I'm at the taxi stand in New Kingston. Two taxi drivers are waiting for their respective vehicles to fill up with passengers. As is the custom with taxi men, they're killing the time with a conversation loud enough for the entire Knutsford Boulevard to hear.
"That's why me nuh judge nobody," Taxi Man One is saying. "A man can look pon you and decide seh because you look a certain way, him can class you. And then people catch on and start class you too. And nothing nuh go so!"
"Yeah man," Taxi Man Two chimed in. "Me hear seh them say him a B-man."
"Mek me tell you something," Taxi Man One rebuffed. "Me see him one day pon the stand, right? And me see a girl look like she a make a move to fi him car. So me not even a give her no check. But then she see me and start move toward my car and a say, 'wha gwaan, man? Long time no see.' So when she come inna the car, she a ask me wha me and him have because him tell her seh she and her B-man friend can gwaan. Me nuh say nothing. But now me a hear seh a so people a say. Yuh see because you look a certain way, people think say you a that ... But a you fi know what you know and nuh make nobody stop you from live your life."
His tone grows animated. You can tell he's getting irate.
"Them not even know me! Who ... A three babymother me have enuh!" And he continues the tirade until the taxi only needs one more person.
Across the street comes Mr Metrosexual, in a fitted pink-and-white striped shirt, briefcase in hand, walking with a sway. Taxi Man One points him out to his friend.
"Hey! Town?" He asks. The young man nods.
"Me gone," he tells the other driver, then adds: "Him look like one a them."
They both laugh.
I have to shake my head and smile.