<recorded verbatim from a scratchy latenight SP voicemail>
I moved to China for a year and a half and didn’t speak a word of Mandarin. But I was an avid and cut-throat Mahjong player, mostly from my back-alley Atlantic City days. One night in a mescaline stupor I fell into the largest tile hall in Shandong. I could feel the hungry eyes on me as I stumbled to an open chair, ready to carve me into little strips and toss me to the dogs of the night. Money to burn or no, there were many who didn’t appreciate my presence. Ricky, as they called him, I think to mock me, was one of them. He sported a worn-out bowler and a scar across his jaw, and his huge cheap cigar was surrounding my sweaty face in rings of thick smoke. As I grabbed my first set of tiles, he leaned in quietly and barked loudly,
“Gŭn Dàn!”, which I now know roughly means, “roll away, egg” but with an explicit hint of violence. At the time I had learned that “dan” meant “egg” and not really knowing what else to do, I pulled out my phone translator and ordered two eggs poached on toast, in a sharp, shouting tone to match his. The room paused as the phone spat out my translation and then the whole table erupted in riotous laughter. Ricky didn’t like that, and with his cigar an inch from my nose he roared the phrase at me again. I asked him for a side of baked beans.
The old man across the table was pissing himself laughing, mostly at my impending demise I imagine, and raised his drink to me.
“Shă dàn!” he cheered, and others followed suit, toasting my new nickname with a boozy fervor (which, it may surprise you to know, was not complimentary). Even Ricky couldn’t help a smile cracking across his broken face.
“Shă dàn!” he boomed, before grabbing my drink and swallowing it down, slapping me on the back as he finished.
Then he took me for about 20000 yuan and I woke up on the sidewalk.