There’s this guy who drops by the office once or twice a year. He looks to be in his seventies, a bit stooped, and his hair is completely white. But for all that he seems healthy enough to tackle a man half his age. He’s quite solidly built. And he implies we’re related.
I have a very common surname. In a sense, that ties me to millions of people, even if I don’t recall my ancestors being particularly fecund. More often than not, the surname turns out to be the only thing we have in common. At least it’s good for breaking the proverbial ice and saves us from talking about the weather. With actual relatives, it’s more involved (no pun intended): Who’s sick? Who’s dead? Has what’s-his-name gotten out of prison yet? (Not an unusual question in my extended family, no kidding.) How are you? You know the drill.
And then there’s this guy. He smiles (good dental work, I observe), shakes my hand, tells me we have the same last name. “Oh?” I try to look noncommittal. “It’s fairly common.” It’s not the response he’s after. “Was that you father I saw on my way in? How is he?” Then he proceeds to blabber in Fookien, although I’m just guessing since nobody in my family speaks Chinese, and for all I know he’s spouting gibberish.
“Ah,” he says, at length, “you don’t understand? Ehehe.” But I do. He’s going to hit me up for some money — that much I understand. Which he does. And I give it to him — enough to make him go away, but not too much to make the trip often. “It’s for my medication,” he says. I hope so. It looks like he spends a small fortune on pomade alone.
Reader, do I sound cynical? I might as well tell you about this other guy. I would see him coming and ask, “So who died this time?” This uncle. A grandparent. That cousin. “You mean you still have relatives left?” my mother had to ask at one point. Then he died (drowned, if you must know), and if he had remaining kin, we never heard from them.
Come to think of it, the Chinese guy hasn’t been by in a while. I’m just sayin’.
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