Travels with Coyote

I’m in a coffee shop in Banda Aceh, across from me is Aan between us is a pen and slip of paper. Asia is new to me so I assume this is the Indonesian version of the children’s menu that they hand out at places like Applebee’s minus the labyrinth and crossword puzzle. I was squirming in silence wondering if I could get away with asking Aan where he was from again when he grabbed the paper and pen. I figured he was resigning himself to playing tic-tac-toe instead he wrote his drink order and motioned me to do the same. For Aan this was routine but for me it was a revelation
I was eight when my father convinced me to put on an English accent for the waitress at our usual Chinese restaurant. Being a morally up-standing child lying to someone was the same as killing puppies in cold blood. Our waitress was probably just humoring us but since then I’ve been trying to make up for my transgression. I’m careful with the severity and degree of my head nod. If I’m able, I try to tip well regardless of the service’s quality. And I always make sure that they know I’m not from England. I thought that in Indonesia I would continue my penance only with a lot more fake smiling.
I stand to take our order to the cashier but Aan jerks me back down. His eyes move around the room as if chasing a fly. Finding the waiter his hands shoot up in the shape of a peacock. Then like an old whack-a-mole arcade game he moves his hands up and down alternating hand flourishes with snaps with shrill calls: “ Queee, quee, bang, bang!” The way his arms dance reminds me of a bird mating ritual. Though I am mesmerized I am also mortified—doesn’t he know they could spit in our coffee? After the waiter takes our order, I ask Aan if this is normal he emphatically responds: “Yes man!” I realize my former system built on subtle cues would be worthless in Banda Aceh. I imagined wilting away trying to catch the waiters’ attention with my tiny nods that might be mistaken for a tic which politeness would oblige them to ignore. If I want to eat I would have to take flight.
When it comes time to order the next round I raise my hand. I try to find the waiter but I keep confusing them with other patrons. The confidence of my call quivers with each attempt. And my snaps are like chicken flaps, in the air for a moment before crashing back to earth. I don’t think a female bird would notice me, perhaps even shun me purposefully but at least I don’t have to tip.