Squeal

I smiled at the owner of the butcher shop down the street from my office. He smiled back at me.

"What do you have that's good?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow quizzically and responded in Vietnamese.

"Barbecued pork?" I asked.

His smile got wider but it was clear I still wasn't getting through.

"Oink, oink?" I suggested.

Now his smile was tinged with just a hint of fear. He tightened his grip on the cleaver he was holding.

I glanced around the small shop in hopes of finding a way to communicate.

"Like that!" I exclaimed, pointing at a smoked pig's head sitting on a shelf in a corner.

He looked at the head, then back at me, and said something else in Vietnamese. I'm pretty sure it was, "Are you shitting me?"

I pointed at the head again, shook my own, oinked, and said, "No." Then I pointed to my belly, nodded my head, oinked, and said, "Yes."

"Aaah!" he said as his face lit up with understanding. He disappeared into a back room and I heard him whacking at something with his cleaver. He soon returned with a white Styrofoam box. I handed him some money, he gave me some change, and we smiled at each other and waved good-bye.

"What is that?" my assistant asked when I'd returned to my desk and opened the box.

"Barbecued pork," I said. "I think so, anyway. I got to practice my cultural skills when I bought it."

"Oh, brother," she said. "What did you do this time?"

"I made a new friend," I said proudly.

"Why is it that so many of your 'friends' are people who sell you food?" she asked.

"I am kind of a pig," I admitted.

She rolled her eyes and turned to walk away.

"Oink," I said.