright.com