A Suit Of Armor
Bucks Head in Camden Town, just go north up Camden High from the station. I'm on the patio; want a beer?
I would see Marco first, as his plane landed a couple of hours before Jay's. Marco made the same mistake I did when arriving in London by taking the Heathrow Express and shelling out 25 quid. I hoped Jay wouldn’t make the same error. Before jumping the tube out of the Bridge, I stopped again at the Borough Market. A small baguette and spreadable cheese that would suffice until dinner. A little bottle of freshly squeezed carrot and apple juice was a fine accompaniment to my bread. I was wearing my black chapeau on top of a Corridor Tee below an Officine Générale two-button blazer, Petit New Standard jeans, and Hubbard's Founders for the floor. An outfit is more than just the garments presented to the world and the cloth that may protect you. Comfort in clothing is comfort in the world, like wearing a suit of armor. I was beginning my second week in The United Kingdom, and with only the slightest variation, the outfit would have to carry me until the flight home.
I wandered English streets, my eyes hidden behind dark tint, fighting against the sun and welcoming it all the same. There is something so unavoidably beautiful about the old cathedrals that stand tall against advancing modernity—an inspiration of confidence against the sands of time that shift and shake foundations. I suffused my spirit with that of London town, becoming one with the concrete like I had in The City, but this time, I felt a pull more natural. If only for that morning, London and I fell in love.
Marco was en route; I saved us three seats upstairs, chain-smoking, wholly enamored with life and all its twists and turns. The City felt a world away, and despite leaving half of my heart behind, I found a way to make myself whole again, my friends making up the parts I lost—forgoing regret, embracing gratefulness with open arms, a conscious decision to accept myself as I am.
The first ones on me get a Guinness; everyone here drinks Guinness, even the Brits.
Marco took the Guinness, and we headed upstairs to the patio. Seeing Marco again was like seeing a person you see every day. Not much had changed between us, and I doubt it ever will. He is essentially a part of me like an arm or kneecap, and he is a part I know well. I'm unsure where I'd be without him, Jay, and a couple of other souls. It's a strange proposition to ask yourself questions that only your dearest friends can answer.
Marco said he'd never tasted a Guinness like this one in Camden Town, and I thought that maybe something happens in transit over the Atlantic, something lost in pressure or taste, or maybe Guinness is meant to be guzzled in Great Britain and presumably Ireland, but we weren't there yet, and I'd hate to assume. We would make it to Ireland and even Scotland, but right then, Marco and I were on a rooftop, on top of the world, needing still to greet our third friend.
Jay stepped off the tube in Camden Town, taking a right from the station and heading north towards Bucks Head. I saw him before he saw me, and I advanced on his position, swimming in a sea of foreigners and faces of those I would never see again. I approached Jay still unnoticed and exploded on him with the first face of a friend he'd seen since the lower forty-eight. Marco and I held a reunion on the streets of Camden Town—an overdue international reunion of three friends from southeastern Washington.
My first memories include Jay, and looking back on my life, I can't recall a time when I did not know him. We met on the first day of first grade and have been best friends ever since. How grateful I am to have a friend who sort of hangs around the corners of my life and then stands right next to me. I like to think Jay knows me better than anyone else, mainly because of the events and all the trappings of life one acquires from adolescence into adulthood. He's lived in Emerald for the past decade or so, and it is quite nice to see him settle into a new home. Somewhere down the line, whatever infected me with this insatiable desire to be somewhere else infected Jay as well, and on a sunny day in early summer, we found ourselves in Camden Town, London, drinking Guinness and catching up.
Within ten minutes, I bring up politics, and the conversation derails. My, my, how I love these boys. The Anarchist vs. The Statists, a battle for the ages where cries of war could be heard from the street below. The Anarchist bellowing about property rights and the Liberals rallying call for the collective. Jumping from free will, compulsory policies, the war pigs, and price controls. Smashing glasses of Guinness, cigarette ash flying off the end of a waving ember as I venerate the right to keep income. A fist pounds the table as Marco reaches for a cigarette, he doesn't smoke anymore, but he's had enough of my bullshit. Jay takes a swig of Guinness and declares me philosophically inconsistent. I spiral out in a rage, throw a chair against the wall, and Jay smashes a glass over my head…Okay, the last part didn't happen. Still, by the end of our conversation, we all hugged and wandered over to our dwelling for the next couple nights before Ireland, to offload our packs and rest or take a piss. The place was over a Brazilian restaurant, and the street below was a dedicated space for an open-air market during daylight hours. The market was full of vendors selling mismatched socks or shoes in different sizes…
Cover Art: Camden Lock - Kingston
