Y'boy was heading Maraval around the Savannah 8 o'clock Republic holiday morning when he catch a vaps and, opposite bpTT, squeeze een the little rental car into that narrow little side-o'-the-road parking slot, which part it steep like a politician slide into bobol after a election; Y'Boy tell heself he will take a stroll through Town to the Breakfast Shed. Is so you could move, when you have nobody to explain to or axe for excuse from–the Madam gone back to Bim–and Y'Boy tell heself it is a good little while since he spend "quality time" with Port-of-Spain proper; or even Por'spain improper.
David Rudder did write a song, off the Trinidad Stories album, called "Belmont", in which he did say Belmont was he first wife; well, is so Y'Boy feel about this Town, except is like a outside woman a man can't let go, no matter how bad it might get for both o' them; and no matter everybody know it bound to end in tears. So Y'Boy studying as he cruising down Dere St, one of the few in Port-of-Spain that actually have people living in it, and in apartments that wasn't built as plannings.Right Dere you could see old Trinidad, Trinidad now and Trinidad still to come next to one another: what was once the mansion of one of Por'spain's richest families is now the poor cousin of the area's businesses, two meagre stories dwarfed by the glass-and-steel structure next door–but the both o' them in the shadow of bpTT; and Y'Boy could see that shadow lengthening down through time, the "bp" part catching all the light, the "TT" part always in the deepening darkness; one part gets the capital letters, the other has the actual capital.
Y'Boy rounds the corner by Costatt into Dundonald Street and, since Savannah, the onliest sound he hearing is he own feet slapping the ground. Y'Boy couldn't count the times he chip down Tragarete Rd there, pushing Phase II and Invaders and Starlift pans; and Y'Boy realise his own son would never do that, becaw, if pan show it face at Carnival at all, pan does drive now.
Park Street was the place Y'Boy first feel, as a grownup, not a child, that untouchable Trini joy of simply being alive. He was walking back to Trevor Lee' chambers, a 19-year-old law student, roti-in-hand, when he heart soar to the sky for nothing and he stop, and realise, and tell heself, "If you can't be happy on Park Street, Port-of-Spain, you can't be happy any-firetrucking-where!"
On all of Tragarete Rd, from Roxy roundabout to Green Corner, is only three human beings it have: Y'Boy and two gas station-gyul leaning up on a pump. Onliest thing it don't have is some of them tumbleweed rolling through the street and a tess in a black hat blowing a harmonica on a fence; Y'Boy wouldn't be surprised to see the AMC people shooting a episode of Walking Dead right there.
Y'Boy already spend public holidays in these cities: London; New York; Toronto: Dublin; Chicago; Miami; Manchester; Birmingham; Los Angeles. And, on a public holiday, you doesn't can park anywhere on them streets; Muscle Beach, Venice, LA, does be pack out on the 4th of July.
Who it have living in West Indian capital cities? Only the poorest of the poor and one-two Venezuelan student. Other than Georgetown, Guyana, which, like its Washington counterpart, still has a well-off section (also separated from the mass of sufferers by a little geography and a big idea), Y'Boy can't think of a single West Indian capital city that people with any money at all choose to remain in after dark.
Off Richmond Street, Y'Boy could see Gandhi statue; it don't even have one vagrant in Kew Place. A family of semi-feral dogs–all the same brown-and-black colouring–is the only other living things in sight. And Y'Boy don't know eef is the little puppy who wagging he tail at Y'Boy even as he running off, or eef is the total absence of even derelict and discarded human beings, but Y'Boy start to feel a longing and a longing in he soul for some kind of explanation of how we reach here: where the city with the most life he ever walk in could be so stone cold dead; and on a day dedicated to the Republic; it have to be a firetrucking joke, somebody have to be cracking up somewhere.
Y'Boy turning and turning in the widening gyre but it have no falcon to hear nothing, only wild city dog. Mention, "turning and turning" in Por'spain and, firetruck WB Yeats, all anybody would think of is two winer-gyul on Machel stage. This is the city that shape both Walcott and Naipaul. Y'Boy near Sackville Street, where CLR James set "Minty Alley". Y'Boy start to trimble like a top whey going and collapse, footstep wobbling like a government policy, and Y'Boy don't know if he falling or getting knock down.
Beyond the Red House dome, is the Hill, where Taffy, Earl Lovelace's Christ of Laventy, come down from the cross rather than die for people who would "pelt a man with big stones when so much little pebbles lying on the ground". And Y'Boy study the rich literary history of this city, of which Y'Boy is a corn on a footnote of which.And Y'Boy reach on to almost Independence Square on Republic Day and it still have nobody walking with him.And Y'Boy axe heself if it have any real difference between a Por'spain citizen and a zombie.
BC Pires will be forced to make room for greater patriotism in his head by lobotomising his discernment.