In Which I Meet People

Had a great little conversation yesterday afternoon with some vacationing Londoners in a quaint little hellhole called Wendy's, where they guard their ketchup like Inca gold. (Don't take more that that to start a conversation, sometimes.)

We talked a little bit about how most Americans' pictures of Britain were from 40-years-old Monty Python sketches, while the guy asked me whether there were any Big Kahuna Burgers around, although he suspected (rightly, I think, though I suppose it could be a regional thing) that the chain was a Quentin Tarrantino invention for Pulp Fiction. They were really friendly folks, and it was good to sit and talk to some strangers for lunch.

Wish they hadn't've brought their weather with them, though. It's the second week of April, and I've still got the lining in my leather jacket.

Then, late last night, I was taking the subway back to Penn Station to get my train home, talking with a buddy about the night’s D&D game. A bedraggled Asian guy in his mid-40s (I’m guessing) interrupted us, speaking incomprehensibly in what seemed to me like slurred Spanish. Pete and I kept talking, trying to ignore him, but he kept it up. Finally, he stood up and spoke to us (again, without either of us getting a word of it, although he seemed like thought he was making himself clear).

After a minute or two of incomprehensible conversation, looked up at him and said, with as much earnestness as I could muster:

“You know what my answer to that is?” I ran my finger beneath the logo on the front of my baseball cap, which I’d boosted months ago off the freebie table of a magazine. “Motor. Boating.” He just looked at me. “Motor boating. There’s your answer, man.”

The subway pulled in to my stop, and I got of the train, leaving Pete there with the guy. I looked back at them, and drew one more imaginary line under the logo. “Motor boating.” The doors closed and the train sped off.

If you can’t take the crazy out of the conversation, you might as well add some of your own.

Rob