When my homeboy Michael moved to Beijing last year to be a fancy cosmopolitan architect man, there were bound to be some changes.
“You gonna eat that?” he asked me at the sushi restaurant.
“Nah,” I said, but really I was.
“Good to see you,” he offered, savoring a piece of spicy tuna.
“WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?” I thought, but instead I just said, “You too.”
“You OK? How’s the blog going?”
“Don’t change the subject,” I retort, throwing a piece of drippy ginger at his face.
A waiter passes by and Mike grabs his wrist.
“How much?”
“Ah?”
“For the food. How much?”
“Ohh… I have to check,” says the nice Japanese man.
“30.”
“I’m s-sorry sir, you w — ”
“40 dollars for all the food.”
“Ahh n-no,” objects the nice Japanese man.
“45 and done. No more.”
The waiter runs away to get help.
“Mike, you can’t negotiate here. This is a restaurant.”
“Everything negotiable!”
“Everything?”
We stare at each other for an eternity, then we grab the samurai swords hanging on the wall and begin fighting.
Mike lands his sword on my funny bone, then I go in for the kill. Instead I catch his epaulette and remove his coat in one fell swoop, which the sushi chef interprets as a great dishonor.
He kicks us out before we can pay and keeps the coat.
“See what I mean?” he asks me on the street, shivering. “Everything negotiable.”
“What’s happend to him?” I wonder, but I’m afraid of the answer. Sometimes it’s better to know less about expats.
photo credit: Chris JL via photopin cc
