When we first arrived in Sweden, the immigrants from Yugoslavia used to meet in the cafeteria of the hotel Highland in Nässjö. Two of them were named George, so we used to call them white George, because he had light brown hair, and black George because he had thick black hair.
I was much younger than the other men, but I liked to listen to them talk.
Every summer, they drove back to Yugoslavia for the holidays. It was
usually a two-day drive.
“I drove there in twenty-four hours,” one said.
“I did it in eighteen,” said another.
Black George spoke up. “I did it in twelve.”
“Ah, but then you must have used airplane plugs,” someone said.
“How did you know that?” black George answered, without missing a beat.
After that, no one called him black George anymore. He was always George Airplane Plugs.