A Speedeet & Wilar Story
The iguana had been living in Miss Doreen’s mango tree for eleven days before Speedeet decided it was a problem that needed solving.
It was not, by any reasonable measure, Speedeet’s problem. The iguana was not in his yard. It was not eating his food. It had not, as far as anyone could confirm, done anything to anyone. It sat in the upper branches of Miss Doreen’s mango tree most of the day looking prehistoric and unbothered, which was, Wilar had pointed out, its legal right.
“Wilar,” Speedeet said, leaning on the fence outside Mr. Persaud’s shop, “somebody got to move dat iguana.”
Wilar pushed up his glasses. “Actually, green iguanas are native to this region. It’s not causing harm. It will leave when it’s ready.”
“It frighten Lil Suzie.”
“Lil Suzie is frightened of ceiling fans.”
“It frighten me.”
Wilar looked at him. “No it didn’t.”
Speedeet straightened up. “I got a plan.”
“Oh no.”
“We catch it. We relocate it. To de seawall. Near de grass part. It go be happy deh.”
Wilar stared at him for a long moment. “Speedeet. Dat iguana is four feet long.”
“Four feet of iguana cyah stop we.”
“Four feet of iguana with claws and a tail dat could knock over a small child.”
“We not small children.”
“We are exactly small children.”
Mr. Persaud had watched this entire exchange from his doorway without blinking.
“You two planning to catch Miss Doreen iguana?” he said.
“Is not Miss Doreen iguana,” Speedeet said. “Is a wild animal.”
“It living in she tree fuh eleven days. In Kitty, dat make it she iguana.” Mr. Persaud tilted his head. “You want something or you just here to lean?”
They bought two roti and left before he could say anything else useful.
The plan, as Speedeet explained it on the walk back, required three things: a pillowcase, a long stick, and what he described as “a light touch.”
“Where we getting a pillowcase?” Wilar asked.
“From my room.”
“Your mother know dat?”
Speedeet did not answer this question.
The stick came from behind Wilar’s yard — a good long guava branch, stripped clean. Wilar held it the way someone holds something they want everyone to know they are holding under protest.
They stood on Pike Street staring up at the iguana. It stared back down at them with the ancient, contemptuous calm of a creature that had survived sixty-five million years of extinction events and was not remotely concerned about two twelve-year-olds with a pillowcase.
“So,” Wilar said. “Who exactly is catching it?”
“We both catching it.”
“I am holding de stick.”
“Exactly. You poke it gently from dat side, it come toward me, I drop de pillowcase over it, we done.”
Wilar pushed up his glasses. “Actually, when iguanas feel cornered, they whip their tails. The force generated by an adult iguana tail is sufficient to —”
“Wilar.”
“— break the skin and cause significant bruising on —”
“Wilar.”
“Less go,” Wilar said, in a tone that meant the opposite.
What happened next would be debated on Pike Street for the rest of that week.
What was agreed upon: the stick connected with the branch. The iguana, which had appeared entirely asleep, was in fact not asleep at all. The iguana launched itself from the upper branches with the decision-making speed of something that had been waiting for exactly this provocation. Speedeet, who had been holding the pillowcase open at precisely iguana-arrival height, was briefly in the correct position. Then he was not in any position, because he was running.
The iguana did not chase them.
But Speedeet did not know the iguana was not chasing him, and Wilar — who had turned to verify this — found that the information did not reach his legs in time.
They made it as far as Miss Doreen’s gate before Wilar’s sneaker caught the bottom step.
The pillowcase landed in Miss Doreen’s yard.
The guava branch landed in Miss Doreen’s yard.
Then Wilar landed in Miss Doreen’s yard.
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
“WHO DAT IN ME YARD?!”
Miss Doreen emerged from her front door with her broom before Wilar had finished standing up. She took in the scene — the boy, the pillowcase, the branch, the absence of any logical explanation — and then she looked across the fence at Speedeet, who was frozen on the pavement outside with the expression of someone considering whether he could convincingly claim not to know Wilar.
He could not.
“SPEEDEET.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Doreen.”
“Come in here and get your friend and de nonsense he bring in my yard.”
Speedeet came through the gate at the pace of a person walking to something very unpleasant. Wilar handed him the pillowcase without making eye contact.
Above them, in the mango tree, the iguana had returned to its branch. It watched the proceedings below with the same prehistoric serenity it always had.
They walked home along Pike Street in the early afternoon quiet. Wilar had a grass stain on his knee. Speedeet was carrying a pillowcase that no longer had a clear purpose.
“It go be alright,” Speedeet said.
Wilar looked at him.
“De iguana still up deh.”
“I know.”
“We didn’t solve anything.”
“I know.”
Wilar pushed up his glasses. “Actually,” he said, “I think we made it worse.”
“Wilar.”
“Yes?”
“You still got roti left?”
Wilar checked his pocket. He did.
They sat down on the front step and ate, and the iguana sat in its tree, and Pike Street, Kitty, Georgetown went on the way it always did — warm, unhurried, and entirely indifferent to the plans of twelve-year-old boys.
— End —