Godspeed

Chapter One

Marley Mason despised Miami beaches. He thought the sand was too white— artificial —as if someone in a factory somewhere was making each grain one by one, attempting to imitate nature. But Marley saw through their falsehood like transparent glass and he thought it piteous. He knew that real sand usually touched a little closer to brown. Sand that had people being buried in it up to their necks every day and plastic bottles scattered across its surface. Sand that housed fearful crabs and shards of unsuspecting glass if you weren't looking keenly enough. Like everything else, sand could not be perfect.

But in Miami, it seemed, Marley could not be more wrong. Sand, and a multitude of other inherently infinite things, were sculpted to be, and remain, flawless. They existed without bruises or blemishes and were praised for their unattainable bravado.

But where Marley was from, a bravado meant you hadn't lived. It was the callouses wrinkling your hands that told everyone you had held onto great, untouchable things and the scars adorning your kneecaps evidenced that your feet were blessed with excitement and speed. But here, in perfect Miami, the only great things were perfect houses skimming against the ocean's waves and speed came in the form of perfect, tiny cars zipping along open roads.

Marley Mason did not care for such things.

But he said nothing about it, either. It didn't matter. Miami and all its people were different from him in a way he had long accepted by now. So instead, Marley took his headphones from around his neck and placed them over his ears, selecting a Protoje track that had enough bass to drown out the sound of Bayside's waves pushing up against the beach and stuck his hands into his pockets. The reggae came out clear and deafening, a little nostalgia pressed between the drums, and all its quick lyrical jabs and enticing production keeping Marley's attention his entire walk. Besides shifting his headphones once, Marley went along undisturbed, until he stepped foot into the busy building of his father's restaurant.

Tafari Mason immediately caught sight of him from behind the counter. "Thank God! Where were you?!" he came around to meet him, slinging his arm around his son. "Yuh know seh I need you, right? You said twenty minutes. It's been a hour, Marley!"

Marley folded his lips inward and offered him all he could, an apologetic shrug.

Tafari didn't like Miami more than his son did, but it paid the bills and sent Marley to school. That was all that was important. Tafari sighed, but managed a relieved smiled and shook his son healthily. "Come," he said, leading Marley around the counter and grabbing an apron. He pushed it into his chest and grimaced. "Alright, I know I always have you working di kitchen but, from now on I need you waiting, Marley."

Marley's stomach dropped.

Tafari tried to hold off the anxiety he knew was coming to undertake Marley's mind by showing him his open and urgent palm. "I know, I know, Marley. But you will be fine. Christina and Jimmy starting to get a hang of tings, yuh know. Dem nuh suh bad like one time. So while they in di kitchen, you need to be out here"

The tremble jerking Marley's right leg was soon energised into vexation. Marley grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

Tafari narrowed his back. "Don't give me that look." But Marley did not ease up. His father knew that waiting was more than just a job for Marley. It was hell. But he was still making him do it anyway?

Tafari gave in and sighed, hanging the apron over his son's head. He spun Marley around and slowly began tying the knot around his waist. "Look, Marley, when people come to Jah-Jah's dem nuh mind waiting for good food. But when di wait is long and there is no customer service, dat is when they will get fed up," he finished it with a tight bow then turned his son around again to look him in the eye, "Plus, you know how Americans stay. How you look will help sell di food. Christina and Jimmy can't do dat." His father's hand reached out to twirl Marley's shoulder-length locs swinging over his forehead.