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About Montego Bay

Here’s a story—true as my Fender’s twang. Once knew a guy, Tommy, swore he met a prostitute who played harmonica. Said she’d blow a tune for an extra ten bucks. Funniest damn thing I ever heard! Findin’ a prostitute ain’t just about the deed, folks—it’s the characters ya meet. Like, what’s her story? That’s what Varda taught me—look closer, man.

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So I’m up in the tree, and it’s hot as hell. Sweat drippin’ down my back, but I’m focused. I’m snippin’ branches, and suddenly, I hear this loud crash. I look down, and some dude just knocked over a vendor’s cart on the sidewalk. Pineapple juice everywhere! I’m talkin’ a full-on fruit massacre. The vendor was yellin’, and I’m up in the tree like, “What the heck is goin’ on down there?”

When Intellectuals Split: The Eyre Case