"Nou soti lwen yon jou na rive lwen. Peyi sa pa ka gaspiye."*

J-Perry_Haitian Singer

Ethan

"I wish you a prompt recovery," Mr. Brayard says as we exchange a handshake. "Come back to us brand new."

"I will sir, thank you."

I come out of his office with the letter he just gave me in hand. Sick leave. I'm not as relieved as I should be because those fifteen days off work will allow my arm to heal properly. Now is just not a good time for me to be absent from the radio. This injury has chosen the worst timing.

"Hey, Ethan. You're leaving already?"

Gary, one of our sound engineering technicians, spots me from afar as he heads out of the rest area for employees with a mug in hand. He walks down the hall toward me with a big smile on his face. Gary is a giant bearded man who looks more like he belongs to the NBA than behind a tech console. Maybe his imposing stature is the reason why he keeps a friendly face to make people comfortable.

"I only stopped by to collect my leave."

"Oh man, I can't believe this happened to you," he looks at my right arm with empathy as if he can see the bandages wrapped around my flesh underneath my dress shirt. "Does it still hurt?"

"Not as much now, it's mostly sore."

We walk together past the studio where the morning musical emission is airing, animated by Steve Corian one of the most famous radio hosts right now.

"You know you've got to come back quick man, right? I don't mean to stress you out but Randolph has been more cocky ever since word has gotten around that you'd be missing work for a while."

"Why am I not surprised..." I mumble trying to appear detached. 

I don't remember how this rivalry between me and Randolph started but our co-workers avidly alimented this abstract competition on the sidelines.  The fact that the promotion is now open has added fuel to the fire. One of the regular journalists of the morning journal panel is going to retire and Mr. Brayard has told us that Randolph and I are the top candidate he's considering for the position. The most devoted reporter out of the two of us will be the one who will be promoted. My being away for two weeks will give Randolph a big head start therefore putting me at a clear disadvantage. 

"In any case, you don't have to worry," Gary says. "Mr. Brayard has you in high esteem, you know that."

"That's exactly what I'm worried about. Randolph still thinks after three years that I got this job because our boss knew my father. I have to bust my ass twice as hard to prove that I deserve this promotion."

"I feel you man, but in the meantime take it easy. You recently went through a traumatic experience give yourself time to recover. You'll think about work when you get back."

"You're right. I should get my mind off work for a while."

Easier said than done.

Gary heads back to the studio and I walk out of the building of Radio Douvanjou*. The taxi I called earlier is here. I get in the backseat and greet the driver. I don't have to give him any additional information because he already knows where we're going.

I check my phone and see that Mom has sent me a message. She stopped by my apartment to gather some of my personal belongings so I won't have to do it by myself later. I barely hold in a sigh. I specifically told her not to do that. But I know she means well. I can't hold it against her. I send a message telling her that I'll be home around 2 P.M. I have somewhere to stop by first.

As we get stuck in downtown traffic I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. It's been three days since I got shot. I was discharged from the hospital yesterday. Being back at my mom's house did bring me the comfort I expected but when night came the nightmares also came back. I couldn't sleep for most of the night. What happened to me undoubtedly brought to the surface the memories of what happened to my dad two years ago.

Mom and I never talk about it ever since I woke up on this hospital bed, but I could see it in her eyes that she thought she'd lost me just like she lost her husband.

***

Half an hour later I arrive at Kole Sere* the bar where Kadrick and his band are set to perform in a few days. I find him in the parking lot on a phone call that seems to get on his nerves. By the time I make my way to him, he's already hung up.

"What's that face you're making, someone pissed in your lunch?"

"At this point, I wish someone had," he says as we walk to the back entrance reserved for staff. "We can't have our repetition here today because other bands in the line-up were already scheduled for practice. But we would have never come if they didn't give us today specifically to repeat."

"Have you talked to the manager of the place?"

"I was on the phone with his secretary when you came. He told me that their event planner is the one I should discuss this with. Except that this event planner guy doesn't want to hear anything. He's kicking us out of the bar."

When Kadrick called me while I was at the radio station to ask me to stop by Kole Sere and help him handle a situation I expected that it would be something media related. Ever since his band increased in popularity at the beginning of this year, they've been harassed by those so-called online media journalists who want to get an exclusive interview with them. I often have to play some of my connections to make those vultures back off.

This situation however might be out of my grasp.

"So you want me to intimidate him a little by using the fact that I'm a journalist so he can let you guys have your repetition?"

Kadrick grimaces. "I don't want you to intimidate him, but I'm pretty sure that he doesn't want any rumors to circulate in the media about the unfair treatment that some musicians in his event have experienced."

"Got it."

When we get inside many employees are going about their tasks, janitors washing the floor, people restocking the bar, and others bustling about decoration. On the stage, there are instruments and sound equipment already in position but the other members of the band are standing below with a defeated look on their faces.

Kadrick leads me to a short bald guy wearing a suit. He seems to be giving orders to one of the men in charge of decoration. He makes wide gestures with his hands and talks louder than necessary. He's got one of those Bluetooth earpieces to complement his "professional look" and when I get closer I notice immediately that his Michael Kors watch is a fake.

I shouldn't have been worried. This is going to be easy.

"Sorry to interrupt," Kadrick says and the man briefly turns his attention to us. "The manager of our band wants to have a word with you."

He looks me over, clearly irritated that someone dared come all the way here to challenge his authority. 

"One moment," he answers in a clipped tone.

I simply nod then I gesture for Kadrick to go wait for me with his bandmates.

When the event planner is done berating the poor employee he finally turns toward me and makes a point to look at his fake brand watch.

"I don't have much time to spare, Mr. Manager. Let's make this quick."

Oh, it will be quick Mr. Jackass.

When he looks back at me I'm holding out my Press pass that I took of my pocket. He eyes it with obvious boredom before taking it.

"I'm journalist Ethan Pascal from Radio Douvanjou. I'm sure you're familiar with it, my colleague Steve Corian is one of the V.I.P.s you invited to the event."

The moment I drop Steve's name a brief flash of worry crosses his face.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Pascal?"

So it's Mr. Pascal now. I have to keep myself from smirking when I reply.

"I expect my band to be treated with the same amount of respect as every other artist booked for this event and yet they've been told to leave when they came for repetition. Perhaps you can enlighten me regarding what this is about?"

"We never intended to treat your band with disrespect," he answers in a defensive tone. "There's been a mix-up in the repetition dates that each act received. I tried to explain  this earlier but your guy refused to listen."

I almost scoff at his face for trying to pin this on Kadrick.

"With all due respect, my band doesn't have to suffer the consequences of a mistake that they weren't notified of in advance. They were told to come today, and here they are, waiting for more than an hour when the stage is available. This is highly unprofessional." 

We hold the eye contact for a moment and I'm pleased to see a vein pulse at the side of his neck. There's no doubt that he doesn't give a shit about the band and would rather cuss me out but he has to play it safe.

If I get out of here unsatisfied two things can happen.  I might talk about what happened with Steve and as a result, this pretentious prick standing in front of me risks losing the huge boost of popularity that his event has gained so far. After all, if a renowned personality of the musical world like Steve Corian decides to not attend his event, people will be quick to make up all sorts of spiteful comments about a show that hasn't even happened yet.

 "I apologize for the inconvenience," he finally answers through gritted teeth. "Feel free to tell your band they can begin repetition."

He doesn't even wait for my reply and strides off to go pour his venom on another unlucky employee. 

"What did he say?" Kadrick asks behind me and I turn around to find him looking at me with an anxious face.

"You guys are good to play, he was just being an ass."

"Yes!"

A huge grin splits his face in two. It's during moments like these when I get him out of some trouble that I feel the same responsibility toward Kadrick as if he was my little brother. It's not just the fact that being twenty-seven makes me five years older than him. It goes beyond that. Our friendship has always felt as deep as a familial bond.

"And quit telling people that I'm the manager of your band," I warn him for the billionth time but he laughs it off as he walks away.

My taxi is waiting for me when I come out of the bar. This ride is going to cost me a lot but I'll have to get used to being driven around since my right arm needs to recover.

Mom texts me once again to know if I'm on my way back home and I give her a quick call to appease her. She asks me what I want for dinner and we exchange a few pleasantries before hanging up.

I let my gaze wander outside the window up to the blue sky and try to conjure some good memories I have of this country before it became what it is now. Lately, I've found myself needing to rely on memory more often than not to keep alive this little flame inside of me that still burns for Haiti.

If ninety-five percent of the Haitians who still live here have given up on this country, I want to be part of the five percent who stubbornly keep hoping.

 ***Chapter Endnotes***

"We came from far, one day we will get far. This country cannot be wasted."  Lyrics from the song "Enjoy" by J-Perry released in 2012.

Douvanjou* : Dawn

Kole Sere* : Stick Close