I didn’t even notice the couple gawking at me until
they kicked a little sand on my legs,
“Hello?”
I said, trying not to sound American.
The
woman marched up to me and adjusted her glasses, “Are… are you the guy who was
busking the other day?”
I
searched my memory banks for the word busking
before answering, “Why… yes… yes I was…”
She
turned to the man beside her and cocked her head, “See… TOLD YOU!” she
declared.
“Yeah…
we were just foolin’ around…” I explained, hoping I wasn’t about to get
arrested.
“Psh…
I don’t care,” her thin lips said with an accent that sounded very British, “You
all were great. I especially loved the little shuffle you did…so full of
energy. How many years have you been rapping?”
The
way she pronounced the word “rapping” reminded me of maple syrup.
My
eyes shifted to the ground, “Uh… 11 months…ish…I started in Guatemala as a gag
and kinda didn’t want to stop…”
Her
blue eyes widened, “Only 11 months… gosh… you’re really talented… what the heck
were you doing in Guatemala?”
“Oh,
I was doing mission work… I’m a missionary.”
The
woman’s eyes got bigger, “A MISSIONARY?”
I
nodded, “Why?
Her
green eyes found the ground, “I…I dunno… I never met a missionary… let alone a
rapping one. I always pictured missionaries with… orange robes… asking me if
I found Jesus… yanno?”
“Well,
I left my robe at home…” I joked.
She
laughed, “It’s… It’s just… I always thought that missionaries were dressed in
ties with bicycles and…”
“Mormons?”
She
looked up and nodded sheepishly.
“Well…
some are… not all…but I get it…” I said
“So…”
she said and lit a cigarette, “What’s your mission?”
“Mission?”
I kicked the sand and watched a few crushed bottle caps roll down the beach, “Whatcha
mean?”
“Like,
are you trying to convert people or whatever?”
“I…
I dunno… I mean… that’s the big idea right? But really, I think I’m just trying
to love my neighbor the best I can, take care of widows and orphans, and yanno,
keep my head out my rear…”
She
laughed, “It’s amazing how much our brain like that little place, huh?”
“Right?”
I replied and we roared with laughter.
After
the laughter died down, she stared at me just a little longer, “You know, I
never really talked to a real missionary before.”
“Me
neither!” I joked, but she didn’t laugh.
After
a brief moment she smiled again, “Thanks.”
“What
for?”
She
got up and dusted herself off, “For being human,” she replied and got lost in
the crowd.
We
ate pancakes the next week. Even though I was miles away from anything that
looked like America and I had not seen an IHOP, McDonalds, or even a fat
policeman in a doughnut shop, as I pour Aunt Jemima over two flat pancakes, I
relived my beach conversation and relaxed.
For
the first time, in a long time, it didn’t matter I was overseas.
I felt at home.
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