This is a short story/fictional commentary about the reimagining of some known characters found on the street, neighbohood and in songs of Trinidad and Tobag.

One Hand Cyah Clap
By M. James Cooper

"Ay nut,nuts, nuts...," Is what he say, signaling your ears before your head turns, before your eyes want your belly to want and your mouth to taste what your nose has already savored. Just fifty cents in my uniform pocket, not enough to by a bag today. I watch him walk by me. Sometimes I see him out the window of the bus, too far to call, no use waving we will be moving soon. Sometimes he is close enough for me to touch his hand that holds two bags of salted or unsalted nuts on display, before the traffic starts moving again. He is made of cotton, brown paper bags and persistence, the Nuts-man, this Rastafarian. Days roll into years, he is a permanent fixture, a landmark of sorts, dependable, rain or shine. On the streets of Port-of-Spain or along the Easter Main Road. It is Friday, Town is busy, the people celebrate the weekend and anticipate Sunday lunch: callaloo, red beans, macaroni pie and stewed chicken. I am just happy to have caught the Nuts-man near the roundabout as I am to board the bus home from work. Standing in front of a speaker-blast of loud dub music, cassette tapes, newspapers and breads for sale, I tap him on the shoulder, hand him a dollar and he hands me a brown paper bag full of warm peanuts. He mouths a 'T'anks' and a 'Jah bless,' perhaps, but I do not hear the words. I nod and make my way, pulling the passage from my pocket to pay the conductor, more loud music, this bus is padded, studded, customized with speakers and sound that make the youth exited, but all I need is in the palm of my hand, leaving shattered pieces of red flaky skin on my fingertips. 'Ay, nuts, nuts, nuts!' He is the Nuts-man.