The Holy Trinity

“Fuck! It’s terrible! Be different if ye were used to it. It just happened with me but, so everything’s kind of – it’s weird, ye know, really weird. If my girlfriend just came back…” Frankie says to Josey, who stares at him like he’s cuckoo. I’m still rather confused as to how Frankie turns everything into a story about his past before the alcohol got involved.

“Me nah care ‘bout you and ya blodcloth girlfriend,” Josey says, searching through piles of red, blue and white plastics bags by the bins – who would’ve thought there is a synergy between refuse packaging and patriotism?

On lookout by the corner lamppost, our usual spot, because of its ability to see traffic from all sides, its proximity to local takeaways, and of course, the bins. Our favourite of all being Shades Jamaican food truck – although the chances of leftovers are rare, it’s succulent meat that falls of the bone and perfectly cooked rice and peas has controlled us in an unconscionable way. Howl At The Moon, the local pub, is more busy than usual, curiously this tends to occur in some strange accordance with the appearance of a full moon – and they say humans have agency; perhaps that’s how it gained its moniker?

“You know what me tired of? All this crap ‘bout ‘ow if you, back in your r’asscloth days. We ‘ere an’ now, brethren!” Josey, always quick to put people in their place. A nipper of the Windrush Generation he’s seen and been through it all – the cycles of human behaviour. A low tolerance for self-pity as a result.

“Aye. Dont get me wrong, I’m no ungrateful, I was just saying… but I can tell ye one thing, see these two guys that are asking the questions; they’re no from round here,” Frankie says, pointing at the two guys by Chicken Express who appear like they’re conducting the Spanish inquisition on two unsuspecting young women.

“I’m not quite sure, what that matters, Frankie. You may well be right, old chap, but they’re keeping themselves to…. Okay, well, they may be, what could be described as ‘interfering’, but it’s more a case of adding to the diversity of the environment. That’s what a civilised society allows: plurality and acceptance of others,” I say trying to keep things calm, my childhood role manifest in adulthood. Where for art thou, Freud?

“Wha ya say? Civilised? Ya think this coun’try civilised? Nah brethren, everything you say rubbish. I born pon this coun’try an’ me get nothin’ but darky this, darky that. Come here darky! Blodcloth civilised! Them bloodbloth joke no funny,” Josey says continuing to rummage in hope of finding something edible. He does have a point. The 60s and 70s were particularly harsh for those coming up. My parents used to tell me about the sensational stories in The Sun newspaper using explicit language – now we see those that were once persecuted purchasing the very same ‘news’ paper.

“Nah, bruh, ya got it twisted, man,” Veronica, quickly butts in, while keeping an eye on the crowds. “Yo, in America, we say you free. We give you the vote, man. Emancipation Proclamation, brother man. But man, le’me tell you, we got whole institutions created for the incarnation of the black man, ya know what I'm sayin'? They let us be president, but be lockin’ us up left, right’n ‘cent’r. Takin’ with one hand and giv’n with the other, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Her unique cadence has often felt forced, especially when considering she went to a West London International school. A challenge – undoubtedly - to be surrounded by a plethora of ethnicities and to still be a minority. I suppose she clung to a pop culture identity for security. Regardless, her knowledge is and has always been impeccable. Education has been her greatest friend throughout the years.

“Indeed, the American situation is quite unique, particularly, when you observe its laws, politics and economies in greater detail. It becomes clear, that they too, like all of us, are contradictory in some regards,” I say, again trying to smooth things over and reduce attracting unwanted attention. Veronica, can be so loud in her black fur coat.

“Wha the r’ass you take make joke now? Tha British invite us ‘ere, ya know? Come help rebuild the country, say they. Ah wah we get pon we arrive? Now we here and them still denyin’ us basic liberty. Them bloodcloth tryna deport me brethren! Take us passport, ya know? Nah happen to me Indian brethren, ya hear me? Sound like one madness ting. Me never come up with a fuckery idea like that. Pure dread mon!” Josey says, looking like he’s found something worth investigating.

“Aye. I dont know fellow, we’re just like yous. The British nah ever respected us Scots. This is auld news mate. We know enough to know that if something violent happens,” Frankie says – “no bloodcloth violence from Britain. Them rather leak to the newspaper some scandal,” Josey interrupts as he pulls out a blue plastic bag that looks like it has a solid box within.

“Tha’s where ya’ll be wrong, man. Ya’ll aint gettin’ it, ‘coz ya’ll ain’t been to the US. Ya’ll got it nice here, man. You know, what I’m sayin’? It ain’t even like that back home. Listen, we have whole blocks that are segregated, man. Ya’ll ain’t got redlined!” Veronica says, whilst excited by the fresh chips she’s uncovered. The stench of salt and vinegar quickly rises and its intensity causes me to pause. Glory days of youth. Fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. The memory warms my gut.

“Wha ya mean?” Josey asks.

“Brother man, let me tell you. We got Redlined back home, brother! Areas on a map in cities like, Philly, LA and Chiraq, man. It’s crazy. They be like, mapped out based on stuff like security, man,” she says, chomping on her fresh looking chips – my envy only grows with every bite she takes.

Damn it! Looks like there’s some fish in there too – I haven’t had the luxury of anything close to fish oil in eons. Manners come first though: best to wait to be offered. Ah, doesn’t matter anyway, it isn’t Salmon; just white fish they’ve fried to death.

“But it’s like, they rate all the areas, man. It be like Best, you know what I’m sayin’? That’s where all the wealthy white folk live. Then you got, Still Desirable, you know? Like, people aspire to that shit, man. Then, you got like, Declining - shit is on the down, man. People tryin’a get out! And then, man, you got like the worst term: Hazardous! That’s where all brothers be, man. It’s… it’s not like, you know… you don’t understand, man. Ya’ll got it good out ‘ere!” Veronica stops to focus in on the battered fish.

“Wha me tell you? These new people no joke fi money. Me find two lick a piece chicken and chips. Wha me tell you? Too much money pon the coun’try,” Josey says, chowing down.

“Well, that is something unique, I must say. I don’t believe we have maps necessarily, but certainly, we have areas that have garnered a reputation over the years as being unsafe. I mean we’re in Hoxton after all! Prior to the 2000s this was a baron site full of artists and enfant terribles! Isn’t gentrification exquisite? Now we have a sense of security and safety,” I say, ironically keeping an eye on the trendy two chaps asking questions of the females they’re picked up.

“Aye, but what ye given up for it? Me nay saying security and safety are bad. Cause ye canny deny it. But ye canny deny there’s cost to it. Ye were probably expecting it, but something’s lost no?” Frankie says, with a look on his face that suggests he too has found something to nibble on.

He’s always been the more active one out of the two of us. Much like the Roman poet, Horace, he believes in carpe diem. Despite our ancestor disputes he’s always been kind, even when he’s been on what they colloquially describe as a ‘bender.’

“Ya’ll be trippin’, man. Ya’ll, ain’t gettin’ it. Gentrification is a by-product of tha appreciation and commodification of tha creation of culture by creatives, man. You know? But, ya’ll missin’ the point. Like, the redlining, is used by companies, you know what I’m sayin’? Land of the free? Damn! Insurance companies and mortgage companies and all these companies be like… be like, using these area codes and be, like hiking their rates, you know what I’m sayin’? Like, they be charging the poor brothers, more money, because of where they live. It’s a trap, man. And they call America the land of the free, for everyone accept those who look like me,” Veronica says passionately.

“Aye… ye right there, lass,” Frankie says grabbing some chips and passing me some, “mind you, the trendy drunkards are stumbling this way,” we all pause absolutely still trying to go unnoticed.

“Look at these scroungers! They need a home,” the taller one of the group says, walking by and kicking the rubbish near Josey. His accent is distinct. Pronouncing every letter of each word with a forced disgruntled tone. Josey stares at them with his piercing eyes.

“Leave them alone!” the brunette says to him, in her soft Colchester accent. Quickly putting her arms around him and focusing his attention. The male species is so peculiar, if left to its own devices God knows where humanity might be. When they say they say behind every great man is an even better woman, I think what they mean is: behind every great man, is a woman helping to maintain his focus, calm his emotions and supporting him to appear sagacious.

“Yeah, let’s keep moving, mate. We got ladies to attend to,” his Mediterranean looking friend says, who has his eyes firmly on his lady. I can only imagine he will be the one that does better throughout his life.

“Aye well aye, that’s right,” Frankie says, keeping an eye on those leaving Howl at The Moon. They tend to have a rather peculiar routine of drinking a tremendous amount, which, in this area is bound to set them back quite a lot of their monthly earnings. Then, they hobble over to Chicken Express or Hoxton Best Kebab. If they’re lucky, they’ll be with friends or a woman, who will support them through what will happen next – “Me no me r’assclarth right! Me watch these youth come outta their piss hole staggerin’ n’ laughin’. They see this broke bredda pon de floor still lookin’ for change, ya know? Them kick him straight pon his ribs! Bredda surprise he bloody fast. Some real madness – him nah move, ya know? These youth piss pon bredda, ya know? Ya’ready kick the bredda. Ya’ richer than the bredda and ya best is some real madness,” Josey interrupts.

“Aye Jesus. Aye seen it too. I take what ye’re sayin,” Frankie says, trying to calm him. Josey’s emotions do tend to get the better of him. Particularly when it comes to injustice and poor temperament. He literally wants to tear people apart when he sees it! Frankie and Veronica have, on numerous occasions, put their own lives at risk trying to calm him down. Absolutely ferocious, when he sees the big man picking on the little man.

“I feel you brother, man. But it’s like that throughout history, man. There ain’t an empire, a civilization, nation or a race, that ain’t kicked and punched the little, man, ya know what I’m sayin’? It’s in are nature, man,” Veronica says, attempting to breathe some historical logic and references into Josey’s consciousness. Regrettably, this never soothes him, but she fails to learn what he needs: a hug.

“Man, you think here’s bad. You ain’t seen India, brother man. You know, it’s like, they chopped up their people, man,” Veronica says.

“Wha ya say?” Josey says appearing intrigued while finishing the bones of his chicken. I’m tempted to ask for some of that crispy and salty skin he’s saved – no! The trans fats! They wreak havoc on your biome. Obtaining and maintaining top down control of oneself is so difficult when it comes to food.

“Man, it’s unreal. Like, it’s in ancient texts! – I’m telling you, man. They had these four classes, ya know? Like here, we got upper, middle and lower, ya know what I’m sayin’? But there, man, they take it to a whole ‘nother level, man. Check this. They had the Brahmins, ya know? They were like intellectuals, ya know? Kings, priests, teachers and shit like that, ya know what I’m saying?”

Frankie’s head perks up. Turning to his right to check what’s happening. One of the sad singletons trudges to Best Kebab. This is our chance! Within a few moments he should stumble out eating his food and drop it just as his Uber arrives.

“But check this! They got another class, called Ksh… one sec, I wanna get this right. Kshatriyas, man. They like, the next class down. But they like, the warriors and rulers, man. It’s crazy. A whole cast’a people pre-assigned. No choice, ya know what I’m sayin’? Then, ya know like, shit don’t stop there, man. They got the Vaishyas, you know? They be like, like, artisans, merchants, tradesmen and farmers, man. Putting in that skilled work, ya know? Businessmen! Makin’ that cash money, ya know what I’m sayin? For real, shit it crazy out there. And then, they got Shudras, you know? They be like, the labourers, man. The bottom. The rock bottom! For real, man. They like peasants. Like, I feel for them, you know what I’m sayin’? Still livin’ like it’s 400 years ago, man. What’s crazy though b, is they be like 50% of the population! Like, we always we think we got it bad. But for real, man, we good. There’s always a brother or sister, you know, strugglin’ somewhere else, man” Veronica says, appearing to have noticed a car slowly pulling up by Best Kebab.

Frankie’s attention has darted from the conversation to the young man stumbling from the shop front to the cab door. It’s surprising how much this generation tries to compress into one moment. A delicious takeaway was once an all-consuming moment that garnered one’s full attention but is now a condiment to the ultimate experience: the digital world.

Josey still looks consumed by the remaining chicken skin and chips he has, but he’s a quick chap, despite his years.

One hand is holding his kebab – looks and smells like chicken doner from here (terribly salty, but at the very least, we can tell what we’re eating) and the other his mobile phone. I feel terribly sorry for the young chap, but regrettably, it’s inevitable. He takes another step and pauses. His face scrunches and his eyes squint – the struggle is authentic – his prefrontal cortex is struggling to process precisely how to get into the cab when his hands are clearly full. He pauses. Frankie edges closer, staying in the shadows.

“Who are ya! Who are ya! Who are ya!” a group of young lads start to bellow as they encourage one of their peers to ‘chug’ (drink without stopping) a pint of larger. Safety in numbers, as they say. Groups like that have tendency to devour a lot of their food, but then almost immediately, boke it straight back up again. Soon after, their friends need to carry them into their Uber to end their evening’s affairs.

It looks like this chap may have figured it out. His right hand (holding his phone) moves close to his body, while his left hand clutches his kebab like a baby, curled into his chest. The right hand moves but so too does his body – bang! He’s tipped the kebab over himself. Poor chap. He looks in dismay and slight amusement. His driver looks concerned, but he too, I imagine, has become accustomed to this routine. This chap certainly appears to value his money: he’s picking the food off grey hoodie (completely covered in Tzatziki and a thick yellow doner grease) and eats it as he tries to put his phone into his pocket. His hoodie looks like a Pollock painting, with red cabbage streaked across the arms and chest in a masculine stroke. Green lettuce form shadows in opposition, which are imbued with white curls of onions. At least he has a smile on his face: he’s conscious. I know they say life happens for you, but in this instance, it truly is happening to him. His left hand and arm have maintained their position as a large amount of the kebab remains in its paper wrapping. Enclosed and held tight like a precious stone. Sadly he hasn’t deduced how he will open the door – the driver is just waiting; he knows it’s too risky to get involved in these kind of delicate situations.

Suddenly, like pigeon poop dropping from 20 feet high, the remaining kebab falls to the floor as his left hand, almost unconsciously reaches for the cab door. His grey hoodie looking like it could fetch a few thousand now with the masterful streaks and splatters of colour, appear like the latest Supreme and Pollock limited edition collaboration. He falls into the cab. The door remains a jar. The driver looks like his patience is wearing thin as the lines in his forehead become thicker and darker. Opportunity has come at a cost, it appears. Suddenly an arm pops out and yanks the door shut.

Frankie swoops in grabbing a huge chunk of the chicken and brings it to me, “thank you, dear.”

“Nah bother. Dont stop me now,” Frankie says going back for more.

Veronica has hurdled in, too.

“Some vegetables, dear. We must look after out microbiome!” I chirp.

Always nimble, he quickly grabs some of the deliciously vibrant red cabbage, tomato and chicken in one swoop. Drops it back and returns again. Veronica sits and chomps away.

“Wha happen? Rah, ya nah tell me?” Josey says looking up at me, then looking at the kebab being devoured. He slowly moves closer to it, keeping an eye on the group of increasingly loud lads. He’s always the one that gets the abuse. Something about the way he looks, or so he says.

“Move ya r’assclarth, Veronica! Hoggin’ this like we nah family,” Josey says as he digs in.

Frankie’s been and gone 5 times now. The food is so warm and its taste – although salty – is nourishing and intoxicating in the most wonderful of ways. I pause after each bite to savour it. I’m slightly taken aback by how hungry I am. “It’s terribly delicious, dear, why don’t you have some now?”

“Look at this bunch of animals!” one of the less drunk, but louder lads says to his gang.

Crap, the jig is up! Josey quickly turns around and gives him a devilish stare with chicken and red cabbage still falling from the sides of his mouth. Looking like Wild E Coyote caught gobbling one of this painted scenes.

“We got a fox, a skunk and an a blood barn owl eatin’ a bloody key-bab, lads! Come’ n’ look at this! The bloody holy trinity!” he yells to his posse standing by the tables across the road. His face is a mix of hysterics and genuine intrigue.

Hastily his friends run across the street, ignorant of the Papa John’s delivery guy on his moped zipping to another customer…