Baby Chicken 5k D/L

At Mr. Jaycox's request, this entry is not in the first person. Names have been invented to protect the innocent.

Hoa's father ran out of the gas station at his scowling wife's request for more fish sauce. Although barely twelve years old Hoa was now implicitly left in charge, his slight frame no indicator of his capability. Inheriting the business had never been a dream but being alone around the pumps had its small benefits.

The pace is generally steady around noon time with one motorbike arriving a minute or so after another has filled up and left. Today, as his father zoomed off, a lumbering, slightly off balance foreigner rolled in, riding a unkempt yellow motorbike who's manufacturer Hoa did not recognize. Thong, Hau's classmate and neighbor, came running from across the street as soon as he spotted the bald head atop the smoke spewing bike.

The foreigner nodded and smiled at the boys, who were too taken aback with his sudden appearance to realize their duties. Two sand and mud caked angles peeked from a pair of oily, seared Adidas. A white v-neck shirt, impregnated in camo-like stripes with red martian dust, clung stiffly to the outsider's wide torso. His eyes bobbed nervously and seemed disproportionate to the rest of his clean shaven head. Hau snapped awake and unhinged the Mogas nozzle from its hook. With his other hand he began to unscrew the cap of the gas tank. Foreigner brushed his hand away and said something in English or German maybe, pointed towards the front wall of the garage. Hau turned to look, but didn't see a cool motorbike or anything on fire so he proceeded to insert the nozzle into the tank. The pointing continued however and foreigner's voice grew louder. Finally he quite clearly said, "Baby chicken." Hau twisted to see it, but apparently it ran off before he could catch a glance. The foreigner had obstructed the tank with his hand and was furiously pointing at the garage, loudly and obnoxiously repeating "baby chicken, baby chicken."

Hau's eyes narrowed, mechanical wheels whirring to life in his head, trying to decipher the man's secret message. "Maybe he's hungry," Thong said. Hau pointed limply down the street at the woman selling fish cake sandwiches, his hand softly shifting from a tentative point to a questioning palm. A growl came from the foreigner as he dismounted his motorbike and began walking to the garage. He retreived a container of oil from a small rack by the garage door put it in Hau's hand and confidently said, "baby chicken."

Thong was first to understand and started laughing hysterically, bent at the waist, both hands pressed into his concave belly. "Duuua." He chortled out the word for oil, emphasizing it's rising tone. Hua responded with "duaaaa", or baby chicken, letting the questioning tone linger as a smile rose like the sun across his oil smudged face.

With some trouble Hua tucked the nozzle into his armpit and held up six fingers to indicated the price of the oil. The foreigner nodded acceptingly and then pointed at the other pump. "Fuck, what does this guy want with that" thought Hua as he raised his index finger in solidarity towards the generator fuel.

"He wants generator fuelfor his bike."
"No, you can't put that in a motorcycle."
"But it's a weird one. Maybe it uses that stuff instead of Mogas."
"That's why he kept pointing at the oil."
"Yeah!"
"No. I don't think he wants it for his motorbike."
"It says 'Generator Fuel' right there on the pump - he must know what he wants."
"Hmmmm."

Thong's logic made sense. Hua wished his dad was there. He'd know what to do. The foreigner continued to point at the generator fuel pump and say "baby chicken" which was now properly interpreted as oil. Hua nodded in pseudo-agreement, rationalizing that although it was closer to gasoline, maybe it was called oil in the stranger's homeland, so fine, it's oil. Everything settled and defined, the foreigner gave him the thumbs up and removed his hand from the opening in the tank.

Eight litres and fifty thousand duong later, the dusty, smelly stranger roared out of the station. Hua squinted through the exhaust plume, seeing his father signal left between the pump islands, a bag full of fish sauce hanging from the handlebars to quiet the drumming fingers of his impatient mother.