"You all right, old man?" he asked.
"Yeah I'm fine. Tired but okay—except for that comment."
"You don't like it?"
"No, not particularly. I mean for my taste its all right—unique (of course, when reconsidered and taken less personally he who mentally referred to King Bhumibol in English as "King Booby"— he who has become affluent by exploiting the inner worlds, the souls, of prostitutes in his nude "studies"—would hardly be one to espouse etiquette).
"But not respectful?"
"No, not respectful." East Asian society, in public so deferential of age, in private hearts expressed a more human reaction. It was the same repulsion for mental and physical deterioration, lack of stamina, and loss of beauty, essences of life that vanished with the years.
"Not a thing to do to a guy who is still sensitive about having turned forty, of having experienced his birthday all alone on a train."
"A birthday boy? Why didn't you tell us?"
"I don't know. Didn't I?" he spoke indifferently. "I don't remember. At any rate you gave me a beer on the train. That was like a gift I suppose. I could go for some coffee now. They have that here?"
"Where?"