I hate small talk.
Because I don’t know how to start one.
But I believe that is something I can learn.
I am a talk douser, someone who always says wrong thing at wrong time. There was one time, I even triumphed a rather talkative man.
It was in my dentist’s waiting room where half a dozen of people were waiting patiently. There was one guy who, ever since I stepped into that room, had never stopped talking, who did not even need sporadic responses to rekindle subjects. I was quite amazed to see that all the other people were more or less trying to sit as far away from him as possible. I gingerly chose a seat in front of him, thinking this is a good opportunity for me to learn small talk without too much effort from my side. Not surprisingly, he was turning this side and that side, his eyes sweeping around the room searching for another possible candidate. I was pretending to watch a TV mounted on the wall, in which, Obama was giving a lecture, but the TV was on mute, the rustling of flipping magazines and creaking of turning chairs were quite unnerving and making the silence in the room eerily awkward. To encourage that man to start a talk with me, I casted a cursory glance at him and managed a shallow smile. The man smiled back, pointing his finger to the TV and said, “He (Obama) is very smart. I like him.” I never knew how to follow a conversion and keep it alive. So, I smiled understandably and remained silent. After several minutes of soliloquising, the man started asking me questions, in an apparent effort to look for new topics.
“What is your take on US election?” he asked.
I didn’t want to look stupid and ignorant, therefore, I carefully formulated my answers, chose right words, mentally checked grammar, tense and, with an accent I learned from MYSJ, said, “I believe in world peace. This world should be put in women’s hands. I definitely vote for Hilary Clinton.”
“You…” The man looked at me in di*****elief, mouth half open, as if my answer was so profound that he had to mull it over.
Undeterred, the man started another topic, this time, in slow and clear English, “Where are you from?”
Like many other overseas Chinese, I felt my words and behaviours were responsible for how other people would see China. But the problem was I had no idea how he would form an opinion about me, and might extend that to China. Out of this concern, I said, “I am from Pakistan.” But my face was rather unconvincing, so I started shaking my head horizontally, accompanying it with a sunny smile. I should have borrowed my wife’s lipstick to put a red dot in the middle of my forehead.
Now, the man was shocked, and examined my face one more time and ventured, “I think you are Chinese.”
I knew I have stretched it a little bit too far, and then I tried to fix my pervious lie with another lie. “I am a Pakistan Chinese.” At least, I was one step closer to the truth than my first lie.
“Now, you are in Canada!” He murmured thoughtfully.
“I am a Canadian Pakistan Chinese now.” I just realized how difficult it was to lie all the time.
“Oh…” The man was completely speechless. In a great panic, he yelled toward the inside of the room, “Excuse me, but, is this dentist’s office?”
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