Allyuh look for dat!

Every evening, just be­fore the sun starts to dip be­hind the build­ings, yuh could find One Foot Pa­lo perched on his home­made bench. Is not no fan­cy bench, mind yuh. Is a half ah door bal­anc­ing on two con­crete block, but Pa­lo say it stur­dy enough. Af­ter all, it sur­viv­ing longer than some of the young fel­las in the area! He sits there with the re­main­der of his foot stretched out, the oth­er plant­ed firm­ly on the ground, a cup of black Hong Wing cof­fee close by and he eyes mov­ing like a CCTV cam­era. He see every­thing. Who pass­ing. Who park­ing. Who lim­ing. Who ar­gu­ing. Who build­ing. Who break­ing down. Who moth­er cry­ing. Who granny look­ing for she grand­son and who young fel­la sud­den­ly start be­hav­ing like he own the en­tire neigh­bour­hood.

Every­body used to call him One Foot Pa­lo. No­body quite re­mem­ber who give him the name, but it stick. But he used to like to say “Is not how many foot yuh have that mat­ter, is way yuh stand­ing!”

Pa­lo liv­ing in Mal­oney from the days when the sug­ar­cane fields was still op­er­at­ing over the high­way. He re­mem­ber when the scent of burnt fresh-cut cane used to trav­el through the air, and when peo­ple wake up ear­ly be­cause work was wait­ing. He and he wife come through some hard times. They worked the fields to­geth­er as a teenage cou­ple, till big man and woman.