He stood awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking through the open pantry window with the dancing eyes of a boy about to receive a treat of good things. When his father finally addressed him he was paralyzed. He had heard about this: how his father could enter a room and command its attention and then when he spoke in that butterscotch baritone the people lost control. They would be under a spell just as he now was, ready to do anything for the old man. His old man.
“My Diet Coke!”
He snapped to it.
Mais, Roger. (1986). Red Dirt Don’t Wash. In Stewart Brown and John Wickersham, eds. (1999). The Oxford Book of Caribbean Short Stories (62-69). NY: Oxford University Press.