WHO’S BILL CHEN?
The buzz in the air. It follows him. Wherever he goes. Wherever he is. When he walks into a room he reduces everyone to puppies. Almost like he’s holding a leash signaling certain delight at the distinct possibility of an impending walk. Out of doors. Arf, arf.
Are you going to stop smiling now?
Why not? I feel like people will start to wonder things.
Why you’re smiling. And why you won’t stop.
Is that a bad thing?
I can’t not smile. It’s my Resting Chen Face.
I have to pick up a washing machine. Want to come with?
Why are you picking up a washing machine?
It’s been hanging out in front of this girl’s house. And she doesn’t have a leg. And she can’t pick the washing machine up. It bothers me. And frankly, it makes me want to drink a coke.
But you like coke.
So what’s the problem?
[in unison] You’re/I’m smiling.
Would you say I’m predictable?
I feel like your smile is predictable.
Do you think I have a nice smile?
Why are you asking me that?
Because you find it troublesome.
So? Washing machines trouble you. We all have our troubles. Are you starting to consider perhaps toning down your smile?
How do I tone down a permanent fixture of rest, serenity, and relaxation?
Would you still say your happiest moment was your dog sledding expedition in Alaska when you wore a fur halo encircling the perimeter of your face?
Have you ever cried before?
I’m sure I have.
I want to adopt a ten year old child.
A child could do the trick.
Wipe that smile off your face.
A ten year old child would make me cry tears of joy.
Would you let it drink coke?
I would let her, him, or them drink coke as a treat. Maybe after semi-strenuous yard work.
What else would you do with her, him, or them?
Watch sports. Here.
This is the infamous washing machine?
I told you.
It’s hard to tell what you really mean with your smile sometimes.
But I never tell a lie.