Please…

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“Would you like some soy sauce with your order?”

“Please.”

It’s my third week in Tampa, and just today I realized some things were different from West Virginia.

Like “Please.”

I guess my reaction’s similar to a friend of mine who visited NY (or was it Atlanta), and felt left out when everyone said “pop” instead of “soda.” I digress.

I’ve been in WV for close to five years, which were enough for me to drop a lot of my British English politedness. WV people are if anything, blunt — a lot of the time.

I’d been saying just “Yes” instead of “Please” well into my second week (this is my third) before I began to notice I was somewhat out of place.

I also seem to have picked up the habit of not ending sentences which is something I never used to do.

“You know I just wanted to leave because…” Sentence end.

People seem to understand what I had in mind, although I don’t understand how they do it.

Must be the weather.

Phone call

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<Insert appropriate dial tone onomatopoeia here>

Azuka: Hello

Lady on other end:  Hello

A: Is this Third World Grocers?

L: Are you serious? I hope you never find Third World Grocers.

A: …

L: Everyone’s been calling me asking for Third World Grocers.

She hung up. Typical example of what happens when you find a site on Google with out-of-date information on African market addresses and phone numbers.

Idiot

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Someone nudged me and I turned to look, keeping my hand firmly in my pocket, determined not to lose my wallet while being jostled around in the after-work crush at the bus stop.

“The lady in that car’s calling you,” the man standing beside me pointed. My gaze followed his finger to the blue Golf parked across the road.

I couldn’t tell who it was from where I was — not even if it was a “lady” or not — as I didn’t have my glasses on.

I crossed the road, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a bus.

“Thunder fire you!” the driver slowed down to scream at me, extending his hand in the waka gesture.

“And you too,” I shouted back, returning the gesture before hurrying to the car.

“Hello Ramat,” I said, recognizing her. She worked in my department at the bank.

“Hello. Do you need a ride?” she asked. “I’ll drop you off.”

“Thank you,” I said after getting in.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

I told her.

She pulled into the crawling traffic, and I leaned back and closed my eyes.

I didn’t want to talk to her — not after last night, not after the day at the office.

She drove in silence.

“Ramat,” I said softly, unable to take it any longer. “About last night…”

She braked suddenly, throwing me forward.

“So that’s why,” she was amused.

“Well..” I shrugged helplessly.

“Well.” she mimicked me.

The invitation was there in her eyes and I found myself leaning towards her.

She grabbed my cheek between her forefinger and thumb, effectively stopping my advance.

“You’re an idiot, aren’t you?” she asked, pinching my cheek so hard it hurt. “We already got here. Where exactly do you live?”

I pulled my head away and looked outside.

“I’ll get out here,” I said, perhaps a little too firmly, then softened when I saw the look on her face. “It’s not very safe if you go in further.”

She nodded.

I grabbed my bag and got out of the car, walking round to her side.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said sincerely.

“Emmanuel?”

I leaned over to bring my face close to her window.

She pinched my cheek again without warning. “You’re a big idiot.”

Her laugh still echoed in my head as she drove away.

I walked home grinning ear to ear. Perhaps I was an idiot after all.

Imagine a life without walls

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(This is the unedited text from a 10-minute writing session last Friday).

There were no walls as far as the eyes could see. Not only were there no walls, there was also an absence of anything that could have served as a wall — rocks, boulders, tall grass.

I had been here for three days, and was still only getting used to the way things worked. For the first time, I wondered if physical walls actually create the walls in our hearts, for even the people I met had no walls in theirs.

Nobody lied because you gained nothing by doing so. You hid nothing because there was nothing to hide in the first place.

At first, I welcomed it, but after some time, I thought back to how it was in the world I had come from. Some things are better hidden, and walls serve to protect us, as well as to protect others from us.

I had a mission now, sadistic as it might be — to create walls, both physically, as well as in the hearts of the people of this world.

Finally, a post

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I’d like to thank everyone who commented on my previous post. As to what happened in the end, the next day I was so tired I stayed in bed all day. The day after that, I think I started telling myself it was too late to say anything, but I perhaps, much as ashamed I am to admit it, was scared.
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The internet connection for the dorms has been down for close to two weeks. Absolutely nothing was wrong before the IT department came in to do upgrades. Ever since then, it’s been on and off. I looked up the gateway IP (SonicWall) and seriously considered doing a bruteforce attack by generating a lot of entries with this script just so I can have a look at the restrictions placed. Considering all the trouble I’d have to go through, including IP spoofing, and the ones I’d have to go through if I get caught, I think it’s safer just blogging from the library like this.

I ought to have posted one or two times last month (not that that’s nearly enough), but after losing a very long, witty (I wish!) post to the aforementioned problem and a Firefox crash, I just couldn’t bring myself to do any blogging.
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Well, this semester’s been quite busy, but I think I’m keeping up. Now if only that internet got fixed.

The Shopkeeper

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I was in the backroom sorting supplies/dozing off/making out/… when I heard the ding as someone walked in. I peeked out into the main store to see what kind of person had walked in.

Black/6ft 1. Suspicious. Great big coat that looked like it could fit half of what was in the store, and a backpack for what was left over.

Just to be sure, I went to the counter and leaned on it with my elbows, my eyes tracking his every move, although I grew uneasy when he walked behind the shelves where he probably knew I couldn’t see him. He would walk aimlessly between the shelves, stop, pick something, stand looking at it for a minute, then replace it. Not once did he ever look towards the counter, but he had to know I was watching him.

This guy was good. I decided that he could go on for hours, and I’d get so used to seeing him patrol that I wouldn’t notice when he did pick something — for good.

Neural adaptation — that’s what it’s called. I barely graduated from high school, but I know the word because my daughter learned about it in a college freshman Psychology course.

I called out to him when he was close enough to the counter. I called out again, then once more, and he turned to me. He took out the earphone in his right ear and said, “Did you say something?”

His accent was foreign. My suspicions increased.

“Shoplifting might be accepted back where you come from, but here it’s a crime. You look like someone who’s going to walk out with something hidden in your coat, and I don’t want you around here, because I’ll get into trouble with the manager.”

I wanted to say that, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “I need you to leave if you’re not going to buy anything. I have some work to do in the backroom, and I’m not going to stand around watching you walk up and down my store.”

He looked me right in the eye and said calmly, “I don’t like what you’re trying to imply.”

Imply. The devil probably looked up the word right before coming to the store.

“Look,” I said, getting angrier. “You’re not buying anything, you leave. It’s as simple as that. I don’t want you walking up and down, and then…”

“Wait…” he cut in. I wasn’t going to let him.

“I don’t want you walking up and down and then taking God-knows-what. I simply don’t have the time to watch you, because I’ve got things to do in the backroom.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” he said. “Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve come into this store to buy something. All the other guys who work here know me.”

Yeah right.

“I come in here sometimes when I’m bored, walk around, and buy anything I feel like…”

“I don’t want anyone ‘bored, walking around and picking what he likes.’ If you’re not going to buy anything, I need you to leave,” I cut him short.

“I was going to buy these,” he held out two 25c combs.

“Just leave,” I took them from him and threw them beside the cash register, heading for the backroom where the greater pleasures of life awaited me.

“Hey!” he shouted. “I said I want to buy these.”

I returned to the counter and rang them up. 75c, including tax. I wanted to wallop his nose, but I dutifully made change, and handed them to him, although I made sure I didn’t put them in a paper bag, or ask him if he wanted one.

I heaved a sigh of relief when he left.

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I (Azuka) have never been more insulted in my life. I think I handled this pretty well, considering that I’m sometimes a pushover, and will either take anything thrown at me meekly, or explode in anger.

This is the corner shop where I’m one of their (I hope) esteemed customers. I get a discount on a carton of Arizona Green Tea which I can reserve up to a week in advance. Some items I’ve requested have been added to the stock because I’m likely to buy  items I request every week.

It happened this morning, but I’m still very angry at what happened. I’m going to talk to the manager tomorrow (today, actually — it’s 12:12am).