During the world cup, I watched America get beat by Germany at Ken’s place, roughly three doors from my house.
Ken sported thin sideburns and two cobra tattoos on his left arm.
He ignored my Vietnamese, like an accidental fart, and told me in English that he was from Guangzhou.
"But, I like America," he said and clinked his glass against mine.
When I asked Ken about his cobras, he said they were just one of those things you get when you spend 14 years kickboxing in Thailand.
I had been to Ken’s place the night before and came back because it had a big screen television and a staff straight out of a Greek myth—two women: one of whom was absurdly busty, the other of whom had a record-breaking rear end who both had a magical ability to place an open bottle of beer at your elbow without you ever ordering one.
The former was Ken’s wife—“I have six,” he whispered—the latter was her sister.
Ken used the term “sister” loosely.
He seated me between one table of his drunk friends (there were three of these) and two femme fatales. One was a Pulp-Fiction-Uma-Thurman-esque knock-out in a black lace top. The other was literally exploding out of a slit white skirt and low cut shirt.
Both of them were Ken’s sisters.
"Are they Chinese?" I asked.
"No," he said, wrinkling his face.
A few minutes later, he put his number into my phone and advised me to call him if I wanted to spend more time with his sisters.
Eventually, they all got up to go clink glasses with the gamblers.
Naturally, I quickly lost interest in the game and drank entirely too much beer.
By the end of the night, the explosion was sitting across from me, her knees vaguely touching mine, while the man sitting behind her giggled insanely and pulled a finger menacingly across his throat whenever his eyes met mine.
The USA lost. Ken won.
Germany just kept on being Germany.
And I went home.