It was what you might call a multicultural moment. And then some.

Check it out. I'm sitting at Schlotzky's, early evening, having a Regular Original. That's mostly green stuff on a sourdough bun with a meager quantity of spiced animal parts wrapped in intestine with an Italian name. In the smoking section.

Need I mention, Schlotzky's is one of those hippie survivor businesses that started on the Drag in Austin in the 60s, like Whole Foods and Half-price Books, and has now made the necessary adjustments for survival in the 90s; in other words, I am sitting in the smoking section. Reading Elmore Leonard.

Um, what else? It was a complicated set up, though I didn't realize it until what was about to happen, happened. I mean, it was just another millennial moment, like we're all accustomed to. The Simpson trial had been droning on all day, doing God knows what to whatver's left of American karma. Newt Goeringrich had been pummeling whatever was left of the American Constitution. We were all bleeding so much that nobody noticed anymore, much less tried to stanch the massive outflow of our culture's precious bodily fluids.

There I am, forgetting all that and obscenely enjoying Leonard's way with dialog, munching on my Regular Original.

Oh, and I'm the only person in the dining area. What happens next takes only a couple of seconds, and at first is not going to seem that big a deal to you, but let me describe it and then explain how it set in motion, well, a whole lot which had, I now see, just been waiting to be set in motion.

Peripheral vision informs me someone is walking across the room. I glance up.

I see: a small, slim, black-coated Chinese woman with styrofoam take-out tray heading purposefully for the door. The synapses are already telling the muscles to glance back down and continue reading when it happens: she smiles. That's all: she smiles. She doesn't break stride. She doesn't speak. She smiles. Not a fake Western smile, not an obscure Eastern smile. No, a real smile as if we have known each other, well, forever, or, if not forever, for, say, five or six thousand years.

Then poof, she's gone, out the door, into the January night.

That's it. Now comes the harder part, convincing you that something really happened. Here goes.

See, I have this theory, I call it the Asian Telepathy Theory. Please bear in mind: it is only a theory, a possibility, though data keeps accumulating to indicate that it is correct.

The Asian Telepathy Theory states that all people of East Asian, that being north of the Himalayas, East of the Gobi Desert, and south of Manchuria, in other words, the ethnic Chinese, are to some significant degree telepathically connected.

Note the qualifying words, "to some significant degree." Those words are necessary because, if the Chinese are in fact so connected, they have never revealed or discussed the connection with me, though I have had experiences indicating A) that the connection exists, and B) that it at least at times if very powerful and very wide-band.

But. But.

Sorry. Everything just stopped. The train of thought was derailed. Strange? Not really. Paranoia, the deadly enemy of the rich and powerful, I have always thought of as the dearest friend of the poor and powerless. It protects us from the sin of pride, my friends. I thought the story was ready for telling. It seems it's not quite time. Excuse me, but it seems I'll have to turn off the computer for a while and await propitiousness.

Before I quit, though I cannot at this time narrate further, I can remind you of what has happened so far: she smiled as if she knew me better than I know myself. Please hold that thought and, the stars willing, I will at some time soon pick up the flimsy narrative thread there.

END

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Magellan's Log XI

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