Road Trip

Almost everyone who works on the island does so for a reason. For the ladies’ luncheon crowd who would otherwise, off-season, spend their afternoons at the Club in this or that suburb-with-manicured lawn, a summer dabbling 2 days a week in the rag trade at one of the main street boutiques means a departure from the tedium that a housewife-cum-empty-nester experiences most of the year. She also gets a little mad money to spend on a laser treatment, and a 30% discount on the Lilly Pulitzer dress she would have paid full price for anyway. Hiring them means store owners don’t worry about paying benefits or salary, and the low wages they get away with allows them to defray the cost of shipping their must-have products in from the mainland. Besides, these chatty-cathy worker bees are selling to their friends a good deal of the time and they know how to uptick an invoice with “that perfect little accessory” better even than a used car salesman. These matrons have little time for colored folks who rummage through the sale rounders, and little patience for the teenagers who snicker at the fashion, but since it’s not their plastic that keeps the doors open, such dismissive behavior is well tolerated.

Mackinac also attracts its share of female ski-bum waitresses, biding their time until they can head back to Colorado or Idaho and make fresh tracks. These are the island ringers, those seasoned American workers who are as fast on their feet as they are with a quick smile or a friendly quip for tourists. To them, Mackinac’s drunken wealthy clientele and lackluster locals nightlife translates to big tips and more of it staying in the bank. They bunk three and four to a room and spend the time working as many shifts as possible. For those who can, they bring their boyfriends, but for most, it’s an opportunity to squirrel away a little cash so they can blow it in Aspen.

There are counter-jobs, too. As evidence of the time warp that caught the island, Mackinac’s culinary claim to the fame was, and continues to be fudge. Looking at the 13 or more always-crowded fudge shops that line the two-block span of Main Street, one might forget that the rest of the world has long ago banished the chalky, gritty, nut-punctuated substance to limited engagements on Aunt Ida’s Christmas dinner table. Mackinac can, however, boast of one innovative marketing tactic. In 1887, John Murdick opened the first fudge shop on the island and had the bright idea of installing window fans to pump the chocolatey smell out to the street. Years later, Mrs. Field’s Cookies would attempt to patent the idea, only to discover that she’d been beaten by about 100 years.

Unlike the waitresses socking away ducats for a snowy day and the wealthy elite getting their discount on a summer wardobe, there are no special perks to working behind the counter at these shops, all of which were interchangeable, or at the various cookie, fudge, ice cream and take-out eateries that dotted the island, and the pay is too low for the neighboring St. Ignace teens to snatch up the positions as a Summer job. Most shop owners don’t care for the “look” of blacks working behind the counter, so the sullen faces stuffed into the pink candy-striper styled uniforms are mostly Russian and Czech Republic immigrants who bussed-and-ferried in from further north to make a little rent money by shoving bits of chocolate-peanut swirl at overweight tourists. Michiganders not being particularly effusive, their demeanor turns out only to be depressing to Californians and Floridians, who rarely make their way to the island anyway .

There are dock worker jobs – mostly college boys – who get to spend a few weeks flirting, sunning, and honing their crew skills. They load bags and help ferry passengers to and from the island and land big tips from old ladies grateful for their help. They moonlight at the numerous bike rental shops, which do a hefty business owning to the fact that no cars are allowed on the island. And there are tour guides and museum workers, mostly locals, whose love for the island kept them doing their jobs.

And then there are the Jamaicans, who keep the beds made and the toilets cleaned and the windows washed. They nanny children, and cater parties (and least the back end), and clan golf clubs. They clean out stables and clean up private homes. They wipe down the floors at closing and hose off the vomit left in bars by drunken sailors and insurance agents after hours. They sweat in the back of kitchens, peeling vegetables and working the fry-o-lator. If they manage to get outside, it’s because they are gardeners, or worse, carriage greeters, working in full woolen uniforms with pillbox hats in front of the Grand Hotel.

The perks to them are less obvious, but nonetheless there. To be sure, no one thinks it’s the meager wage they make. Despite it being off-season back home, many of them might have pieced together a similar salary had they stayed home. Neither is the chance to come to America, though to some the prestige of it is a draw to a few. For most, the biggest perk to a season in Mackinac is the “crate.”

Jack Walker, who like his father before him, had brokered most of the seasonal help for the island, had also maintained the relationships and quid pro quo barter system that had kept the island going since it became a major tourist attraction in 1927. Those relationships let him secure work Visas for his seasonal workers even when other companies, like those in the Silicon Valley, and other seasonal areas like Nantucket, were quota’d-out. A couple week stay in a well-appointed suite for a certain supervisor at the state level kept the township’s books from being overly scrutinized. And hosting the annual golf tournament for the hard-working men and women in our nation’s customs division gave his seasonals the green light to work the island.

In addition to a weekly paycheck and the offer of cheap housing in exchange for working on the island, each Jamaican is allowed to take back with them a crate, into which they can put whatever they like. These crates are not inspected by U.S. Customs so long as they are certified to have come from one of Jack Walker’s people. Roughly the size of a small footlocker, packed with care and intention, the crates become the single most important reason to work the island.

Every two weeks, the Grand charters a bus in Mackinaw City for island employees, which takes them to the outlets, about an hour north of the Island. Workers and their newly cashed paychecks pack in and spend hours combing the stores for bargains to pack in the box. CD’s, clothing, bikinis and swim trunks, small electronics like video game players and portable DVD players, designer sandals, books on tape, pashmina shawls, watches, sunglasses, perfume, and jewelry. Anything that will sell during the high season back home was snatched up for packing into the crate. Once back in Jamaica, they would merchandise it at their small hotels and stores, and peddle it for quadruple the price they paid to American tourists who haven’t anticipated a need for such items while packing, but soon found themselves willing to pay any price to keep their teenage son or daughter quiet. A seasoned worker with a good eye can turn a $1000 worth of merchandise into $5000 in profit.

It was still early in the season and culturally, Jamaicans not being planners, the bus was quite empty, filled mostly with ski-bumlets, a few young people, including Jujee and Miiga, and some of the more seasoned buyers. They knew that the best deals were had by making frequent visits to the outlets rather than trying to cram $1000.00 worth of shopping into one trip. Miiga watched Jujee helping the women on the bus, which was waiting at the Shipler’s dock in Mackinaw City.

“So, Gilda, you gon’ I little shoebox dis year, girl?” he asked, winking at the heavyset woman who was coming toward the bus. “Me got little present for you.” Jujee turned up the charm and the accent.

“Of course, Jujee,” said the woman, tapping her cheek. Jujee leaned down, gave her a peck, and helped her navigate the first step.

“How ‘bout you, Miz Brown? Me get a little bit?” With a big grin, he tapped his cheek and got a kiss.

“Yes, Jujee, child. You know you can have wha-tever you want.” She stepped on the bus. Miiga marveled at Jujee. He charmed or impressed almost everyone on the island, but was particularly lithe with the ladies. His wide smile and his confidence made most people relax in his presence. She had even seen some of the white women vacationers staring at him when he worked the golf course. Jujee always got what he wanted.

“Jujee, what you doin’?” asked Miiga. In past years she had given her crate completely to Stedley who had an eye for the right things to buy. On her days off, she preferred to walk the quiet shores of the island or stay near the house, or hang out at the Dome. The outlets were never much of a draw. This year, however, Stedley had asked her to come along and learn. She was standing outside the bus waiting for him to buy their return ferry tickets. It was her first time watching Jujee work the old ladies.

“I’m just getting’ me a little extra space, little Miiga, dat’s all,” said Jujee. “Dat little crate. I need more room.” With Miiga, he relaxed his Jamaican patois. With Stedley nearby, he knew he had to keep his distance.

“You stealin’ from those women? Jujee! You ought to shame yourself. Dey need that room, too,” said Miiga, in a mock teasing voice.

“Girl, what you t’ink. I’m paying dem good money for dat space. $500.00 for a shoebox worth.” Miiga’s mouth dropped open. $500.00! For what he could fit in a shoebox? That was 25% of her total pay for working the entire summer.

“How you gonna afford dat?” said Miiga. “What you bringin’ in dat box worth so much? Drugs?”

“Jewelry,” said Jujee. “You know dey love the jewelry. I got a connection get I good stuff, even gold, for cheap.”

“Why you can’t put it in your own box?” asked Miiga. “If it so small, why you can’t carry it your own self?”

“I could, but Customs. Dey don’t want nobody takin’ too much of one t’ing out the country. Sometime dey inspect dem boxes and they look careful if it’s too heavy. White man’s tricky and I can’t be too careful. Besides,” Jujee laughed and his big wide smile returned “dey need the money girl?”

“So do I,” said Miiga, thinking how good it would be to have an extra $500.00 and wondering why Stedley had never told her about this opportunity.

“You want some of Jujee’s action Miiga?” Before she could answer the voice behind her did.

“NO! She don’t wan’ nothin. And don’t you be involvin’ her in dat mess.” It was Stedley. Miiga turned around and smiled.

“We just talkin’, old man,” said Jujee.

“Well, you keep talkin’ and leave dat child alone,” said Stedley. “You know I don’t play,” He placed his hand on Miiga’s shoulder and directed her onto the bus. “Don’t be listenin’ to that craziness. You don’t need to be involved in all dat. You put your money in da bank. We fill your crate just fine, Miiga.”

“We cool old man?” Jujee asked Stedley as he boarded the bus with Miiga.

“We cool, Jujee,” but you know how I feel about my girl.”

The bus ride was spirited. Because it was still early in the season, people had not yet wearied from the work, the tedium of the daily side-ways glances, the fatigue of that institutionalized bigotry that service workers – black and white – feel from their privileged served. They were not yet missing husbands and children left behind for the summer, and the promise of bargains waiting for them at the outlet was still new. While the white workers stayed near the front of the bus, quietly talking or reading, the blacks chatted about the past week’s events and celebration in the way that Jamaicans do when it’s just them. At the top of the list of island happenings was Miiga’s head-on collision with one of the guests, and they razzed her no end about her clumsiness until she could not wait to reach the outlets, if only to get away from her “family.”

When the bus reached the outlets, the driver parked near the other charters. He announced that they would be leaving promptly at 2pm, and opened the doors. Folks filed out and scattered in little clumps. Miiga and Stedley went off in search of videos and CDs, while others headed for the clothing stores. Miiga noticed Jujee crossing the highway and heading in the opposite direction, presumably toward a jewelry store, though she could not see one.

“What Jujee doin?” asked Miiga, pointing to him off in the distance.

“Getting’ in trouble,” said Stedley. “Don’t pay no attention to dat boy, Miiga. You know he Obeah. He crazy.”

By the time they entered the stores and embarked on the task of carefully selecting their booty, Miiga had long forgotten about Jujee. She was deep in the throws of profit fever and had Stedley not been keeping track of the time, she would surely have missed the return bus. But they made it, and when they arrived, there was Jujee, a small bag of CD’s in his hand, his big smile and easy manner, helping those who needed it with their packages.

The bus made its way back to Mackinaw City and the riders piled on the Shepler’s Ferry back to the island. It was 5pm and she had spent her entire day at the outlets. She had enjoyed herself and loved being with Stedley for the day, but they had barely made a dent in the crate and she just couldn’t fathom doing this three or four more times during the summer. She made up her mind that, as in years past, she would let Stedley fill her crate. Maybe she would give some of her space to Jujee. $500.00 was $500.00, and what Stedley didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She could use the money.

“You want to come back to the Dom? We cookin’ up some jerk,” asked Stedley as they walked toward the residences at the upper end of the island. It was Miiga’s day of and she didn’t have to start work until the next morning, but she was tired and wanted to rest in her own room. Mrs. Grund let her have free run of the kitchen and she was allowed to make anything she wanted, but she had never been much of a cook and the lure of jerk chicken was too much to turn away.

“OK, but not if it’s on JP time,” she said, hoping that Charlene or one of the other women who was known for their jerk chicken had everything ready to eat. Jamaicans were rather relaxed about time, and she really was tired. She loved spending time with Stedley, though. He was her dad away from home.

“No, JP time,” said Stedley. “OK, little one.” They fell back from the crowd, most of whom were headed back to the Dome if they didn’t have shifts to pull that evening. “How is everything over at the Grunds?” he asked her. “You doin’ OK there? Nothin’ strange, yah?” Stedley was always concerned about Miiga. It made her feel cared about.

“No, I’m fine,” said Miiga. “Mrs. Grund, she drink too much, but she OK. Mr. Grund, he never home. He always off somewhere. And when he do come home, dey fight,” said Miiga, shrugging off the complexities of their relationship. She couldn’t understand what all they had to fight about. Rich people.

“Your mama turning in her grave, girl. She never wanted you to work Mackinac. ‘The place is steeped in evil,’ she used to say. Sometimes I think she was right. Dis place make a person do strange things.”

Miiga had heard her mother say the same thing or things like it many times when she was alive. And her mother had forbidden her to come to work here all the years she was able, forcing Miiga to stay back in Negril with her father, who himself had never been to Mackinac. Not that it was bad staying home with her daddy; the two of them had gotten into plenty of mischief together without her mother around, and she had learned to make ginger beer and tamarind candy, both of which her mother frowned upon. But the off-season months could be long for a little girl without her mother, and it took its toll on Miiga in different ways.

Neither she nor her father had planned to ever set foot on the island again, after her mother’s death, but money wasn’t so plentiful with with her father’s fishing business barely eeking out a living for the two of them. So, three years ago, when the senior Mrs. Grund had extended the offer, Miiga decided to go. Besides, the pay Miiga was offered was substantially higher than anyone else on the island. The money was worth the trip and the little discomfort they felt in having Miiga work there.

“I don’t see nothing evil, here,” said Miiga. “Jus’ a little bit funny that there’s no black people from America, here.”

“Dat ain’t no mistake,” said Stedley. “The only black people want to work dis island us. And dey couldn’t get us if we didn’t have the crate to take home. Black folks in America can’t take all this service work. Dey lazy, for one,” he said, mimicking his boss at the Jockey Club. In fact, Stedley didn’t have much experience with American blacks. “And for two, dey had slavery.”

“Seem like Jujee only come for the crate,” said Miiga. “How he get all that jewelry?”

“Shhhhh,” said Stedley, lowering his voice. “Girl, you stay away from dat Jujee. You don’t need to be messin’ with dat boy. And he ain’t bringin’ back no jewelry.”

“What he bringin’ back? Drugs?” asked Miiga excitedly? She had figured as much, even asked him earlier that day, but he had deflected her question.

“Probably. I know he don’t pay no $500.00 for no earrings. You stay away from him. Promise, now.”

Miiga promised. Stedley had always taken care of her, watched out for her, in Negril and here on Mackinac. She trusted him as she trusted her father. Stedley had watched out for Miiga’s mother, too, when she was alive.”

“You don’t think dis place evil, do you, Stedley?”

“All I know is dere’s some bad Mojo.”

Miiga and Stedley knew, but did not talk about, the reasons why Miiga’s mother felt the place was evil; indeed, Miiga’s very nickname foretold the story. Counting back nine months, it was clear that Miiga had been conceived on the island, and looking at her milky brownish skin, it was evident that her father had been white. When Miiga’s mother had come back home pregnant, no one except Stedley stood by her. To everyone else, she was a whore and a tramp, and had brought disgrace upon the good people who were fortunate enough to get work on the island. Had it not been for Johnny, Miiga’s step-father, stepping up to marry his childhood playmate and best friend, Miiga would not have had a father at all. It never mattered to Miiga or Johnny that they were not blood. That’s not how Jamaicans pick their relatives.

What Miiga and Johnny did not know, however, were the exact circumstances under which Miiga’s mother had become pregnant. Her mother had always been steely and silent about it, waving away with a determined hand-swipe, any questions that Miiga (or Johnny) brought up. She would not discuss it. Period. When she died, she took the secret with her to her grave. And despite much speculation about wild parties and thwarted romances, no one knew what really happened that summer of 1980. Except Stedley. And the senior Mrs. Grund. And a cook named Marlene.

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