It starts with a tickle somewhere in the back of my mind. The colors dim, the sounds soften, my eyes glaze over. I know it’s coming, but I’ve long since accepted that nothing can be done.
“What kind of language is that?” asks a large woman with Jackie O sunglasses and a sundress. She looks like Jabba the Hut in drag.
Not this conversation again. I wonder how people can stand to be trapped inside their own skulls if this kind of thinking dominates.
“It’s Hawaiian. This being Hawaii and all, you should expect to hear native languages.” I say, only mildly annoyed at this point.
“Well, they should learn to speak English. This is America, not Polynesia or Samoa.” Jabba the Hut replies.
The tickle becomes a scratch. Insistent. Begging relief.
“Can you speak any Polynesian languages?” I ask for no other reason than to set my next comment up.
She looks at me. Confusion crosses her face like a cloud on an otherwise sunny day.
“What?” she asks.
Wait for it.
“I don’t need to speak any foreign languages,” she squeals as the first light of understanding dawns on her enormous face.
“How does it feel to be dumber than a Pacific Islander?”
Today will be a good day I decide.