Three Ton Coworker - True Everywhere
Although I don't mind them, I feel cut off from all the other people in this country—to mention only this country. They of course speak their own language. I think I also mean body language. For instance, if I were to touch a finger to my forehead, I would most certainly mean that I should be better at thinking. That I myself should be better at thinking. And if I were to snap with first the fingers of my right hand, and then the fingers of my left hand, and then clap my right hand over the hollow made by my half-fisted left hand, it would just be me passing the time. That is all.
It is also true that they may not want me here, but I think that might be true everywhere. I mean, surely there is a place where I might be wanted, but nobody really likes foreigners much. Probably because they're foreign. And they do such foreign things. And speak foreignly. It works the other way too though. I find myself in a country full of foreigners.
Connecting is difficult, no matter what. The other day for instance, I sat in the same place for eight hours, and tried to talk to someone. In the end, though we had namaged to communicate some certain things, I'm afraid the larger point was lost. I do not know on whom the larger point was lost. I'm not at all certain that my time wasn't wasted.
*The first sentence of this story is from Lydia Davis' story "The Professor," which can be found on p156 of Davis' collected stories.
[Three Ton Coworker, when he comes to work, stands by the water cooler, and dares you to pull a conical cup from the dispenser.]