Lucky 5

Prof smiles gently,"now Jasmattie, don't shoot the messenger. Hear me out before you blaze away with both barrels. See it's like baseball. When you're a hot hitter, you can bash anything outa the park. Get in a slump and the whole world is on your back. Team manager, fans, media, your own ego. So what would it take to turn things around?"
"Smoking one clean out to the parking lot would be a good start, get some confidence back."
"Bingo, you are on a hot streak. Homa, cold as the North Pole in January. What would it take for her?"
"If she could land a good drug story, she'd be back. Get published, get royalties, could be promoted to Captain."
"Now Jasmattie what would you say if I told you I was sending her to circa 2100 Amsterdam?"
"We-ell, if she gets back alive, be a million seller and then some."
"Only one way she comes back alive, two person mission."
"Not on your life, I work alone period."
"Look there is no way I would authorize a lone mission like that. Suicide. If no one helps her out, she is doomed to continuing failure."
"So why would I waste my one last precious mission on babysitting? I want mega, go out in style."
"You will. 'Horny in Hastings' was your one and only mega-hit. And of course Amsterdam has that same 3 to 2 ratio. I can just hear those cash registers playing a happy tune."
I don't reply, but I am starting to weaken.
"All I ask is 2 weeks, easy trip, both of you will profit hugetime."
"Did you stop to consider she may not want me?"
Thin smile, "miles ahead of you Jasmattie. Asked. You're the only one she'll accept."
"Ok, don't beat up on my anymore, I'll do it."

As Homa and I pore over research materials, I am amazed at the change that has come over her. No more of that hang-dog, nobody-loves-me, everybody-hates-me, I'm-gonna-eat-some-worms look. My luck is legendary; just maybe she gets to ride to glory on my coattails.
She is confident, friendly, things are far better between us. Both of us are looking forward to that magic fastball.
She asks, "what are the real differences between Amsterdam and your Brit gig?"
"First, beer and pot in Britain, little else, everyone on the dole. Amsterdam, lot more money, hard liquor, hard drugs. Second, population density. Brits have a longish coastline to spread all the silliness out. Less crowded means less fighting. Dutch are living on top of each other. Lotta 40-hour-a-week workers are homeless."
"Do you see it as a dangerous gig?"
"Yes and no. Drink, do drugs or chase men and the answer is bigtime yes. Just do your job, fade into the background and no, not really."
"What about the girl gangs?"
"In Britain, a gang is a dozen girls, aim to pick off 2 homos. Amsterdam, gang is 1,000. But they aren't out to terrorize you. They hunt after groups of a hundred or two homos."
"Don't the police have something to say bout this?"
"Matter of civil rights. Critical question is who does the actual choosing. If the guys all get a free choice, cops view it as harmless fun, just courtship games for young people. But if the girls go in and choose, then it's like quasi-kidnapping."
"So why not just switch to lesbianism?"
"No such thing as right or wrong in taste. Chocolate or vanilla ice cream? Western movie or romance? German or Japanese car?"
"Gotcha. They could and probably do, indulge in some lesbianism. But this is more about status, who gets chosen. About thrills and excitement and filling up free time."
"I remember Angela telling me bout homo hunting. Fun even if you don't get chosen."
"These gay guys, where do they gather in such numbers?"
"From what I have read, they prefer things like industrial parking lots, not visible from the road. Party from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon. And of course the girl gangs have spies out, trying to figure out where."
"What is to stop a guy from playing along for the weekend, then dumping her?"
"Huge labor shortage in Holland. 99% of jobs give you a free cellphone as a perk. Once a girl takes possession, she watches her property very carefully. If he doesn't answer that cell by the second ring, even at work, there's big trouble."
"How do campsites work?"
"Lotsa plumbing facilities, no squalor. Wireless access for free. Postal delivery, police, clinics. Divided into stag girls area and couples area. No such thing as a guy alone, not for long anyhow."
She grins cheerfully, "so, long as we stay in the stag area, don't make any moves, we are bout as safe as it gets?"
"You got it."
I make a decision then and there. She is a good person who made a bad mistake in the past, earned a lotta hatred. I will be generous, refrain from writing. Stand aside and let her bash two homers: the drug story and the 'Horny in Holland' theme.
Language training is easy, Dutch being half way between German and English.
It is a dream trip. We frequent coffee houses, observe, overhear, chat amiably at camp sites. We are never even remotely in any danger.
One of her novellas sold 1.3 million; the other 1.8 million.

All years ago. We're still best friends, both Majors now.

Lucky 4

Next to be published is Homa. Her novella is set in a mythical California city, obviously Los Angeles. Two rival biker gangs duke it out for control of the drug trade. Between machine guns and rocket propelled grenades, she manages to kill upwards of 400. Her characters fight on bikes, akin to the World War One fighter pilots. They also indulge in mobile (bike) sex, please do not ask me to give you details, Oy! I'm astounded to see she sells 850,000 copies.
Next up is the cop. Her full length novel has over 2,000 killings by the Satanic cult. It sells 820,000 copies, spends 15 straight weeks on the top ten best seller list.
In retail, they say the customer is always right, meaning if you have the dollars to buy, makes you king or queen. The fact of these 2 successes does not bother me, merely shows me the moral standards of the public.
What really hurts is both authors become impossibly stuck up, I end up losing their friendship.
As the walls slowly close in on me, I think vaguely of being stranded in time by accident, while on a next Canada mission. As I get more depressed, this mutates to thinking of ways and means of dealing with the TDF so as not to leave a trace and do it. Canada is chock-a-block full of Indo-Guyanese, I would melt in invisibly there.
Perhaps our management is capable of observing changes in people. I simply never get the chance, am never offered another Canada mission.
Once again, the fastball is tracking toward the fat part of the plate. Compared to others, I get remarkable luck of the draw. They want me to chronicle the economic collapse of Britain circa 2100. Easy or what? Millions dropped outa society, lived in coastal shanty towns, drew the dole. The rest, resentful, took economic activity underground. The only thing that prevented total collapse was the onset of war, which necessitated changes in dole rules. But while it lasted, it was a quarter century of party. Once again, an afternoon in the library gets me pointed in the right direction.
I do a Paul Theroux style coastal walk, document my findings.
So how safe was I? Lot safer than you might think. Chemicals in the food had altered the genetics, 3 girls born for every 2 boys. The danger never was men; was women with knives who get too jealous. Being quite unattractive is a real plus for a mission like this. Both men and women talked freely and openly with me, without any trouble.
A slow trip, my TDF gave way more time than needed. To get good color commentary, I stay in rental rooms, do jobs which will give me public contact. No one bothers to check references, there are millions of jobs standing vacant.
It's a fun relaxed way of life, long as you don't hit on anyone's boyfriend. I hear endless talk of knife fights, never see one. I witness violence only once, very mild.
A dozen girls beat up 2 homos. Not badly, just a warning, no more of that. Each choose one of us or you get beat up again next week. I never see any other obvious gays, so presumably others are using the same strategy.
In my cafe job, I hear or overhear all town gossip. One guy was spotted boarding the BritRail to London. The other agreed to the girls' demands. I laugh when I hear why they gave him a week to decide. Their rules are he doesn't do so by talking; but by shall we say taking each car for a test drive.
In due course I see him walking down the street hand-in-hand with one of them. From his blissed-out expression, he does not seem to be missing his gay buddy.
It being a nice day, Angela and I go outside for our break.
Wicked smile, she starts, "got me an invite. Going homo hunting."
"Do tell."
"See the girls like to keep it an even dozen, something about a dozen plays on their minds. Anytime one leaves the group, another joins. And guess what - people think you're cool - say they'll invite you for the next vacancy."
I know I've just been hugely flattered. But it breaks every Time Corps rule. Besides my TDF is fast running out. If I don't get a move on, I'll miss rendezvous.
I twist a smile, "my brother, useless lump, like all men."
She nods in obvious sympathy.
"Just gotta e-mail. Dad gets outa hospital on the weekend. You think bro would lift a finger to help? No way, that's daughter's job. If I don't go home for a bit, they'll ostracize me."
"What a bummer! Homo hunting is lotsa fun. Still, guess that is how Indian families are."
I groan loudly, "centuries come and go, Indian families just do not change. Just outa curiosity, what would happen if one of them were racial, refused to try me out?"
She blanches, "my God, nobody would stand still for nonsense like that. The girls would kill him, deathly insult like that. But hey, he wouldn't be so stupid, he knows the rules. So, I tell the girls you'll join in once you get back from looking after Dad."
"Thank you so much, you're a real pal."
As I climb aboard BritRail the idea strikes. The 3 to 2 ratio is long since history. This is a unique little slice of time. Perfect topic for a novella, complete with marauding women.

I laugh aloud as I read the e-mail from the Chief Censor. After the standard bureaucratese authorizing the story, she adds a PS, "you learn well from experience. Far more marketable than the cigarette story. Knock em dead, I'll buy your novella when it's out."
"Horny in Hastings" surpassess even my wildest dreams, weighing in at 986,000 copies.
I make sure though, not to be like my former friends. I'm soon immensely popular, others bouncing story ideas off me.
I reflect that every era, every trip, must have a story, just gotta find it.
My official report too is a success. I've documented the financial collapse out to the Nth degree. Ask any ball player how they feel after bashing 2 homers in a row. The bored itchy feeling in prison thing fades into history. Bring it one, whatever is up next.

Several days after my 24th birthday marks exact 5 years I've been here in the Time Corps fortress. I stare out the window and ponder that which I have become.
For several years now my nickname, even to my face, is "Lucky."
Why? Sold 12 novellas, enough to qualify for promo to Major. Only need 3 more years service. Of these, 8 have been profitable. I could retire now, but I choose not to. This is my life, my family. I'd be alone in the world if I retired.
My job between missions is deathly boring, Captain in charge of Finance and Admin. Way too much paper and way too many meetings and committees.
I've done 24 missions, only allowed one more and then my operational days are over forever. All 24 have been successful, in that I returned with the information they wanted. Also, I am the only person here to live a charmed life. Never arrested or ill or shot at or all those other things that happen to everyone else every third mission.
I should be happy, but I'm not. I thought money and literary success would do it. But really, I only feel alive either on mission or in the library. And nowadays, I don't get much of either.

Time and fate have been less kind to Homa. Ten missions, 8 of which were hairy. No further literary success, her "Biker War" was a one trick pony. She's never been published after, Lieutenant in charge of janitorial.
I don't hate her, but we say little more than "Good Morning." Nobody forgets how mean she was, she has no friends.
I am summoned to Prof's office, questioned in detail on my relationship with Homa. I'm honest, no resentment on my part, but no friendship either.

Lucky 3

I discover that we resemble a university, in publish or perish. Even with years of service, no promotion without publication. To make Captain, you need your years and either one full length novel or 2 novellas. Major, your years and 6 novels or 12 novellas.
Why? No one ever says officially. My guess is to sop up excess downtime out on site, a way of keeping you away from excess booze and/or drugs. There is no particular amount you must make, just get published.
Friday evening I sip one drink as the stories rage. Prof blows a smoke ring, admires it, looks at her questioner, "ok, I guess you do deserve the truth. My first novel sold 48 copies. Publisher didn't bother with a money order, just sent my royalties in postage stamps. If I had it to do over, I'd think bout being a cop."
Everyone laughs.
"Seriously girls, stay outa novels. Too much work and risk. Far easier to get 2 novellas published than one novel. More profitable too."
"Why is that?"
"People are busy. A novella tucks in a pocket or purse easier, gets read on Metro or waiting for the meeting to start. Novel tends to sit at home with vague promises of 'some day'. Also, a novel costs what 3 novellas do. I mean go stand in a bookstore, you'll see 6 novellas sold for each novel."
"Oh."
"In Antiquity, was mostly novels. Ancients musta had bags of time. Not us, I mean not the people out on the street. Us in here, we got bags of free time."
A lab instructor laughs, "yep, Army or Time Corps, modern day equivalent to the convent."
"Go on," a student guffaws, "convents didn't have booze."
"Is that a fact now? Ever hear of sacramental wine?"
"I shoulda picked Navy. Hear they get a daily rum ration."
Prof laughs, "ask Jasmattie bout that. She knows of people who can drink 4 larges of rum. Has a few fun stories."
All eyes turn in my direction. I keep it humorous, stay outa obeah.

Monday I am summoned to Prof's office. She sits flanked by 2 strangers, one an obvious espionage type, one looking financial.
"Right Jasmattie, you must understand how it works. No one is compelled to take any one particular mission. You see, we aim to find good matches."
I nod.
Financial type asks various questions on my past reading, as the spook stares and makes me uneasy.
Prof then continues, "I understand you prefer a Canada mission."
I brighten up, "oh yes ma'am, very much so. Good experience last time. I like them."
Finance gives a thin smile, "I'm afraid this trip will be a little more boring. You won't stand on the edge of civil war. We want a look at the federal Department of Finance."
"Ma'am with all due respect, aren't there enough archives for that? Is it worth a trip?"
She laughs, "good, exactly what I wanted to hear. I need not worry you are too shy to speak plainly. So what do we want? The numbers alone just do not jibe. See, in circa 2000, Canada was year after year running surpluses and paying down national debt. At the same time, most European Union countries and the USA were struggling with absolutely intractable yearly deficits. We want to know, why the difference?"
I ponder a moment. In baseball parlance, this is a fastball right over the middle of the plate. Tailor made to bash a homer outa the park. But boring, forget getting a novella off it. "I see ma'am, and what would my duties and cover story be?"
Espionage grins, "the easiest way through a door is at low rank. You'll be a cleaner who works for a private company, does finance HQ. Dayshift, you'll overhear lots."
You bet I will, but I already know the answer. Canadians were, by and large, more respectful of authority, less rebellious, stood still for a lotta ridiculous tax increases. Whereas the French or Italians would put 300,000 demonstrators out on the street.
Prof asks, "so, want time to think? Don't be shy, if it's no, there are other missions to choose."
Now in the great scheme of things, you don't get many fastballs over the plate. May as well unload on it, "ma'am, I'll be glad to take it."
I adjourn to the library and ponder. My instinct says it's Mulroneyism. So, start with 1984 as your baseline, last year of a Liberal budget. Then chronicle all the dirty tricks. De-indexation of exemptions. Goods and Services Tax. Deducting Canada Pension and Unemployment Insurance from the bottom of your income, instead of the top. Removal of the employment expense deduction. Supposedly simplifying by changing from 11 tax brackets to 3, but in actual fact sheer naked greed.

I get a tiny bachelor apartment in Ottawa and go about my job. I overhear zip of any importance, but still come back with a handheld jammed with data. I hugely enjoy my sojourn, just cannot get enough of those oh so civilized coffee houses. And no, I ain't no Mata Hari spy. Everything I bring back is freely available to any Canadian student or journalist.
I find myself bored itchy, longing to go on tour again. They really were nice people.
My report focuses on the yearly rate of tax increases during the Mulroney era, 1984 to 1993. I compare it to all over western countries during the same period. The table alone gives eloquent evidence, no editorializing needed on my part. The authorities are hugely pleased with my writeup.
But still, I am as far away from getting published as ever. Really hard to do a tax thriller, be a real snoozer. Besides, with the Empire rate of tax being so high, I doubt if I would get permission to write something like that.
One morning I awake with an idea. Do a novella thriller on cigarette smuggling from USA to Canada. Bet it would get past the censors. After all, cigarettes are equal in price everywhere these days, so there is no incentive to smuggle. I zip off an e-mail to the authorities. A week later, they reply. No, no objection at all, very quaint and historical, permission granted.
Writing proves to be the perfect antidote to my bored itchy state. I invent a seedy cast of bikers, separatists and the Indian Reserve near Montreal. The bikers need dope money; the separatists are seeking to finance their cause and the Natives want booze. I throw in a few cabbies and prostitutes who peddle cigs to their customers. Last but not least, a provincial Cabinet Minister who gets caught in flagrantis with his camper full of smuggled cigarettes. But with a twist - he and the one of the hookers were shall we say transacting business at the exact time of the arrest.
One month after submission to the censors, I get my reply. Approved as written, no need for change. Now the hard part, find a publisher.
The biggest crime publishing house, which usually avoids other crime (9/10 murder mystery), gives me a chance. It sells just over 1,000 copies. I get a royalty cheque and a warning to never bother submitting anything else to them. Too bor-ring, say readers, too much history lesson and not sufficient sex.
I am first in our class. Most have not even started writing yet. I become a mini-celebrity, as people bounce ideas off me, in mess or common room.
In conversation, I admit to a cop friend just how bad it was with my publisher. She smiles gently, "you see Jasmattie, it's just prejudice. The believe only murder cuts it. But hey, everyone here liked your story. Your characters come alive well. You'll get published again."
"Thank you so much."
"Now I got this idea, Satanic cult, ritualistic murders, now ..."
At the end, I smile, "I know just the publisher for you."

Lucky 2

From Day One, I can tell the instructor is eyeing me more than the rest. After a month, out of class, she starts, a way too casually, "uncanny, never heard a foreigner mimic those sounds to perfection, just is not done. I'd bet money Jasmattie, you are a past-life German."
"I really prefer to avoid religion."
"Checking the file, you're Arya Samaj. The tiny offshoot of Hinduism which doesn't believe in reincarnation. Sure puts you in the minority."
"Please, I prefer to avoid religion."
"It ain't religion, we could walk across that street, get you a genuine past-life regression."
"No!"
"Right then, as I see it, if you are, wonderful, they tend to do best in time travel. If you aren't, then your language talents are all the more remarkable." Wicked smile, "so, get lotsa dreams?"
My hot blush gives it away.
"I'll bet you do. Got the markings all over you."
"I ah well ah.."
"Hey look, no pressure. Wanna talk, nothing gets on your file. One Kamerad to another."
"You speak as one who was there."
"Your face is different this time of course. Your aura, unmistakable. I know who you are, were I mean."
"In that case, maybe we should talk. Have a variety of rather vivid dreams, plagued me since childhood."
"And so they will, til you deal with it."
After an afternoon, I walk away half-convinced, half-sceptical. Either way, best to just forget it. Not good times to dwell on.

My best friend during the German course is Homa, an Afghan-American. I tell her the real story of Skeldon, not the sanitized westernized version which went on my file.
Her take, acid test would be a thorough medical. If it turns out I'm capable of children, then it was all just a bad joke. If I'm infertile, well then could be my natural state or the obeah curse.
The Doctor looks very uneasy as she explains some passages just seemed to be welded shut, had been since childhood. Yes I am 100% infertile.
End of the course, I graduate top of the class.
We adjourn to an undisclosed location in rural Ireland. We're confined to compound except for any training maneuvers. The world at large believes this to be an ultra-secure anti-terr training facility. It ain't it's Time Corps.
Though lodged together, we are split into 2 groups, based on personality and aptitude. The majority is deemed best operating in pairs. They will do relatively short jumps back in time, mostly police function, to catch murderers red-handed.
The true eccentrics, such as myself, who are deemed only capable of lone work, are for long jumps. Way back in time, recon and research. No actual killing of course, that could alter history. We end up doing "reading" as in Brit-style independent university study.
We are free to read any times and places in history we choose. As our overall Prof says, "to see where the compass ends up pointing." We read on a topic, discuss it with her, then do a research paper.
Me, I just cannot get enough of the epoch of circa 1950 to circa 2100.
In the common room we soon see the differences between groups. The large group of cops are mostly stodgy, overly conservative, averse to risk. The minority, for lone recon, really do not care. To us, it's a case of not being overly upset at the thought of death or being stranded in time. By and large, I'm fairly wimpy, considerably less outcast than mosta this group. Most ultimately have nothing to come back to, hence don't mind having some fun and risk.
There is also the chance at fame and fortune. Actual hard data is confidential. Soft data, as in how people of an era lived, color commentary if you will, is not. If you can write a novella or novel about the Ancients (which of course must pass through censors), you can keep the royalties.
Duration of jumps is another difference. For cops, it's mostly day trips. For us, it's several months or years on site, passing covertly as members of the society.
Booze, well see the difference. There is a wet canteen, for obvious reasons, don't want people tempted to sneak off base. Cops love to get rinko-stinko and often. Us lone wolf wanderers rarely do. I always limit myself to one drink, form good habits. Hey I don't mind dying on something glorious, but I ain't gonna die of drunken stupidity like so many in Skeldon.

My training jump is the 1970 October Crisis in Canada. Due to TDF (time distortion factor), I'm gone several days, but it gives several months on site.
I cannot give you the hard data, but the soft - wow - I am bigtime impressed. You see, Canada staggered to the very brink of civil war as Quebec separatists began bombings and kidnapping. And yet the rebellion was crushed with gentlemanly precision. Very little loss of life, minimal number of people imprisoned. No country on earth can lay claim to facing so much and yet subduing it with so little loss of overall freedom in the society.
I come back, wildly enthusiastic about doing further Canadian missions. No one else in our group has the faintest interest, so that puts me in a monopoly position.
Despite a quasi-wartime situation, my cover story stood up with ridiculous ease. I was simply one more textile worker in Montreal. In fact, things were so seamless I took it for granted.
As I listen to common room stories, I soon understand I had an almost magic carpet of a free ride. Everyone else got into some jam or other. Some even had to trigger themselves back prematurely, abort the mission, to save their lives.
Prof spent 2 days debriefing me, came to a different conclusion. Yes there was lotsa scope for trouble, but I stayed outa it. I see the admiration in her eyes as she sums up, "you stood at a very edge of history. Actually followed orders, which makes you a rarity around here. Orders were to observe, not participate, which could alter history. I am proud of you."
Homa got a royal telling off. Killed a Soviet soldier at a checkpoint. Come on, you're only supposed to trank. She got 14 days KP (Kitchen Police) for that.

Of my technical training 99% is secret. I am only allowed to give out 3 facts, all of which are public knowledge, freely available to any journalist or schoolchild.
First, we can only travel in what is the past to us, not the future. To the circa 2000 reader, a lot of what we do seems in the future of course.
Second, we cannot project through time and space. If we wished to travel from our base in Ireland to India of a century ago, we'd need a vehicle to carry us to the exact Drop Zone in India. At that point, we would use the time machine.
Third, there is a TDF (Time Distortion Factor) on every jump. This varies from 10 to 15. For example, being away from base 2 days gets you 20 to 30 days on site. This is the crux of everything, the trickiest part of the navigation. If the drop crew screws up your TDF, you vanish into thin air, never heard from again, stranded in time. Being out 1/100 of 1% is a sentence of exile. So, if they hate you, guess what, you ain't coming back. They'll cook the reading to show they weren't at fault, you were. So, always be nice to them, buy some candy for them from the tuck shop.

As far as cops jumping, government policy is to go after murderers only. They don't want to risk human lives on more mundane crimes.
The cops have greater odds of hitting literary paydirt. Go loiter in a bookstore for an hour, you'll soon see what I mean. For every one historical fiction sold, there's gotta be 20 mysteries.
If you could write a good convincing thriller of how the World Wide Nuclear War started, you might score big. Other than that, our royalties our most likely cigarette and ice cream money.

Lucky 1

It is said that Time Corps officers are unique, that the Empire has a positive talent for seeking out those who have spit in the demon's eye and lived to tell the tale, and all before attaining the age of majority. I used to think my childhood story was unique, exceptional. Hearing those of sister officers, I realize I got off easy, I'm a wimp compared to most here.
Without further ado, I take you to the little backwater where I grew up, Skeldon, Guyana. End of the line, you could not get into Suriname for love or gold for obvious reasons. They don't want you showing up in Holland, already got enough dopers there.
My father had finished the minimum Grade 3 required, did fresh water fishing for market. My mother, elementary teacher, that took Grade 12. Tensions with that much difference in education? Oh you bet.
His drinking did not help. Rum was dirt cheap, he could drink four larges (26 ounce bottles) in a night. Lotta the men could, the tropical sweat metabolism.
Our corner of the world was almost empty, but the rules were set by the crowded coastal belt, the narrow strip heading east from Georgetown, the capital. Hemmed in one one side by the sea wall, being 5 feet below sea level, and on the other by thick jungle, there was nowhere to expand. So the 2 child rule was very strict. After two, both husband and wife got the operation.
My elder brother had died in a mini-bus accident, so that left me the only child.
Next to me in Kumar Elementary sat Sanjeev, another only child. His older brother, a merchant sailor, had died in a bar rumble in Sri Lanka.
Sanjeev was exceptionally weak in arithmetic and therein lay my chance. You see, his father, already old and unwell, looked forward to the day he could hand over the video rental store.
It had 2 sections: family (Bollywood) and adult (porn). It was a goldmine, made them among the richest in town.
Everyday I'd walk home with Sanjeev. We'd sit out on his balcony, his mother would bring ice-cold lime drink or lemonade and I'd help him with math. Well sort of. I did not want him to get too good at it or he would not need me. After all, he'd need math to run the store. If he got too good, he'd marry someone a lot better-looking than me. So despite all my help, his math never progressed much, but his dependence on me was coming along just fine thank you.
Trust my father to insert the monkey wrench into the gears. A few days after I turned 10, it happened. Ramroop's Rumshop, like all others, sold by the bottle. You could buy large, half or quarter. He had plastic glasses he would loan to you and ice he'd sell you. Most nights when the door closed, a couple dozen customers would simply adjourn to the road in front. These late night encounters produced a surfeit of widows in town.
My father got into an argument with another man much like himself, Grade 3 education and growing vegetables for market. This man, though, was into obeah (magic).
I'm guessing both men were sufficiently blacked out to not recall events, but enough witnesses were sober enough that the town heard the story.
My father attacked with a knife. The other, have done a tour of duty with Guyana National Service, easily disarmed and pinned him. He is reputed to have said, "should kill you, but don't want no trouble with cops. So, put a curse, your line will die out. That daughter of yours won't be able to have a child."
Did he actually put the curse or only say so? Mattered not, from that point, I was history in Skeldon.
Sanjeev dropped me like a hot potato. He would not talk to me or even look in my direction. Schoolmates went way outa their way to avoid me.
You see, some proclaim themselves to be westernized, modern. But to defy an obeah man? Not on your life, only a white would be so silly.
Elementary stopped at Grade 6, nothing further in Skeldon. So I was now in the unenviable position of 2 more years of school, a total pariah, then four years hanging around home until I was legally old enough to be on my own.
As for the 2 years, I will not bore you. Much is said of the loneliness of command, but this was much worse than that.
But then I defied the odds, passed the grueling entry exam into President's College for Girls in Georgetown. A live-in facility, Grade 7 to 12, you got all board and room, tuition, books and uniforms.
A month after I started school there, our family made the national news. My father shot my mother with a centuries-old pistol he owned and yes the ballistics test matched. He was then burned to death in a fire which was deliberately set. There is only one question the Guyana Police Service could not answer: intent? Was the fire to kill himself? Or maybe the fire was to destroy evidence, and in his drunken state, he didn't escape it?
Again, immaterial, I was a legal ward of the state. In theory the vacant lot in Skeldon was worth $100. In fact no one would buy it, afraid of the jumbies who would be hanging about after the fire.
I became one of the tiny minority who never go home on school vacation. You were only allowed out the gates in supervised group activities, and no, not to be nasty. Good reason, the huge crime wave in Georgetown, they were protecting us.
With bags of free time, I soon discovered my passion was history. There was a large and up to date library and I did a lot of reading.
Now being one of the orphans confined to the place almost guaranteed an extra 6 or 7% in marks, just that much more time and focus.
My good marks got me an invitation to sit the Empire Officer Corps Entry Exam, 2 parts, 2 hours each. The first, multiple choice, math questions, word usages, geometric figures and such. I heard after that only 1 in 1000 ever finish, the sheer quantity of it. I finished.
The other, I filled 9 pages of white space answers and did essays questions which covered both sides of six 8 1/2 by 14 inch foolscaps. I had writer's cramp for 3 days, but I was in, that's all that counted.
I will not bore you with my year of Sandhurst-type military academy. It's been done, and to death. I spent 2 days being questioned by a panel of teachers on my reading habits. Between my photographic memory and the huge amount of reading I had done at President's College, I quoted verbatim long passages covering obscure periods in history. And so it was, I was detailed to Time Corps.
In the Schwabian Alps of southwestern Germany is a pleasant little town of medieval flavor called Blaubeuren. You take the train to Ulm, then the short hop west to Blaubeuren. Nothing secret happens there, so I am free to describe it.
I'm learning German, reason, all the best research materials are in German. Impossible to do Time Corps without at least a reading knowledge.
It is the ultimate in good comradeship. We practise our German in airy restaurants and bars, hike, study, movies and group visits to various sites.