It was Friday, and in a desultory frame of mind I flung myself petulantly down prostrate on the divan with a copy of Punch and a glass of claret, puffing away at a Galois in my ivory cigarette holder.  My pince-nez shook loose.  The smoke eddied in whorls.  Motes floated softly through the sunbeam that slanted through the skylight.  It should have been beautiful, but all I felt was profound lassitude.

I tried cheering myself up by purchasing online everything that Glenn Reynolds had said was in his mail for the past week, thinking that the conspicuous consumption would make me feel alive, but even so, I felt an odd vacuity.

You will wonder how I came into the money to purchase this beautiful villa.  For many years, I was just a working stiff like you, plugging away at a boring job, barely making ends meet, living from paycheck to paycheck, trying to pay the mortgage, the taxes, the car payment, the insurance.  Then I met Chang.

I was waiting for the 92 bus in Milwaukee to take me to Shorewood for a dinner meeting with some potential clients from Atlanta at the Red Rock Café.  It was February, and the lake effect snow was filtering down in silent specks through the light of the streetlamp at the corner of Lincoln and Oakland.  An Asian in an overcoat walked up beside me, and asked me in stilted English when the bus would arrive, and whether it went all the way to Shorewood or whether he had to “exchange bus.” I assured him that it went all the way.  He hopped from one foot to the other and blew on his hands and laughed.  I asked where he was from.

“China,” he said.

“Mainland or Taiwan?” I asked.

“There is only one China,” he replied.

I looked at him.  He smiled broadly.  “Only one China,” he repeated, and winked.

“Where, exactly,” I pressed.

“Not important,” he said.  “China is ‘state of mind.’” He tapped his forehead.

The bus pulled up.

“Do you care?” he asked pointing to the seat beside me.

“Please,” I said.

“Yes, China is ‘state of mind,’” he said as he sat down and adjusted his long Burberry coat.  “Maybe you know ‘Communist’?” he continued.

I allowed as how I did.

“All different now!” he chirped.  “I am Army.  Oh, yes.  High rank.  I come to United States making business.”

“Very interesting.  What kind of business?”

“Lang-wage.”

“What?”

“Lang.  Wage.”

“Language?”

He laughed.  “Yes, language.  You understand.  Words.”

“Are you a translator?”

“Trans-la-TOR?  No, no, no, no!” he laughed again.

“You teach Chinese?”

“No, not teach.”

“What then?”

“Maybe you see my work.  Computer mail.  Chopped meat.”

“What?”

“Chopped meat.  Feed to soldiers.  Can pig.”

. . . .

“You mean Spam?”

“Yes!”

“You make money sending spam?”

“Oh, yes.  Much money.”

“How?”

The bus pulled up to the intersection and I started to exit.

“Where?” he asked.

“Shorewood.  I have to get off here.”

“Ah.  I also.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Red Rock,” he said.

“That’s where I’m going,” pointing to the sign.

“I come.”

My party was already waiting.

“We talk after,” said Chang.

Yuri Gregorievich was the maitre-d’, and knew every Russian in town.  I was surprised that he seemed to know Chang.  Oh, yes, Mr. Dan.  He comes here often.  “What does he do?” I asked.  He put his finger to the side of his nose and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  He opined that ignorance is bliss, especially when you were married to a Russian girl– and let it drop.  Chang was in a corner table with two Russians, speaking on his cell phone.  He waved.

Cecily served us.  The guys from Atlanta had been to a Bucks game and then to Major Goolsby’s and were half in the bag already.  The meeting went well enough that I wouldn’t have to dread going to work the next day, and I got them a taxi to hit Dubliners on the near south side, and put in a call to Barry to treat them right.  I went to the bar and Bob set me up with a Glenmorangie.  He’s a douchebag, but he’s a great bartender.  Fifteen minutes later, Chang joined me.  The Russians took their hands out of their pockets long enough to wave as they passed through the door.

“So, you wonder?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.  “May I buy you a drink?”

“If I tell you how, you will buy?”

“Well, I’ll buy, even if you don’t tell me how.”

“You answer well,” he said. “So.”

In the course of several drinks, Chang explained to me his business.  Spam was big money.  Americans were big money.  Emails about things they didn’t want they didn’t want.  Filters.  But if you had the right words, you could pass through the filters.  Americans could tell when another English speaker was trying to make them seem like the right words.  But what if you didn’t know the right words?  What if you didn’t associate like a person who knows English?  Then, maybe you could get the person to open the email.  Chinese people could do that.  “Indians,” I asked.  “Too much English.”

Russians?  “Maybe, but they use alphabet.”

Using Chang’s service, I’ve peddled prescription drugs, home equity loans, work from home schemes, legal insurance, and Glenn Greenwald’s book, and I’ve made myself a tidy profit, a great house in Malibu, vintage autos, a superb winecellar, a condo at Aspen, etc.  But every once in awhile, I wish I were that same, simple schmuck, standing at the bus stop in Milwaukee with the lake effect snow circling down in the winter evening’s darkness.

Get me another glass, would you, Dorrit?

Don’t pity me, gentle reader.  I’m sure I’ll get over it, somehow.  Thanks for listening.