Dukkha Reverb. Loren W. Christensen

      I’m bumped from behind. My tea sloshes onto the table.

      “So sorry,” a male voice says, with more laughter in it than apology. I twist around to see two men, mid twenties, both in blue jeans and tank tops, one red and one blue. They pass behind me and sit at the next table over, heads bobbing and smirking contemptuously. Two card-carrying assholes, my cop instincts tell me.

      Mai leans toward them and speaks rapidly. Their eyes widen with surprise. They snicker and say something back.

      “What’s going on?” I ask.

      She turns away from them and says in a low voice, “I ask the one who bumped you if he did it on purpose. He said—”

      “Ameri-can,” one of the men says in a tone that’s pure challenge. I pivot on my stool to look at them. “Ameri-can, right?” says the one in the blue tank top. He said it like, ‘You’re cow shit, right?’ The one in the red tank sucks deeply on a cigarette, his eyes laughing at me.

      “I am.” I say to Blue Tank. I sip from my cup to show him how calm I am.

      “I speak English,” he says. He sits straight, his hands fisted on his thighs, his elbows pointing outward as if he’s about to spring forward.

      The young waitress approaches their table and Red Tank snaps at her, which sends her scurrying away looking as if she were about to cry. You can tell a lot about someone by how they treat servers, especially ten-year-old children.

      “Your point?” I ask. He’s got a wispy little moustache. Nice effort but it’s not working for him.

      Mai touches my hand. “Sam—”

      Blue Tank says something to her, the words over enunciated, his eyes glaring.

      “What’s going on? What did he say?”

      “Exactly, Ameri-can,” Blue Tank says. “I live in Saigon and I speak Vietnamese and English. You come to Saigon and you don’t understand anything. You must ask the bitch.”

      “Hey pal!” A surge of adrenaline washes through me.

      Again, Mai leans forward in her chair toward the two punks, her beautiful face hard, her eyes flashing anger. She rips into them. When she finishes, the two men look at her, Blue Tank’s mouth hanging open, Red Tank’s cigarette frozen half way to his mouth. Blue Tank recovers first, points at her and sputters into laughter. He even holds his stomach. Red Tank’s cigarette finally makes it to his mouth, his eyes studying me as he sucks on it.

      “You think you big man, eh?” Red Tank says.