A roach coach is the closest St. Chris comes to an after hours joint.
When the restaurants and bars in Isabeya are shuttered and silent, the last of the weekend revelers -- mostly local boys-going-on-men in their late teens -- head for the waterfront parking area near Fort Frederick to cluster around a shiny aluminimum sided Gruman Kurbmaster step-van labeled in foot high red letters "Maubi's Hot To Trot". The o's sprout dancing yellow and orange flames like the garish hair colors favored by MTV punk rockers, a hair styling trend rarely seen on our tiny patch in the Caribbean.
A construction worker forced into early retirement by an accident that shattered his left leg -- leaving him with a permanent limp and occasionally dependent on a cane -- Maubi sells cold sodas, homemade ginger beer and maubi from ice filled coolers and take-out platters from the foil lined containers of West Indian snacks and fried chicken kept hot under infrared lamps.
Late one Friday night in early April, I stopped for a take-home snack. Maubi sat inside his van, elbows resting on the serving counter, chatting with a handful of lingering customers. Michael's voice crackled over the airwaves from an old boom box radio sitting up high on a back shelf. Maubi ended a ribald story with a thigh slapping belly laugh to greet me with a warm smile.
"Morning Lady! What carries you to town so late?"
"Last minute parade stuff and the memory of your wife's pates. Got any left?"
"Beef or saltfish?" I never ordered saltfish, but Maubi always asked just the same.
"Two beef, please."
"I got beef roti tonight."
"I'll take one. And a chicken leg for Minx." I knew from experience a cat will forgive any slight if there's a food bribe involved. In the five years we're been together, Minx has become hooked on Maubi's fried chicken.
"Something to drink?"
"Your specialty," I said smiling. "A large one."
Maubi grinned. "Brewed it fresh myself this week in my big enamel kettle. Best maubi batch ever." He kissed the tips of his fingers as a sign of his own approval, chortling as he packed my food and drink in a cardboard box. ... "Where you parked?"
I pointed to my ten year old hatchback a short distance away.
"That's too far to go by yourself. The jumbies could get you." He leaned toward me, lowering his voice. "It's not safe like the old days. We got drug dealers and low-lifes limin' around the fort. That's why I come to rest my van down here so late. Keep my boy and his friends out of trouble."
...He called to his son. "Quincy! You take this food and see Miss Kelly gets to her car safe. Then come back and help me close up. It's time we go home."
Quincy and I were at my car when we heard a clopping sound like horse's hoofs followed by Maubi's cry, "jumbie be gone!"