Bury My Clothes. Roger Bonair-Agard

know it was a thing, but we were doing it anyway. We in QRC knew who had rank; and rank could be attained in any number of ways. Sport, fight, books, jokes, women—all these things could accord a fellow rank. But only if he knows to play it effortlessly, to move, like the facility with ball on foot or sweet talk faced with a distrustful woman is native, a non-learned thing. The Lion had movement. The Lion knew entrance, and as a youth coming into Hereford’s for the last few years, as a youth who knew my place in the company of grown men, I knew how to play it consequential to my years, and I knew how rank made itself manifest when I brought the Lion into the bar.

      The Lion strode in. When I say strode, I mean not only is there no tentative step, I mean there is regal in the walk. I mean the man knows his place in the world, knows he must proclaim it but will not flaunt it. I mean it is the walk of a man who knows his suit is impeccable, whose knowledge and rank are affirmed. As a young man in the apprenticeship of entrances, I know not to walk directly behind him—not to kowtow, but to defer. I know to walk obliquely behind, as if presenting the magistrate. I am, as a frequent patron here, in fact presenting the Roaring Lion at Hereford’s—presenting one who needs no presentation.

      The Lion climbs onto the barstool at the corner of the bar, a perch from which one becomes the moderator of all bar discussion. I respectfully take a stool to his right, say a deferential good evening to the gentlemen and the barkeep, and the Lion orders a half-bottle of Vat 19. We are accorded one can of Coke as chaser. The Lion pours us our first drinks: equal parts Coke and rum in a water glass. In short order, the half-bottle of rum is done.

      I have grown into what we in the Caribbean call a veteran, a man of hard liquor tastes and enough experiences to no longer be young, but not enough to yet be grizzled. That night on the barstool at Hereford’s, I was in training. I was drinking with a grizzled legend—and I had to keep up, hold my liquor, and then drive him home safely and not say anything stupid in the bar or on the way to Mt. Lambert.

      The Lion orders a second half-bottle of rum. In Trinidad, so much metaphor comes from the rich language associated with cricket. At the highest levels—Test cricket—the game is five days long and it’s a wonderful theater. We expect our best batsmen to stay in the wicket through adversity, to bat with flair and disdain when the moment calls for it, to leave to applause. And with the Lion’s introduction of this new ball, I am aware this is no one-day inning. I have to settle down and bat. Again, we are accorded a can of Coke to go with the half-bottle of rum. The drinks are progressively less brown in color and more cocoa, moving to gold. The Lion is telling stories. We learn that he has a newborn baby girl and there are tales of growing up, folks in the country, fights he has been in, and deaths he has avoided. As I’m an eighteen-year-old, the youngest fellow in the bar, my job is to lean in and laugh at the right time, speak only when spoken to and drink in time with my sponsor. Anything less is disrespect, and disrespectfulness is not just the absence of rank. It is negative rank. And then Lion says, Roger boy, three is the luckiest of numbers, and orders a third half-bottle.

      In an inning of cricket, a batsman finds out a few things about himself. He knows, if he is patient, whether or not the pitch is playing true, whether he can expect surprises in the bounce. If he is an astute student, he knows before he is even called upon to bat whether the wicket is more solicitous of spin or pace. He knows how he must play himself into the rhythm of the pitch, how flight looks against the pavilion’s backdrop, how quick the seamer is moving one way or the next. A batsman also suspects early on if he is out of his depth. If so, he stays patient. He tries to stonewall the bowlers until he can go for his strokes. With the third half-bottle I suspected I was playing out of my class. The Lion was drinking at least three times the number of years I had been alive. You do not ask out of the wicket, though. You bat and you concentrate and you make sure you don’t get out. If a field sees you are in trouble, they will crowd the bat, look for you to make a mistake. You have to play the role of confident swashbuckler, even when you have no idea which way the ball will turn. And with that, the Lion says:

      You good?

      I good.

      You sure?

      Pour again, I say

      And the bar erupts in laughter. Roaring Lion feigns surprise, and the barkeep assures them:

      That young fella in here all the time you know. He does come and carry his uncle home.

      And the veterans and old men nod and the Lion slaps me on the back, and just like that I’m admitted into a fraternity. The old men ask where I live and where I go to school, and when I say I just graduated from QRC they nod approvingly, because to old black men that still means one of we boys doing something good. And one of the men says Okay young Skipper, which means I’m allowed back and every now and then one of the old fellas will call down a drink for me before I pile Uncle Mikey into the car. I am official now, with this nickname, even a throwaway nonspecific one. And the Lion says, And the young fella have some throat on him, you know. He could sing. And just like that I am knighted, right there in the bar on a stool just off the corner—given permission to make my own entrance, to make it sure, smooth, unhurried next time I come to fire a few with the fellas.

      When we leave and the Roaring Lion and his trophy climb back into my car, we head to Mt. Lambert. It is four in the morning. It is an easy twenty-minute drive. I drop the Lion off in front a two-story, off-white house, and he says, You’re a good young fella. You will do well. He strides off, suit still immaculate, hat never having left that spot on his head, tie knotted right at the throat.

      Bury My Clothes

      Coulda been a judge but I don’t like that at all

      Doctor or a lawyer but the salary too small

      Bishop, but again, that’s too big legal

      So I became QRC principal

      I became a doux-doux man, and so,

      In my spare time I could sing my calypso . . .

      —The Roaring Lion, “Papa Choonks”