Red Sparrow Americano

Spring, circa 2014...

I was idling outside my local SBUX, when a lovely Asian lass flung my Hyundai’s front passenger door open and popped in. Too busy texting, she overlooked the wide-eyed, slack-jawed stranger seated in the driver’s seat. Lucky for her, I wasn’t some Jame Gumb type whose cellar serves as a black site for renditioned coeds. Though, I’ll confess, gazing upon her pearl-white teeth, silken tresses, and pristine complexion, I couldn’t help but wonder: “How long until ‘finders-keepers’ kicks in? Will a ‘possession is 9/10ths of the law’ defense hold up in court?”

Nothing about her dimensions or disposition tripped my fight or flight mechanism. Still, the sight of a total stranger squatting my passenger seat rendered me mute. Had it not, I still wouldn’t have been able to speak a word. See, a split second before she claimed my co-captain’s chair, I’d beheaded a mammoth bran muffin. Commanding her attention would have showered her in viscous sputum and muffin particulate.

Alas, following several seconds of dead silence, her eyes met mine. She showed no more surprise upon seeing me in the driver’s seat than she would have upon seeing herself reflected in a mirror. Her body language betrayed no alarm. She didn’t beg my pardon, not even through involuntary head or hand gestures. Serene as Mona Lisa’s smile, she slid out smoothly as she’s slid in.

My imagination, prone to fanciful flights since childhood, settled on the following explanation for her Vulcan implacability: Yua was the product of an ill-tempered Colonel’s basest carnal desires, desires her peasant mother had the misfortune of being forcefully subjected to. After Yua’s mother died birthing her, Pyongyang laid claim. She was exiled to a red sparrow school whose existence, to this day, has never been confirmed nor denied. There, she trained in tradecraft and close-quarters combat. She’d outgrown fear by the time she lost her last milk tooth. I, not she, was the one lucky to have survived our encounter.

Lamentably, Occam’s Razor begs a more plausible explanation: This story having taken place in Los Angeles, it’s certain likely she spoke subpar English, or none at all. Either way, literally finding herself a “stranger in a strange land (in a stranger’s car, to boot)” would likely have left her tongue-tied.

Like The Shawshank Redemption’s Brooks Hatlen loitering in the park hoping the orphaned crow he fostered will “stop by and say 'hello,'” I lingered in the parking lot longer than was necessary on several subsequent visits. Sadly, Jake never returned to Brooks, and Yua never returned to me.

Congratulations, you've found an Easter egg! Continue reading for a few additional laughs at no extra cost.

Chewbacca

Last May, I played Chewbacca for a Star Wars-themed Sunday buffet. My handler stationed 6-foot me next to Chewbacca's 8-foot standee. “Blame the height disparity on age-related bone loss,” I quipped to passing familial processions. Patrons who laughed were rewarded with an equally clever tag, “I’m gunning for an endorsement deal with Boniva.”

Hot-boxing my own bad breath and body odor inside a Spirit Halloween-quality Wookie getup was far from my finest hour. I felt like Randy the Ram in “The Wrestler,” sitting behind an enfeebled folding table, selling autographs for chump change, haggling with management over minor perks: “Sorry, I was told a meal was included?”

Booking costume characters for $50 (last minute, no less) is like hooking up at closing time in a dimly lit dive bar: You get what you get. We couldn’t get Iron Man, so we settled for Iron Deficiency Man. Our Black Panther pinch hitter was, scout's honor, a ballerino by trade. My dude looked more like Catwoman than he did Black Panther; several kids said so. Sympathetic, I tried to console him, but found myself encumbered by Shyriiwook’s animalistic growls. Chewbacca's native tongue allows little room for eloquence or elocution. Say what you want about my acting chops, but I don’t break character for nobody.