Luzzio

Pearl and Janet hurdled outside the store, tucking their arms into their jacket pockets against the cold. “Not getting fried chicken stench on my hair,” Pearl said, rejecting my offer to come inside.

I shrug my shoulders and head back in. The store did smell of fried chicken, and it was lovely. The floors itself were large cheap oily tiles, and behind the counter stood a burly middle eastern underneath glowing menus. His was a knowing smile, with a hint of hidden snark which worries you as you step forward to make an order.

“I’ll have Number 3,” I point at the one directly above his head “to go.”. Two chicken and some fries. Four-pound-fifty, please. I hand him the money, somehow deciding it wiser to pay in cash instead of swiping, despite needing the loose change. “Thank you, my friend.”

He shouts the order to the back of the kitchen as soon as the money is safely tucked away into the cash register. I twiddle my toes and pretend to admire the tiles and ceiling as I wait for the food.

“Are you Chinese?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Ah… that is good.”

By that approval I suppose he meant was I not ‘British born’. I nod dully.

“We Pakistanis and Chinese… we’re like brothers. We need to stick together here. Watch out for one another.”

My mind begins to process this statement by first a stepping stone of taking offense, me being law student, he lowly cashier, quickly crossed, and then fascination as to the historical link of middle easterns and orientals. Glimpse of Nick Griffin on the telly fly, his chubby cheeks vibrating as the throat resonates to communicate his commitment to be not Anti-Islamic views but the need to curb the immigration problem to an angry mixed audience which has been offended so strongly that all they hear is Down With Islam.

I imagine an exaggerated tugboat beached, people emerging from cramped spaces to embrace the cold reluctant breeze that is England. I recall enjoying salmon and lamb shank aboard the plane here while admiring through a window the sands of Afghanistan.

But I remember the moments of walking for the first time into the Manchester night, wary of every figure I pass, alone in a foreign land with no similarity by way of discrimination to any stranger I could rely on. Or speaking softly to the receptionist only to annoy them from having to request a repeat of the sentence due to accent.

Three paragraphs above went through my mind. A thinner version of him emerges from the kitchen, and places the oil soaked box of food on the counter. He picks it up and hands the box over with a helping of serviettes, smiling.

“Yes,” I smile back, and head out.