“WHAT DO YOU WANT TO EAT?” the waitress yells in my face as soon as I enter the restaurant. I haven’t even looked at the menu yet. The place is full of migrant workers eating their lunch. I know they are migrant workers for a variety of reasons, the number one being that their accents and dialects are different from local Beijing dialect. They talk in loud voices. Pants spattered in mud or dried paint, many of them wear winter caps. They hold their bowls up to their mouths with their strong hands, calloused from years of hard labor that I’ve never known. Their conversation is often interrupted by the sounds of them slurping up their noodles, lips and jowls smacking down on raw garlic, or burping up the glasses of Chinese grain alcohol that almost every one of them drink. I have a kind of feeling of admiration and gratitude for these guys. If it wasn’t for them, most of the buildings in Beijing wouldn’t be standing where they are now.
I order a plate of potatoes and peppers and sit down at a table across from a guy who has a loudspeaker next to him. I don’t know how to say the Chinese word for loudspeaker so I make a joke about it.
“Is that a Chinese gun?” I ask. I know it’s not a gun. I’m just too proud to say the words, “I don’t know what that is in Chinese. Could you please tell me?” He tells me, and we talk for a few minutes. He comes from HebeiW Province, not far from Beijing. As we talk, I notice that some of the other customers behind him are staring at me during our conversation. Sometimes, I have to be very aware of my senses in China, and I can usually tell when someone is whispering comments about me at the same time I am engaged in a conversation with another person. It’s easy for me to tell that the four workers in the back of the room are talking about me. They probably wonder where I’m from, what I’m doing in China, and why I can speak Chinese. They guy with the loudspeaker finishes his lunch, pays his bill, and moves on.
I’m not alone at my table for long. As soon as Mr. Loudspeaker leaves, the four workers in the back of the room approach my table to engage me in conversation. At first, they don’t say anything; instead, staring at me like some sort of zoo animal. Then they begin…
“Where are you from?” one of them asks.
“USA. What about you guys?” I ask.
“We’re all from HengshuiW in Hebei Province.” he responds.
I tell them I have heard of Hengshui, mostly because it’s famous for being the home of a particularly potend brand of baijiuW. I make a joke and say that I’ve heard when people from Hengshui are cut with a knife, they bleed baijiu. They all laugh. We chat for a few minutes about my job, their jobs, how long they’ve been in Beijing for, etc. They seem like relatively friendly guys. After a few minutes, they pay their bill and head on out the door back to work. One of them lingers behind. He wears a ruffled navy blue worker’s suit, and has huge brown eyes.
I am immediately suspicious of Blue Suit. Maybe it’s the look in his vacuous brown eyes, but I can tell that something is up with this guy.
“Can we can be friends?” he says.
This guy definitely wants something from me. I know immediately from the question, and the way he asks it. Earlier when I was chatting with the four guys from Hengshui, I noticed that Blue Suit was the only one who remained silent. From time to time he rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, as if sizing me up for a work project, just staring and calculating. He rubs his chin again, looking at me with an expectant smirk on his face.
I’m never sure how to answer the questions, “can we be friends?” when I hear it in China. We just don’t ask that question in the West, and if we do, it’s not after the first minute of meeting someone for the first time. Maybe in kindergarten we asked this question, but I left Mrs. Cash’s classroom about 23 years ago. Usually when I hear this question in China, the person asking it has some ulterior motive. It’s a difficult question to answer. How can I say “no” to this question and still sound polite?
Method 1: I’m sorry sir, my friend quota is already full. Please wait until the next one drops dead, and I’ll let you know when there is an available space for you.
Method 2: No. I don’t believe in friends.
Method 3: Ok. But first let me get out my “New Friends” sign-up sheet (I reach into my briefcase). Fill out this pink form–that’s a liability insurance waiver. Then this blue form–that’s a two year contract. Please write down all of your personal contact information on this card and give me a 250 dollar deposit which will be returned to you at the time your contract expires. Should you decide to not be my friend before the 2 years are up, the deposit money stays with me, as you have broken the contract you are now signing.
I turn these options over in my head and decide that none of them sound like words I would say, so I simply say, “sure.” We exchange telephone numbers (I don’t know why I do this), and I get the bill for my meal. Less than a dollar.
As I walk out of the restaurant, Blue Suit follows me for a few steps, putting his arm over my shoulder. I think to myself, here it comes, he’s going to ask me for something now.
He leans over towards my ear, gently pulling my head downward towards him (I’m taller than him by at least a neck).
“You think you could help me buy something that’s pretty easy to buy in America?” he asks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have to be more specific.”
He points his finger at me, cocking his thumb up in the air in the shape of a pistol.
“You know what I mean. A gun. I want to buy a gun. I can give you some money for it, too.”
“This conversation is over,” I say.
He continues to follow me, trying to persuade me to help him buy a gun, as if I happen to be carrying a gun with me for sale at the moment.
“Come on. I know it’s easy for Americans to buy guns. Just help me out. I’ll pay you.” He doesn’t stop.
“Forget it,” I say. I turn around and head to my home. He shrugs his shoulders and walks the other way. It seems our short “friendship” has ended before it even started. It’s a good thing he didn’t sign the two year contract.
For the record I’ve never owned a gun in my life (besides ones that shoot water), and I probably never will own a gun anytime in the future. Still, this gun-toting view of Americans is one shared by many all over China, maybe even all over the world. I wonder to myself, why does that guy need a gun? Could he be so desperate? I start to feel sorry for Blue Suit. He really must have fallen far and be in a pretty low state financially and mentally to start thinking about buying a handgun from a complete stranger from another country. Chinese cannot buy guns, and I’m not going to continue to remain in contact with someone who wants to buy an illegal gun from me in the street, even if they are from Hengshui, home of the finest baijiu across China.
The next morning after taking my shower, I look at my phone and see that their is an SMS from someone. Blue Suit has sent me a message. Don’t be a coward. At least we can be friends? With a silent apology to Blue Suit, I erase the message, neglecting to send a reply.
