Talking Smack

Last night I was playing ping pong with a white-whiskered German, a murmuring Brit, and a long-legged Floridian. The German, a painter from Bayern, had perfected the art of talking smack, a skill set I never would have credited him with upon first glance. He stood inches from the table, holding the paddle in a bizarre, two-fingered manner, his face close to the table’s edge, and then said, quietly, in a clipped German accent: “I’m sorry.” As in, I’m sorry that I’m about to blow you away with this serve. I’m sorry this serve is going to make you want to retire from ping pong permanently. I’m sorry that you’re going to have to rethink everything you’ve believed in until now.

And while you were wondering: “Wait, why is he saying sorry?” he served and you understood. And begrudgingly accepted his apology.

This afternoon, licking my wounds from getting schooled, I took a walk down the road. A car slowed and the window came down. I looked around in case I had to run; I can never remember, when I’m in the States, what you’re supposed to look out for and how to react if it starts happening. It was a man in his mid-fifties.

“Do you know how in the world I can get to the freeway?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I’m not from around here.”

“Well, what’s at the end of this road?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never made it that far.”

“Oh. Well, all right. I guess I’ll try it out.”

“Good luck.”

“I just came from a Hardees,” he concluded mournfully, apropos of nothing.

After he had driven off in despair, I walked by a trailer with a yard full of stuff and took a picture. It was a sinfully warm day and it smelled like baking pine needles. I felt utterly at ease: nothing beats an empty street.