USA. A store.
I bought water.
The cashier said,
“Here you go, buddy.”
Buddy.
I froze.
Buddy is a big word.
In Japan, I need three years, two drinking parties, and one moment where we both pretend not to cry before I call someone buddy.
But this man gave it to me with a plastic bag.
No ceremony.
No contract.
No dramatic music.
Just “buddy.”
Then my friend said,
“Hurry up, bro.”
Bro?
Now I had a brother too?
I came to America with one suitcase and no siblings.
At this rate, I would leave with a family tree that looks like a Costco receipt.
I asked my friend,
“Am I legally American now?”
He said,
“No, dude.”
Dude.
Another title.
I was no longer a man.
I was Buddy-Bro-Dude, son of the Gas Station.
America does not wait for relationships to grow.
It throws friendship at you and says, “Catch.”