Portrait of a Middle-Aged Cantonese Man

A middle-aged man sitting in a coffee shop speaks in loud Cantonese to his two middle-aged friends. He talks of the war and the army, raising an open hand before thumping his index finger repeatedly on the coffee table. Is there a world map on the table? Does he see, on the decorated paper cup of his coffee, soldiers sprawling in the line of fire? Has his wife been mean to him, or vice versa? He can readily name the historical events in our world. He has nicknames for people of different nationalities, and knows for sure that if one American eats cereal for breakfast then all Americans eat cereal for breakfast. He says that America is a conspiracy, that Canada is a useless land, and that terrorism is a piece of cake, all the time the Sing Tao Daily sits folded on his table, the Sing Tao Daily being the one publication that tells him all he needs to know. His exterior has the appearance of an overused ashtray. Even though his voice is hoarse from cigarette dust, he has achieved a voice so authoritative, so worldly, that it makes another middle-aged man think everything he says is right. His friends sit and nod in unison. The man leaves no space in-between his sentences, which is also why his friends only sit and nod.