The Backpacker by John Harris

one, eh John?’ He jumped down off his veranda and limped over towards me, pulling a face at Suzy’s back. ‘Man, what a start to the day! Wake up, some guy next door gets a free breakfast, an’ all I get is freefall!’ He sat down with his back against my door and looked out to sea. ‘Yep. Never came to places like this though.’
    â€˜How long were you in for?’
    â€˜Two years basic.’ He pulled his knees up to his chest and rubbed his back, wincing in pain. ‘Nothing else for black guys to do in the US. No, that’s not strictly true, there is something else but that involves breaking the law, so count me outta that shit.’
    Dave told me how he’d almost been a boxer first and then a stripper, all before the age of eighteen. Having not been particularly good at either, and not particularly bright at school, he’d had little choice but to go into the forces. Guys like him get steadily pushed further and further towards the back of the classroom until, finally, they are out of the door and are not allowed back in.
    â€˜You probably expected me to have a crew cut, right?’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Well, that was six months ago. Now I’m going for the Hendrix look.’ He patted his three-inch afro.
    â€˜Why not Bob Marley?’ I said provocatively.
    â€˜I ain’t no Rasta, man. Anyway, my mom wouldn’t approve. She thinks Bob Marley was a drug addict.’
    â€˜So was Hendrix, wasn’t he?’
    He nodded. ‘Yeah but he didn’t have dreads. Even black people are prejudiced John. Take a black guy with dreads an’ shit, my mom’ll say he’s a bad influence, should be in prison. You dress that same guy up in a suit and give him a haircut, no problem – my mom’ll ask him round for dinner.’
    I considered the image he conjured up and said, ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of person who’s worried about what people might think, Dave.’
    â€˜Just fashion, man. All these guys running around with dreads,’ his hand swept the air dismissively, ‘just fashion. They ain’t hippies. Same way I’m not Jimi fuckin’ Hendrix.’
    I tutted and rubbed my shaved head self-consciously. ‘Vanity, is that all it is?’
    â€˜That’s all. Nothin’ more and nothin’ less than that.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Chicks used to go for the Rasta look, now they go for the afro. Same reason you got a shaved melon, right? Chicks dig that on a white guy.’
    Dave and I sat outside my hut discussing fashion, or as he called it, ‘chewing the fat,’ until there were signs of life in the restaurant, and we went in to eat.
    â€˜What about Suzy?’ I said as we walked beneath the palm trees at the back of the huts. ‘Maybe she’s hungry.’
    â€˜She knows where it is, don’t worry.’ He hesitated, stopping mid-step. ‘Hey, you hittin’ on her?’
    I stopped. ‘What?’ I guessed the meaning but needed time to compose myself. It’s a bit of a shock when someone asks that question so boldly. ‘Hitting on her?’
    He grinned. ‘You, man, you an Sooze. Shit, white chicks. Whoo-ee!’ He slapped me on the back. ‘Listen, if you an’ her want to get together that’s cool. I know you two are both British la-di-das an’ all.’
    I shrugged his hand off my shoulder and put both hands up, genuinely surprised. ‘Course not! Christ almighty, is that how it looks? Honestly Dave, I’ve got no interest in your girlfriend, really.’
    He closed one eye and looked down his nose at me. ‘Hey, it’s OK, it means she’s marketable. Nothin’ worse than havin’ a girlfriend that nobody looks at.’
    â€˜Dave, I swear!’
    â€˜Let’s eat.’ He put his arm around me again and we went in and sat down in the empty restaurant.
    At one end was a counter and bar where a