A lasting impression
Brett Payton, one of the five people I stayed in touch with after high school, spent a year of his college education in Japan. He returned bearing gifts; among them, a bag of dry seasoning to sprinkle over rice. There was no English on the package other than the word "shiso," but he claimed I would be able to find it in Asian grocery stores. Nonetheless, I used it sparingly, fearing I would never see another package of it.

On a warm September day, I stuffed the preserved empty bag into my pocket to show to potentially confused shopkeepers, and Lisa and I boarded the El-train toward Chinatown. We sat on the sideways row of seats- the one place on a Chicago train where there are seats that face each other- and I met eyes with a young man sporting a messenger bag and a hipstery hat that evoked memories of Fidel Castro, though he was clean shaven except for a pair of wicked sideburns.

I thought he was trying to get my attention, and shot him an inquisitive glance. He responded deferentially, and I dropped pursuit. But suddenly I was seized with a bizarre inspiration and continued this cycle three or four times, making a wordless game out of an endless loop. Having a little too much fun, I escalated things too quickly and bellowed a "WHAT?" A fearful look filled his face, and he stammered "Nothing."

From that point on, we avoided eye contact. However, as there was nothing else happening, there was no alternative place to look, no event to distract us from what had just occurred. Our focus would inevitably turn back to one another, and then we would realize we had been caught looking at the other guy and sheepishly turn away.

I turned to Lisa and began to give a play-by-play analysis of the aforementioned events, ending with "That was funny at first, but then when I raised my voice I became That Guy." But I wasn't really talking to Lisa, or at least not for her sake; I was whispering at a volume loud enough for the startled stranger to hear, so that he would know that I felt as awkward about the situation as he did. This was the only way I could communicate with him, since I could not even look him in the eye with any degree of confidence.

Suddenly, the tension was cut. A woman walked between us, lost her balance as the train jolted, and fell forward. When she landed six feet away, her belongins scattered everywhere. As the surrounding passengers helped her up, she loudly exclaimed, "I tripped! Oh my god, I can't believe I tripped!" He and I smiled at each other, sharing the moment we had just seen. I wasn't That Guy anymore.

But she didn't have the crown for very long either. At the next stop, three ten-ish-year-old boys entered the train. They each produced sets of drumsticks, which they used to strike empty seats as well as the poles that people would be using for support were the train more crowded. One of them started yelling something unintelligble; I suppose it could have been some sort of African language, but I'm pretty sure it was gibberish. As the train slowed, they approached passengers with a flier which they briefly held in front of our faces before snatching back, presumably because they only had one copy. Then they exited at the next stop and skipped away, hollering and producing their rhythms on an unfortunate railing.

At this point the stranger looked at me and said, "Now I kind of want to follow you guys around, just to see if this kind of thing always happens wherever you go." It turned out he too was headed for Chinatown, and like us he was searching for something of tenuous detail- an unnamed restaurant at a nonexistent intersection- so we travelled together briefly before parting ways.

I didn't find any shiso that day. Brett lives in Philadelphia, where the Chinatown has a presence of other Asian influences. Chicago's Chinatown, on the other hand, is far more strictly Chinese, so I received a great deal of confused and slightly offended looks when I asked shopkeepers about an herb with a Japanese name that they had never heard of. However, a few days later Lisa found shiso at a Japanese market two blocks from my apartment, which I had never entered because I thought it was a clothing and art shop.

A few weeks later, I received a call from an unknown number. It turned out Lisa had given him my number, though she had neglected to ask for his. We caught an improv show together, and as we were socializing afterwards, I caught him trying to get away with increasingly nerdier references.

Finally having somebody to argue with about whether or not Halo redefined video games and hum Super Nintendo songs together, Swan and I have been hanging out ever since. You could chalk it up to chemistry, but I think we both just wanted to say we're hanging out with a guy we met on an El-Train to Chinatown.