On Having a Caribbean Gardener

The gardener is washing his truck in the driveway. He does this most Saturday mornings. It’s part of his routine at the Meerkat’s house. He was, in fact, washing his truck the first time they met. The Meerkat walked down the driveway to find a stranger scrubbing down a large blue truck. The gardener introduced himself, shifting the hose from one hand to the other in order to shake hands, and made a half-hearted attempt to appear as if he were actually watering the bushes. But as soon as The Meerkat turned away to walk down the steps into the house, the gardener returned to rinsing his already shiny Toyota Tacoma.

Now, if the Meerkat were actually paying for either the gardener’s services or our water supply this might be a problem. But we suspect the gardener is paid by the off-island landlord. And our cistern has yet to run dry. So, it’s a bit less bothersome that he uses the house’s water and driveway space to keep his vehicle more spotless than either of our own.

One Saturday morning not long after the Meerkat and I started spending all our free time together, I came over to do laundry and use the pool. He happened to be off island, and I was still staying at my own place while he was gone. The gardener wasn’t yet accustomed to my constant presence. He was used to the house being empty with the Meerkat’s frequent travels.

When I reached, I saw the gardener’s truck parked at the top of the driveway. I approached the house and noticed two pairs of shoes strewn sloppily by the entryway stairs and what looked like t-shirts haphazardly hung over the handrails. It appeared the gardener had some help this morning. But I didn’t actually see anyone about the front of the property. I figured they were cutting bush on the hill below.

I entered the stuffy house and started turning on fans and opening windows. I got no further than the dining room when I was both surprised and not surprised (a frequent paradoxical sensation in Stt) to spy a large black man floating lazily around the pool. One of his comrades was cutting bush next to the patio with a machete. The other one seemed to be drying in the sun after taking a cool dip. “Well," I thought, “there goes my plan to use the pool.”

I don’t know if they suspected that somebody was home, but shortly after I arrived, they got out of the pool and sort of went back to work. And when I say they sort of went back to work, I mean that two of them washed the truck in the driveway, while one of them used a chainsaw to whack off the overgrown bush around the house. Not that there is much overgrown bush to be whacked because as far as I can tell, the gardener comes here three out of four Saturdays a month. Either somebody must be paying him well or the perk of getting a free car wash makes it worth coming here almost every weekend.

I have since come to friendly terms with the gardener. I know his first name and we always exchange pleasantries. He is a very nice man, always smiling. I think he's from somewhere down-island. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is his second or third job. And I never feel uncomfortable being alone on the property with him. But, as you can tell, he’s definitely a gardener with a Caribbean sense of professionalism and propriety.

Last weekend, the Meerkat offered him $20 and a bottle of water to dispose of our Christmas tree. The gardener seemed happy to comply. We saw him walk up the driveway with the dying tree on his shoulder. We figured he put it in the back of his freshly-washed truck and threw it in the dumpster on his way out of the neighborhood. Later that afternoon, the Meerkat was sweetly walking the dog while I napped before my shift at the pub. At the top of the driveway, he caught a strong whiff of Christmas tree. Peering over the edge of the uncleared hill bordering the road , he could just barely see the shimmer of tinsel that remained on our tree. Apparently the gardener had simply walked up the driveway, and tossed the tree down the hill, which we learned is where he throws all the dead bush he cuts from the yard.

The Meerkat could have easily saved himself $20 and done this himself. But he would have, of course, gone to the trouble of strapping it to the top of the Corolla and hauling it to the dumpsters. And then we wouldn’t have the pleasure of smelling our still fragrant Christmas tree every time we walk the dog. So, I guess what we should really do is thank our Caribbean gardener for extending our Christmas cheer into the new year.

Dying tree pre-disposal.