The Tao of Roy?

When I eat dinner at the hotel bar, I intentionally pick a seat as far away from everyone else as possible. When someone sits next to me despite my best attempts at scowling, I know they're trouble. Enter Roy from Nova Scotia. "F*#!ing Tampa Bay, ayy?" was his introduction. I thought that Canadian people ending every sentence with "ayy" was a stereotype but, apparently, it's true.  Roy, on his fifth shot of something, sells guns for the NRA, served time in prison for armed robbery (although he was 18 when he transgressed so, all is forgiven) and insists on calling the gentleman next to me "Johnny" even though he clearly said his name was Sean. Roy likes us because we "look understanding". Mind you, I don't know Sean, he just had the misfortune of sitting the appropriate two seats away. By, the way, let me transgress and explain that unless you are on a date, bar stools are like urinals: it's every other one until there are none left, then and only then can you position yourself immediately next to someone and you better just look straight ahead and not make any conversation. Back to Roy. His tale of  driving 140 Kilometers per hour is lost on me but, I can't seem to make him understand that I don't speak metric. It was just something they used to threaten us in the third grade (you better learn how many liters are in a deciliter because we're switching soon!). For all I know 140 Kilometers per hour may be near the sound barrier. What I do know is that I've never been so happy to hear the words "I need to head out for a smoke, ayy" in my life. Johnny and I exchanged a knowing glance, paid our bills, and got the heck outta there. Tomorrow, I think I'll try room service.