The Interloper’s Language
He follows me everywhere.
Yesterday in the supermarket, aisle ten, he asked me what flavor ketchup was. I told him to say it in English as we practiced. He nodded understanding and repeated the single phrase he knew.
“I am dooey wine thinkkew.”
I have failed as a teacher.
I thought my specialist skill of spoken English would be easy to teach. I've been speaking English all my life. It wasn’t hard. It was instinctive. I could walk into any pet store and name every single animal without stuttering. And yet, I struggled to teach a lone man the art of the spoken word.
“I am dooey wine thinkkew?”
I am the only one who can understand what he is saying. I know what he is saying as I was there when he invented it. I’m now the interpreter of a language that only he and I can understand. What point is his life if he can’t communicate?
I’ve no idea where he comes from.
He tried drawing a map once but we both got lost somewhere around the boot of Italy. I imagined hordes of English tourists descending on his hometown. A tiny village in a remote mountain region somewhere in Europe. Hungry for the tourist dollar, they elect him as their spokesperson. With great ceremony, they welcome the tourists into the village, and there he is…
