Wally was twelve years old. His real name was Christian. His mother, brothers, sisters, teachers, and school friends knew this. Unfortunately, years before he was ever a tall, gangly twelve year old he was a small child who failed to see the importance of being fully clothed. He considered the scratchy shorts and faded cotton shirts to be a nuisance and his family members would often find him stark naked in the street in front of the wooden bungalow house, swinging sticks with the other boys or spinning marbles, his bare bottom hovering mere inches over the dusty street.
“Bwai, get yuh backside indoors, yerr?” His mother would shout, swinging a kitchen towel at him as he skittered through the wooden gate on the zinc fence. She’d gather the fabric of her wide, twice-stitched, thrice-patched skirt in the fist of her free hand, lifting the hem above her knees so that she could chase after him and herd him in through the screen door. The little naked rascal was more likely to just run through the back yard and into the alley, where the fast-girls and the weed-smokers would only encourage him by laughing and pointing, and shouting “Peely-Batty-Paully-Wally!”
His father wasn’t much help as far as his mother was concerned. He’d meet his son outside wearing nothing but what he was born in and grab him up in his black-gloved hands and swing him over his head, exposing the boy’s nakedness to god and everyone. “If ih da wa bad bwai, yuh fi beat ah.” His father would say. The argument, to his mind, was that simple. “If not, then leff di lee bwai lone. So what if ih want mek di work know weh ih got. Da wa lee-lee bwai, mek ih have ih fun while ih young yet.” And, later, when they were both alone on in their rooms and their clothes had all been folded and put away, including the pair of black gloves his father kept next to his shoes and socks, and just before they both fell asleep on the mattress on the floor, sweaty and tired, Wally’s father would say to his wife: “If you neva want wa lee bwai weh woulda give yuh trouble, weh yuh gone name ah afta me fa?”
And so it stayed, until Wally was at the proper age for school and school uniforms, which, conversely, he never wanted to take off, not even in the light of physical threats. By then, however, the name had stuck. The fast girls, the weed smokers, and the men who played dominoes with his father outside the kitchen window all knew his as Peely-Batty-Pauly-Wally. The name was later broken down to either Peely Batty, or Pauly Wally. Over months, the latter won out, and was further shortened to just ‘Wally’. In fact, it was so popular a name that on a particular hot night one June a neighborhood girl was heard shouting at the screen door, “Wally-Mommy! Wally-Mommy! Wally-Daddy just get shot!”
“Bwai, get yuh backside indoors, yerr?” His mother would shout, swinging a kitchen towel at him as he skittered through the wooden gate on the zinc fence. She’d gather the fabric of her wide, twice-stitched, thrice-patched skirt in the fist of her free hand, lifting the hem above her knees so that she could chase after him and herd him in through the screen door. The little naked rascal was more likely to just run through the back yard and into the alley, where the fast-girls and the weed-smokers would only encourage him by laughing and pointing, and shouting “Peely-Batty-Paully-Wally!”
His father wasn’t much help as far as his mother was concerned. He’d meet his son outside wearing nothing but what he was born in and grab him up in his black-gloved hands and swing him over his head, exposing the boy’s nakedness to god and everyone. “If ih da wa bad bwai, yuh fi beat ah.” His father would say. The argument, to his mind, was that simple. “If not, then leff di lee bwai lone. So what if ih want mek di work know weh ih got. Da wa lee-lee bwai, mek ih have ih fun while ih young yet.” And, later, when they were both alone on in their rooms and their clothes had all been folded and put away, including the pair of black gloves his father kept next to his shoes and socks, and just before they both fell asleep on the mattress on the floor, sweaty and tired, Wally’s father would say to his wife: “If you neva want wa lee bwai weh woulda give yuh trouble, weh yuh gone name ah afta me fa?”
And so it stayed, until Wally was at the proper age for school and school uniforms, which, conversely, he never wanted to take off, not even in the light of physical threats. By then, however, the name had stuck. The fast girls, the weed smokers, and the men who played dominoes with his father outside the kitchen window all knew his as Peely-Batty-Pauly-Wally. The name was later broken down to either Peely Batty, or Pauly Wally. Over months, the latter won out, and was further shortened to just ‘Wally’. In fact, it was so popular a name that on a particular hot night one June a neighborhood girl was heard shouting at the screen door, “Wally-Mommy! Wally-Mommy! Wally-Daddy just get shot!”
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