The only fun thing about working late at a teacher’s desk is the Jamaican custodial crew after hours.

Perhaps after a decade of teaching I should have learned how to go home before the janitors sweep under my feet, but year after year I find myself in the same spot, listening to Arrow go on in his thick Jamaican accent about the blue ocean waters in his homeland, how the kids back in Jamaica respect their elders, and how women back in his country never whistle in public.  (At least, that’s what I believe he’s been talking about.  I only understand the tenth word of everything he says.)

Yesterday I was in my classroom particularly late, as midterms are due Monday, and I needed some extra time to type “Jose has a lot of potential if only he would apply himself in class” one hundred forty times.  As I flipped through my gradebook, Arrow plunked something wrapped in tin foil on my desk.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“You say you never try Jamaican food.  And that you want me to cook for you. So I bring you some!”

Oh.  So that’s what those other nine out of ten words were about.

Before I even opened it, the most pungent smell permeated my senses.  Something was awfully fishy about this package. And I mean awfully fishy in the most literal sense.

“Is it fish?” I asked, but I didn’t have to.  I could see its shape through the tinfoil. As I unwrapped the first layer, I saw a clear outline of its tail.

“Oh!  Smells great, Arrow…”

I unfolded the second layer.   I could definitely make out the shape of its head.

“This was really nice of you…really, I’m the one who should be bringing YOU dinner…”

I unwrapped the third and final layer.  There was a googly eyeball staring at me, like those sticky, slimy ones you’d find on the bottom of your kid’s Halloween basket, still firmly in it socket.

Panic set in.

It’s here that I should backtrack.  I am what you might call a vegetarian in denial.  I have a soft spot for every creature on the planet, no matter how ugly or slimy or wiggly.  (Except for mosquitoes, wasps, or any other creatures that sting my babies or suck their blood.  Those creatures can suffer a most ghastly and unmerciful death by my hand.)  I am a champion of animal rights, and I have always felt wrong and hypocritical for eating animals, starting when I was nine years old and my father placed a tiny Cornish hen on my plate for dinner.  I could see where the head was severed from its body, tiny legs and wings folded perfectly over its plucked, roasted body—and I promptly burst into tears.   I can’t even look at person eating shrimp cocktail, callously dunking each individual-bodied sea creature into a bowl of shrimp dip.  I admit it—even today I walk by the lobster tank in a grocery store and avoid eye contact at all costs, for fear that I’ll form some cosmic bond with one of its captives and feel the nagging need for a new salt water pet.

I justify eating cows, chickens and turkeys because I’m eating them in parts.  Somehow, it’s just not quite the same as eating an animal in its entirely, from tail right to the gristly little eyeball.

Arrow watched my face in eager anticipation.  He wanted to see me try the fish, which was swimming in a sea of brown marinade and stuffed with okra.

There are times, especially while plagued with a horrible series of events, that I become rather agnostic, all traces of faith lost to the wind.  But then there are times when my faith in God is restored—for I know I’ve been rescued from the closest of calls, and the only explanation is divine intervention.

I didn’t have a fork.  And neither did Arrow.

“Oh, Arrow!” I wailed.  “Isn’t that just my luck?!  I can’t wait to try this.  I’m going to take it home, pour a glass of wine and have myself one delicious feast!”

“Ya mon!” Arrow beamed.  “You go home, you enjoy.”

“Word up, she gonna throw that shit in the garbage and say she ate it!”

I should mention that Johnny was sitting there next to me.  Johnny is a sixteen-year-old eighth-grader who skips my class on a daily basis, but then makes up for it by visiting me after hours, distracting me with tales about how he busted out of his juvenile detention facility before he came to my school.  Sadly, his parents spent the money earmarked for his etiquette training for bail money on themselves instead.

“That’s not true,” I rebuffed, flashing Johnny a look more rancid than the dead fish before me.  “This was really thoughtful, Arrow.  Don’t you worry—not one bit of it will go to waste!”

And it was true.  Later that evening, the dogs would inhale it before it even hit their plate.  And they’d go after the bones, both eyeballs, fish head and every last scaly morsel if I’d let them.

But Arrow didn’t need to know that.

“It was the best fish I’ve ever tasted!”  I raved when I saw him on my way out of the building.  “If that’s what Jamaican food tastes like, I’m buying a one-way ticket to Kingston!”

The whole time I was waving my hands in animated gestures, and he was watching them closely.

“You married?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.  “But I think I’d like to marry you instead.  You cook.  Not to mention, you clean for a living.  You are the answer to every woman’s prayers!”

Sometimes I don’t understand that joking isn’t always appropriate, especially when my humor doesn’t transcend cultural barriers.

“Oooooh.  I would be so happy if you be my wife,” he vowed.  “I cook for you every single day.  I wash all your clothes.  And I have beautiful home right by the water in Jamaica!”

Had he thrown in an ox, three chickens and a conch shell necklace, he might have had himself a deal.

He said some more stuff, but again, I could make out only ten percent of it.  As for the rest of it, I nodded, smiled and agreed as usual, wondering what I could possibly be agreeing to this time.

I’m not still here come Monday, I just might be stretched out by the Caribbean Sea with an umbrella drink in my hand, jamming to Bob Marley, nodding, laughing, and munching curry goat and fish heads with my new Jamaican husband.