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A rowdy Brit wouldn’t shut up.  The bar was quiet except for him and he liked his own voice.  Couldn’t tell if he were drunk, but it was a pub—in a basement somewhere near the wharf in Hong Kong.  I loved this dive because my ferry to Kowloon left every half hour from only a block away.  A pint or two here after a day in HK gave me time to journal and leave when I felt relaxed and beat, with a gentle beer buzz to protect against the chill of the sea.  An Irish couple, the Chinese bartender and I chatted, pretending not to notice the flamboyant one, now solo dancing near the rugby posters near the stairs.

“Michael leaves for Saudi tomorrow,” said the middle aged wife. “My last oil dig then we’re home to Dublin,” agreed Husband.  They were glad for my company that diverted from the sadness of their prolonged goodbye.  I took their pictures, wished them well, and walked to the stairs.   

Out of nowhere the Brit jumped me from behind, triggering that crazed adrenaline one summons as a foreigner, attacked.  Before I could smash his throat with my elbow, he released me and continued his harmless cavorting around me, waving hands above head, “Look at me mate?——There’s a daft one thinking a Scottish queer meant harm!  I love ya Laddie!” and he bounded up the stairs to the street.