surprise visitors. Besides, I haven’t seen him in a while. He doesn’t come in here very often,” he said.
I could tell that he was lying, but now didn’t seem the right time to call him on it. As he spoke his hand never wavered or shook. The muscles in his arm were ready to pull the weapon out the second he perceived me as a threat. Because I enjoy letting the movies be my guide to the real world, I imagined that he was holding a sawed off shotgun. Needless to say, I had no intention of giving him an excuse to use it on me. The tone of my voice remained calm and I kept my hands on top of the bar in plain view.
“So I’m going to guess that it’s a shotgun,” I smiled, “and if it stops you from using it on me, I’ll be happy to slowly reach into my pocket and produce my ID.”
A small smile curled at the edges of his mouth. Professionals always seem to appreciate meeting someone who can recognize their talent. And perhaps I was even accurate on the weapon.
“Does your ID have ‘trustworthy’ stamped across it or something,” he joked.
I shook my head, “No, but it is attached to a badge.”
“Badges can be faked,” he said like a man who knew.
“True,” I agreed, “Which means there is only one thing left to do.”
His body tensed slightly, “And what’s that?”
“Show you the secret handshake. That should prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am one of the good guys,” I smiled.
He held steady for a moment, looking deep into my eyes, and then as if he couldn’t contain it any longer, he let out a throaty chuckle. Yet even through the laughter, he maintained his steady grip on the weapon. Once he stopped laughing, he held my gaze for a few more moments, contemplation running across his face. Then he released the weapon and took a couple of steps over towards the soda gun.
“How about I get you that Coke and we’ll go from there,” he smiled.
Part of me was actually surprised that he released the weapon so easily. I guess he felt like he was a pretty good judge of character and whatever the test, I passed. I congratulated myself on being likable and tore into the bowl of mixed nuts while I waited for my Coke. In the time that it took him to bring my drink over, I managed to empty the bowl. He put my Coke down and refilled the bowl from a large container behind the bar. I picked up my glass and tipped it his way, a non-verbal thank you, before taking a sip. He laid the now full bowl of nuts on the counter and before he turned away, I inquired about a real meal.
“Any chance that you serve food here?”
He looked me over for a minute before answering. I think he was deciding just how much he liked me.
“We don’t do much in the way of meals around here, especially this early. But I got some stuff behind the bar, I could make you a turkey sandwich if you want,” he offered.
“Turkey, my favorite,” I smiled.
“You and the boss. He says it helps him function,” he laughed.
I didn’t understand the comment, so I didn’t respond. At this point I was just so happy that someone agreed to feed me that even I was willing to shut up. As I said, getting injured gives me a huge case of the munchies. I watched him make my sandwich, my mouth salivating as he walked it over to me. It occurred to me that this particular meal function was a little above and beyond his bartender duties, so I felt it was only polite that I introduce myself.
“I really appreciate the sandwich bro. I’m Bruce by the way, Bruce Chang.”
He gave me a friendly smile, which faded slowly at the mention of my last name. It was not an unexpected reaction. Most people assume that I am using a false name. As a white guy named Chang, I had spent a lifetime dealing with this.
“Chang?” he questioned.
“Yeah, the name throws most people off. I was adopted. My dad was Chinese.”
He gave me a funny look, “So he’s not Chinese anymore?”
Ah, the joy of tenses. I didn’t even realize what I had said
I could tell that he was lying, but now didn’t seem the right time to call him on it. As he spoke his hand never wavered or shook. The muscles in his arm were ready to pull the weapon out the second he perceived me as a threat. Because I enjoy letting the movies be my guide to the real world, I imagined that he was holding a sawed off shotgun. Needless to say, I had no intention of giving him an excuse to use it on me. The tone of my voice remained calm and I kept my hands on top of the bar in plain view.
“So I’m going to guess that it’s a shotgun,” I smiled, “and if it stops you from using it on me, I’ll be happy to slowly reach into my pocket and produce my ID.”
A small smile curled at the edges of his mouth. Professionals always seem to appreciate meeting someone who can recognize their talent. And perhaps I was even accurate on the weapon.
“Does your ID have ‘trustworthy’ stamped across it or something,” he joked.
I shook my head, “No, but it is attached to a badge.”
“Badges can be faked,” he said like a man who knew.
“True,” I agreed, “Which means there is only one thing left to do.”
His body tensed slightly, “And what’s that?”
“Show you the secret handshake. That should prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am one of the good guys,” I smiled.
He held steady for a moment, looking deep into my eyes, and then as if he couldn’t contain it any longer, he let out a throaty chuckle. Yet even through the laughter, he maintained his steady grip on the weapon. Once he stopped laughing, he held my gaze for a few more moments, contemplation running across his face. Then he released the weapon and took a couple of steps over towards the soda gun.
“How about I get you that Coke and we’ll go from there,” he smiled.
Part of me was actually surprised that he released the weapon so easily. I guess he felt like he was a pretty good judge of character and whatever the test, I passed. I congratulated myself on being likable and tore into the bowl of mixed nuts while I waited for my Coke. In the time that it took him to bring my drink over, I managed to empty the bowl. He put my Coke down and refilled the bowl from a large container behind the bar. I picked up my glass and tipped it his way, a non-verbal thank you, before taking a sip. He laid the now full bowl of nuts on the counter and before he turned away, I inquired about a real meal.
“Any chance that you serve food here?”
He looked me over for a minute before answering. I think he was deciding just how much he liked me.
“We don’t do much in the way of meals around here, especially this early. But I got some stuff behind the bar, I could make you a turkey sandwich if you want,” he offered.
“Turkey, my favorite,” I smiled.
“You and the boss. He says it helps him function,” he laughed.
I didn’t understand the comment, so I didn’t respond. At this point I was just so happy that someone agreed to feed me that even I was willing to shut up. As I said, getting injured gives me a huge case of the munchies. I watched him make my sandwich, my mouth salivating as he walked it over to me. It occurred to me that this particular meal function was a little above and beyond his bartender duties, so I felt it was only polite that I introduce myself.
“I really appreciate the sandwich bro. I’m Bruce by the way, Bruce Chang.”
He gave me a friendly smile, which faded slowly at the mention of my last name. It was not an unexpected reaction. Most people assume that I am using a false name. As a white guy named Chang, I had spent a lifetime dealing with this.
“Chang?” he questioned.
“Yeah, the name throws most people off. I was adopted. My dad was Chinese.”
He gave me a funny look, “So he’s not Chinese anymore?”
Ah, the joy of tenses. I didn’t even realize what I had said
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