The American

When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or
how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment,
I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in
accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see
what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart,
as if to match or correspond with the expression.
- Edgar Allan Poe

The American sipped his beer. I was curious about him because I'd never met and American my age. He's from California and studies acoustics. That's all I knew.

I sat there looking at him, thinking, does he know most of the world hates Americans? I had to ask him. I reasoned he wouldn't be offended by the question since he was from liberal California. He also seemed like a decent guy, like he would take the question objectively.

I leaned across the table and said, "You're lucky you're not in politics."

He smiled. "I studied it for four years," he yelled over the music, "Physics is in my blood!"

I shook my head, leaned forward more and said again, "No, no, you're lucky you're not in politics!"

This time, he leaned back, nodded and smiled.

I gave up, slouched back and looked at the bar. The Swede was at the back of the line, tying to wedge his way closer. The band finished their set and the DJ put a techno record on. I heard laughter and conversations all around me. I took a long, slow draught of beer.

The American was leaning on his elbows looking like he wanted to say something. I was still curious about him, so I leaned forward.

"The people here are very different. So different," I said, looking into my beer and smiling, remembering my roommates are convinced I ride a moose to school.

The American didn't respond. I looked at him. His expression changed. I don't remember exactly what it looked like but I remember what it conveyed - he looked mean.

I wanted to know what he thought of Britons. He wanted to tell me, but I knew he wouldn't if I kept smiling. What he was going to say, I suspected, wasn't anything to smile at. Instinctively, I arranged my face like his. I felt mean.

Satisfied we were on the level, he responded.

"They just don't get it. They don't have a clue," he said, shaking his head and looking incredulous.

I felt like a sycophant. I had manipulated myself to con him; to learn his truth. I lied to him and he knew it. I couldn't hold the expression. After he said those words he saw disgust and pity on my face. The Swede came back grasping two ice-cold beers. He sat down, smiled and slid one over to me. I quickly finished the beer and left.

It was a cold, clear night. As I walked though Salford, passing boarded-up hotels and empty lots,

hearing the odd fire cracker, I couldn't help but think maybe too many Americans think of no one but themselves.