His name was "Drugs"

Imagine my third-grade surprise when I got to Kingston the first time since migrating and found out our driver was named "Drugs." My grandmother arranged the pickup and everyone was saying this name like it was a normal title. Like his name was John or Joe. Except, it was a word that'd been drilled into my head the whole school year. Drugs, as I knew them, were inside glass, or they were pills, or they were on the ground, or they were in a bag, or they got snuck into candy. I knew that touching them would make me implode or suffer a toxic shock.

Drugs had a gruff voice and spoke in thick patois to everyone but me. When he did speak to me, it was through a spliff notched in the side of his mouth. "Andrew-Bandrew! How old is you bwoy?" "I'm 8 years old." "A'right next time you come down, me gwine hold a beer fi you, you is old enough." I think Drugs gave me a sip of beer that trip, but it wasn't inaugural. I've never liked beer, even during my stints drinking for no reason all the time. I couldn't make a compelling enough case for my taste buds to go hard for beer.

The next time Drugs drove me from Kingston to Portland, I had a white girlfriend that I'd brought to the Jamaican countryside to stay with me at my grandmother's house. The airport ride was treacherous but I was used to it and she wasn't. "Who's picking us up?" "My grandmother's friend Drugs." "Oh. Kay." That was the first time I was self-conscious about being Black and having to protect Black family around her. I heard Drugs is alive but not well. My cousin delivers him diapers at his house.