We called him Mr. Sugar. It wasn't his real name, but we didn’t know his real name. At least not for the first few weeks.
He stood in the middle of the road just where you pass Maxi's restaurant and the road turns into the beach and continues until you reach the sign that says, "The end of the road."
Mr. Sugar often stood in the middle of the road. He stood there wearing a bright, orange vest. It may have been a life-vest, but he wasn’t planning to get in a boat. He was there to wave you through, or help you park your car, or direct your walking, or anything else he thought you might need.
He was in no way an official anything.
The first time I saw Mr. Sugar, he was frantically waving his arms. I was confused. He obviously was directing me to do something, but I had no idea what. All his waving didn’t seem to be in any particular direction and I thought he might be trying to get me to stop for an emergency right there on the beach. But, the only thing I could see that was demanding attention was the turquoise sea and the foamy white waves.
The second time I saw Mr. Sugar—again directing traffic in the middle of the road—we were driving past and Lee stopped the car to talk to him. Mr. Sugar babbled on about people and beaches and I really could not understand what he was saying. I thought maybe it was his broken Caribbean English.
The third time I saw Mr. Sugar, we were walking and we stopped to say, “Hi.” This time, the wiry Creole man spoke as if he had a degree in Literature. His English was educated and perfectly clear.
We had a conversation with him and discovered his name was Socrates.
I am learning to reserve judgement.
Everyone in town said Mr. Sugar was crazy. Harmless, but crazy. And maybe he was. But, after spending a few minutes getting to know him, I tried hard, every time I passed him, to listen to what he had to say. He was a gentle soul and I wanted to hear his story. He obviously wanted to help people or he wouldn’t have stood, dressed in a bright orange life-jacket, providing free traffic direction all day.
Which reminds me of the week of the festival. Poor Socrates. There was traffic everywhere. Cars lined the beach until there was nowhere left to park. Tents were set up in every available space and tens of thousands of people flocked from all over the country. Mr. Sugar was beside himself. He waved frantically and pointed and spun in circles and tried to direct everything until he was so overwhelmed he gave up and went and sat on a park bench.
You know, maybe Mr. Sugar was crazy. Maybe his mind was scattered. And maybe directing traffic gave him a little bit of that everything-is-right-with-the-world feeling. Maybe it helped him take control of his own internal, confusing world.
Hmmm…
Maybe we all should be directing traffic.