The Bostonian

 I happened to meet a Bostonian the other day, which is something I understood with the first words he spoke. How pleasant to meet a Bostonian, I thought. I have never met one before. I have never been to Boston. Funny how one would need to come to the other side of the world to meet a Bostonian.

The first thing this man said to me was "Are you a truck driver?"

Interesting. Not a common opening to conversation.

"No," I answered. "Why?"

"You walk like a truck driver."

Interesting as well. How does a truck driver walk? I have no idea. I'm thinking maybe slow and kind of bent over. Or maybe kind of like a sailor who is used to the rolling of a ship over waves. 

The next thing I noticed about the Bostonian is that his eyes were reddened, as if he had been smoking some weed. That would be a dangerous thing to do here in Indonesia, an inadvisable thing to do given the strict laws against drug use and the harsh punishment if caught. Still, he did for all the world appear to be stoned, and the more I talked to him, the more stoned he seemed.

Having exchanged these few simple words and observations, we sat quietly for a time. My coffee arrived at the table and I took out my novel.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

I showed him the book cover. The Poppy War, book one of a trilogy by R.F. Kuang.

"Oh, I don't read that kind of shit," he said.

"Yeah, I don't generally read this kind of shit either," I agreed. "But I've read and admired this author's other work and so I wanted to try this one as well. But to be honest, I don't like fantasy sort of stuff, you know swords and arrows and magic powers and all that."

"Don't blame you," said the Bostonian. "I don't read that shit."

With this understood, we proceeded to talk about various other things, such as the city of Boston and what he is doing here in Indonesia and what I am doing here in Indonesia, and about Oregon and the beautiful Pacific Northwest.

"I love Portland," he said. "I have friends there. They grow the best pot in Oregon. It's not like in Boston. The pot in Oregon is fresh. The pot in Boston grows out of sewers."

Good to know, I guess. Not that I'll be sampling any Boston pot. Nor Portland pot either for that matter. Personally, I never did like pot, although of course I have tried it long ago, like everyone else in my generation.

He began to tell me then about a book he would like to show me, but someone stole the book, so he can't. The book had something to do with how nobody gives a fuck. In fact. That seems to be more or less the title of the book, from what I could understand. It was not clear whether this was a book someone stole from him in an airport or a cafe or wherever, or whether he himself had written such a book and then somebody either stole his book or stole his idea for this book.

"What are you eating? he asked.

"Lemon cake."

The Bostonian went inside the cafe for a moment, and then returned with a slice of lemon cake. We ate in silence.

"I've got to go soon," he said.

"Ah. Well, pleasure to meet you."

 Do you know what time it is?"

"Just about 11:30."

"Is it really?"

"Yes."

The Bostonian nods, looking both at me and past me.

"One more thing, bud. Is this Sunday?"