Get Your Skylies In Order

I met a small, sturdy man yesterday morning, and he was named Desmonder. When he first wrote to me I assumed he was Indian because I had a student when I was a teacher—this is lifetimes ago, folks—and her name was Jaswinder. And she was Indian. I don’t recall if she was more New Delhi or more Calcutta, but she was Indian.

As for Desmonder, I imagined that his mother or father had met a nice British man in India whose name was Desmond, and they wanted to name their son after this nice pale man, but also wanted to give it a little subcontinental flair, if you know what I’m saying.

When I met Desmonder in person I was shocked to find that he was a pale British-looking man, dressed very well but with rough hands and dirty fingernails.

“Good morning,” he said, in a thick British accent. I didn’t buy it for one second.

“Are you from India?” I asked him immediately.

“Why, no,” he said, laughing, “whatever gave you the idea that—“

“Enough of the British shit, what’s the deal? Why you trying to hustle me?”

“Why, I never!” he said. “I’m not certain what I’ve done to provoke such an exasperated attack from a… from a… a cyclist!”

That wasn’t very nice, but maybe he had a point. And, I had to admit, his accent was more than passable.

“Wait, you’re really British?” I said.

“Of course I am! Bullocks, what in the, pardon me, but what in the fuck”—he whispered that part after looking over both his shoulders—“is your problem, exactly? This is your customer service? I’m aghast!”

“Are you really aghast, though?” I said. “Anyway, I’m really sorry. Really. I thought you were”—I looked over my shoulder and whispered—“I thought you were fucking with me.” I raised my voice back to normal. “Because who’s named Desmonder? An Indian, if anyone. Tell me I’m wrong, oh pale Desmonder, tell me I’m wrong.”

“I’m just back from a cruise, goddamnit!” he said and stormed off.

“Desmonder!” I called after him, riding after him down the sidewalk. “Desmonder, I’m sorry! I meant pale by comparison. To most Indians. You’re extremely tan, by comparison. To most British people.”

“Well I should say I am, thank you. I was in the Dutch Antilles. It was breathtaking.”

He softened, rearranging his bowtie. He really wanted me to do this job for him, I guess, because I was being pretty much an asshole. But sometimes you gotta help people loosen up by getting them pissed off. I stand by that philosophy. White Northern people will die far too early if they don’t express their anger once in a while. Poor Desmonder, he just got an extra six months of life because a freelance bicyclist was willing to insult him.

“How can I make your day better?” I asked him.

“I would love it,” he said, catching his breath, “if you would just do this small thing.”

“Say it, and I’ll do it.”

“Ride to my mother’s grave and bring these flowers to her. It’s her birthday.”

He handed me a beautiful bunch of many-colored flowers, taking one out and keeping it for himself. The flowers were incredible and, you know, just really, just so flowerful. (Listen, I’m a freelance bicyclist, not a botanist, so look at the picture if you want to know what kind. Desmonder never told me if they were lilies or magnolias or tulips or skylies. If you don’t know skylies, then you didn’t grow up in the house that I did.)

“Umm, okay,” I said, hesitatingly, “well I guess I didn’t understand, from our email conversation—”

“Christ. You’re a real card, you know that?” he said. “She’s not bloody buried in England, you don’t have to ride over the Atlantic.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

“She’s at St. Catherine’s. I haven’t a car. But even if I did.” He closed his eyes and looked down. “Even if I did, you know? I just don’t know if I could.”

“I’m on my way,” I said. I touched his shoulder. “Can I tell her anything from you?”

He looked at me sideways with what seemed like a concerned look. Then he smiled.

“Yes. Tell her, just like this: ‘Desmonder says, Get your biscuits in order!’ She’ll know what it means.”