I don't know his name.
I was reading Growing Up, lying on the bed. To my left were two beds and this man was lying on the farther bed. The old guy right on the left side was talking about children of one of his acquaintances and this younger guy was listening, me overhearing it. In one moment I noticed the younger guy straining his brain so diligently to remember the right term for "the program to work while traveling in Australia." I knew the answer to his question and so let him know what it is: Working Holiday.
Now thinking back, that simple and little kindness of mine--precisely it was out of my desire to stop the distraction of having to hear his repeated muttering of "What is it? I used to know what it is... What is it? I used to know..."--may have triggered this talkative man to get interested in poking me.
Soon he walked up to my side and asked what kind of book I was reading. Expecting a surprise from him, I let him see pages I was reading--written in English--but he didn't show any sign of surprise. Instead, this stuttering, plain manual-laborer-looking man went on to ask me what genre it belongs to and who the author is. Inside me, I was cynical: "Hey, do you ever know Russell Baker? Have you ever read any book written in English, let alone an autobiography?" However, I kindly and diplomatically answered all his questions. As expected he didn't know the author's name nor the book, but he continued to poke me.
To be continued.
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