The old man came into the Greek Diner and ordered a cup of coffee; he looked at the menu. Not a minute went by, and a big guy, maybe thirty, came in, whacked the old man's chair, and said: "Come on, dickhead."
The old man got up - exasperated, and followed the younger man out. I was confused; what was this? Was the old man in debt and the big guy was the force collecting?
I imagined the older man carrying serious racing bets.
How could the big guy be so mean to the old guy?
I was spooked.
The owner saw my confusion. "His son," he said. In his accent, son sounded like one. "He's a honky."
I could have sworn he said honky. I mean, I guess he was - he was white. But it just didn't seem complete. It couldn't be that simple.
"What?" I asked.
"Hunkie," said the owner in his foreign accent, repeating. He made a gesture, like a sticking a needle into his arm. At last I got it: He's a junkie.
"Sad," said the owner. "He's a good man."
So the old man's son was a junkie.
I think it's all in the clarifying - there are so many cultures represented in New York, including junkies, that to understand them all, one has to ask follow up questions. Had I not, I would have thought the big dude was just a honky.
Yesterday there was the Asian guy on the street that wanted me to hold his film for half an hour. I'm like fat chance, pal. I don't even know you. It was probably child porn.
And he was carrying a flattened cardboard box around like a prize possession. Not a good omen.
Plus, I had places to be.
But then I wondered if I was missing something. Just because he was carrying a cardboard box, doesn't mean anything. Hell, I have a cardboard box at home.
Cardboard, carried flattened, does not mean he was homeless. It doesn't mean he was just after my money. Doesn't mean he was carrying child porn.
With compassion, I said, "Say what?"
Turns out he wanted to know if I knew of a place nearby that could develop his film in a half hour. Big difference.
Maybe it's me - maybe coming from Seattle, where no one talks to anyone they don't know, I am not used to listening to people. Unless, of course, they had my same major as I did in college. I am not used to random people of random cultures dealing with me.
I am not used to dealing with them.
I have lost the ear of hearing the diverse - of hearing the unexpected. I am unused to hearing people speak whatever as their first language.
Then there is this dude from Trinidad who owns this bar where some of us get together after a weekly variety show. The guy is really polite, but we obviously don't understand each other. He never brings me what I order - it takes a calculator to figure out the bill. But he seems to have taken a shine to me, anyway.
With fondness, he has me recommend the food to other people - and I've only been there once before. We're communicating on a whole different level - beyond words. Actually, I think he is using me.
But this is good - I am learning to be used internationally. It has improved my communication skills.
For instance, when I went up to the guy at the counter who was dressed in obviously international headgear and asked for dental floss, he looked at me blankly. "Floss," I said, "you know, for your teeth."
"I don't think so, man," he said in perfect English.
You can never tell.
Questions?
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