Trouble in Sin City

Switch gears. Every day is a new day. And believe me, with my brain in its present state, that's more than just a cliche. My cognitive deficits, God bless 'em, conspire with every sunrise to dust the chalk off yesterday's slate.

How much have I said herein of Roy and Abdul, our exchange students? I am finally learning to pronounce Roy's real name. It goes something like this--Yoi-skay. The actual spelling is nothing like that, but phonetically I'm beginning to get a handle on it.

Sadly, the students are not speaking to each other these days. This is because of something that happened in Las Vegas. The details are sketchy, and neither is saying much about it.

Did I mention that Roy and Abdul had gone together to Vegas? Yes, it was their vacation between terms at the University. The whole thing cost a couple bucket-loads of money--nice work if you can get it. My wife, along with a few other young women, volunteered their services in the capacity of a guide (with some small consideration, of course), but Roy and Abdul would have none of it. They made it quite clear, albeit in broken English, that they could handle the trip on their own.

In hindsight, I consider it to be one of life's great miracles that they returned to Portland at all, for I had not, in all honestly, been able to imagine how they would succeed even in finding their own hotel room.

They went, they saw, they conquered--and then came home on separate planes, their friendship no longer intact.

We asked whether they had had a good time. Yes they answered. Yes, yes, very good.

Then that night I heard them arguing in Roy's room. The argument had something to do with money.

Roy, I promise you the money was given by me. You should remember better.

No, Aba-duul, I am not forget.

Roy I promise, you should remember.

Just a moment, Aba-duul, just a moment.

No, no, I promise. It is certain.

So it went. It is difficult to make much of such duels of bad grammar, but it was clear that something had happened and things were not well between them.

The next day I talked to Roy.

Roy, what's going on with you and Abdul?

Mmmmm . . . He did not want to talk about it.

I pressed him.

Is it money?

No no no, not money, no. Aba-duul, he is late every time. Many times we have miss the bus. I told him, Aba-duul hurry. I told him many times.

I guess he is kinda slow, I said.

I told him many times. But he goes his own piss.

Now I knew this could not be right, so I asked Roy to repeat the phrase.

His piss, Roy said, carefully accentuating the word. He goes his own piss?

I asked him to spell the word.

P-a-c-e. Piss.

Well, that cleared it up perfectly.

In any case, Roy and Abdul have not spoken since that night in Roy's room. The pass each other in hallway or kitchen, turning their shoulders, loudly silent, like two offended lovers. They no longer walk to the bus together. And they make no further plans for exotic travel.

Roy gravitates toward me, and Abdul toward my wife.

And let me tell you, I got the best deal there, because Roy's English is far superior to Abdul's.