CHRONICLE

Sunday I choose a bright floral print dress.  Slowly saunter to the minibus terminal, today I'm going to Rose Hall, visit my aunt for Sunday dinner.
Just my luck, end up sitting with a girl I've known since school.  She takes her cell phone out, parks it on her lap.  Probably just to show off it's an expensive one.
"So," regal manner, "why is it y'all at the Chronicle are like that?"
Like what?  She could be referring to anything.
"Now all you journalists at the Guyana Chronicle dress like homeless bums.  I walk by that building alla time.  Last time, a cop actually asked one to move along.  The cop sure blushed when the guy whipped out his ID."
"You must be referring to our editor.  6'3" douglah, thin, huge nicotine stains?"
"That's the one, so why y'all dress like that?"
"Perhaps the fact salaries haven't raised in 10 years, everything else has."
She sniffs,"and such lapdogs y'all are to the government, simply print all those press releases verbatim.  Why even bother with journalists?"
"Perhaps we're needed to photograph birthday parties for the Cabinet Ministers' children."
She looks at me with that not-quite-sure look.  Am I pulling her leg? 
"And that story on the company startup.  The one manufacturing dish-draining racks.  Was that really worth a full page?"
"We're a slow-news country, want excitement, move to New York."
"Now me, I've got a really important job.  Financial analyst, Bank of Guyana."
Perhaps there just might be some connection to the fact her father is Finance Minister.
She starts to show off the cell phone, all its games, and surfer gadgets.
I sigh with relief when she disembarks at the Enterprise turnoff.
An elderly black woman in Sunday best boards and takes the vacant seat, with her it's a fun conversation.