High octane sumo: part II
The sumo guy is gone.
Yes, sumo guy was real, not photoshopped as suggested by Matt. And, no, I didn't see him in New Jersey, Mike.
Jeeze, can't we give NJ a break? Poor New Jersey has just learned that it has America’s most dangerous city within its boundaries: Camden. Also, the state is struggling to find a new motto. One of the entries (I kid you not) is "New Jersey: You got a problem with that?"
The sumo wrestler guy appeared mysteriously and inexplicably last Sunday on a grassy median strip at an Exxon station not far from my house. Just as mysteriously (but not surprisingly) he has already disappeared just a week later.
I decided to go into the mini-mart attached to the gas station and see if the attendant on duty had any information about Mr. Sumo's whereabouts. There was another person in the mini-mart ahead of me: a young Hispanic man in need of a prepaid phone card. The attendant behind the counter was of Middle Eastern descent.
The Hispanic gentleman held up two fingers and pointed at the rack of phone cards. The attendant repeated, "Two?" "Sí," the customer said, "dos." The attendant pulled two $5 phone cards from the rack and handed them to the customer. "No," the customer said. He pointed to the cards again, held up one finger and said, "dos." Somehow, the attendant figured out what was going on. Apparently, the customer wanted one $2 phone card. But the cards only came in $5 increments. The mini-mart attendant managed to communicate this information to the customer by looking out the window and tapping a pen on the countertop. The Hispanic customer shook his head. “Ahh, sí, sí, sí,” he said. He waved his outstretched hands indicating that he understood. Then he left the store without any phone cards.
It was my turn now to play stump the mini-mart attendant. While I was waiting, I had picked up a box of Tic-Tac from the candy aisle. I put them on the countertop. The attendant quickly wrung them up. The digital readout of the cash register displayed 53¢.
"So," I said, "What happened to your sumo wrestling guy?" I smiled at him. Just the right amount of smile, I thought. Too little smile and he wouldn’t pick up on my playful tone; too much smile and he might think I am an insane person determined to kill him over the contents of the cash drawer and a box of breath mints.
Indeed, the attendant seemed surprised that there was any conversation at all. This was a straightforward Tic-Tac purchase. No words needed to be exchanged. If only I would hand over my money, he could give me the correct change and I would be on my way, out of his life. He smiled back at me. Nervously. There we stood: mini-mart attendant and customer smiling at one another in awkward silence.
I tried again. "So you didn’t see him? He was about this tall. A sumo wrestler. Up there on the median strip. He was here last weekend."
A bigger smile from the attendant this time. He shook his head no. But it wasn't the "no" of "I didn't see him"; it was the "no" of "I have no clue what you are saying."
“Okay,” I said, conceding defeat. I was disappointed. I was really looking forward to getting the story about my mysterious plastic sumo friend. How he got there. Where he came from. Where he's gone. In the end, I pulled a dollar bill from my wallet and handed it to the attendant, who seemed relieved that our interaction was back on familiar terms.
"You know," I said to the attendant as he handed me my change, "I didn't really want these Tic-Tacs, but I figured I had to buy something in exchange for the sumo information."
The nervous, confused smile returned to his face. I smiled back at him and waved good-bye. The door chimed as I opened it and let myself out. Next time there will be a different attendant. Maybe he’ll know about the sumo wrestler. Oh, there will be a next time. No doubt about it. And another box of Tic-Tac.
5:49:05 PM  Stories
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