RICKY is an old drunk living on the East Coast of Demerara at Mahaica. The only thing he loves more than rum is more rum. At age 65 he is ‘dry-up’, bony and ugly. Old boy Ricky loves to cuss. As soon as you get in his way he uses his extensive expletive vocabulary to humble you. After taking a couple of drinks, though, he becomes your best friend.
Both of his daughters lived in the USA. They decided to put in for him. When the immigration papers finally came through Ricky decided to clean up his act and migrate, so he stopped cussing.

In October 2012 he flew to the USA. The trip was terrible. The stop in Trinidad and Tobago, coupled with the limited food offered, made his trip a hassle. The only comfort he had was a little drink on the flight. The problem with the long delay and search was that the airport sensors kept picking up strong radiation like signals. It was all that Guyanese rum still in Ricky’s system. After searching and rescanning they let him through. Fortunately for him, a security guard caught the scent and almost got drunk. They quickly processed him in order not to further compromise their staff.

When he exited at JFK Airport, his youngest daughter came to get him. She drove home to Queens, New York and showed him to his room. She then left for work. Stressed out from a long frustrating flight, Ricky went out to the corner Deli and bought a large bottle of rum. Back home he drank himself silly. He fell into a sound, drunken slumber.
Unknown to him, his two grandchildren, Suzie and Cathy arrived home from school. They sat watching movies until their mother arrived home. She was late and had to hustle to prepare dinner. She completely forgot about her father in the guest room. The two kids sat watching ‘Scary Movie’. Each time something strange happened they jumped and giggled in fear.

The movie was just getting to one of the more scary parts when Ricky stumbled from the bedroom without his shirt looking like a skeleton wrapped in skin. Pandemonium ensued. The TV boomed and the girls jumped and screamed. Ricky stumbled and grumbled and the girls looked around, shrieked and invaded the kitchen to the shock of their mother.
Ricky was unsure where he was. He had been on some kind of airplane; or was it one of his drunken dreams? He looked around him and everything was unfamiliar. Dear God, he was either dead or in a strange house by mistake. He would soon find out. He stumbled from the bed and headed for the door.

The house was cold. As he swung the door open, a gust of cold air hit him. He cringed; he then realised that he had no shirt on. The loud sound of a television caught his ears. He headed in that direction. “Eeee!”
The screams made Rick almost jump out of his skin. What was going on? He could see two heads as they sat on the sofa watching TV. He tried calling out to them but his voice seemed to be malfunctioning. It just allowed for a kind of grunt.
The two heads turned and four astonished eyes took in his appearance.
“Eeeee! Eeee!”
Two girls jumped up from the sofa and ran screaming into another room. That must be the kitchen.
The familiar smell of curry was coming from that room. He stumbled headlong into the room.
Meanwhile, the shocked mother suddenly remembered that her father was in the house. She tried to explain this to her horrified daughters.
“ It’s not a boogie man!” The woman said.
‘It’s a ghost!” The girls exclaimed.
“It’s your grandpa from Guyana!” Their mother responded.
“What?’
Yes, it’s grandpa. He is here.”
Ricky made an undignified entrance almost falling over.
Four eyes stared at him in wonder. Then a little voice exclaimed:
“Grandad you are a Guyanese Jumbie. You frighten us like when mom tells us those scary stories!”

Poor Ricky; his throbbing head and tilting horizon were making matters worse. His befuddled brain was desperately trying to make sense of this confusing situation. All he seemed able to make out was two strange little creatures screaming and pointing at him. And then the words hit him. “Guyanese Jumbie!” He squinted at them and waited until they stopped moving all over the place.
“No!” Ricky said, as he tried to muster all the pride his drunken state could manage. “Me is Guyanese rum boogie but you is American Jumbie!”
He grinned in toothless pleasure, waved to his amused daughter and headed in a zigzag course back to his room. As he exited the kitchen he heard peels of laughter.
America seemed to have spirits of its own.
He had encountered two types already.