The clothes would be out of place almost anywhere, but here it just seemed bonkers. He wore a black uniform with white rollback cuffs. The white loop closures fastening his jacket were stretched to their limits near his midsection. My editor told me that he wore a new martial arts outfit every day and just walked the streets of Jamestown.
Dozens of trips through these kinds of towns, and the weirdest thing I can remember is a group of high schoolers hanging out at the gas station like it was a dance club. Not to mention the clothes: Wranglers so tight you could almost read the brand of chew stuffed in their back pockets. Extra-large hats and belt buckles that looked all the more gargantuan on their lanky frames. But that's easy to explain: what else is there to do in these towns? Compared to this guy, those kids looked completely normal.
I cursed my boss for sending me an hour away to interview this local nut—what a waste of my time and talents. I wanted the art and lifestyles job, but since I was right out of college, I had to settle for community reporting. It would've been perfect for me. I could've reported on art and practiced my own. I could've made contacts and maybe got some of my photography exhibited somewhere. Instead, I've spent four years running around on the editor's whims, highlighting the most mundane things in far-flung communities. All of this effort just to entertain subscribers in the outer reaches of our circulation. I spent all of my time on the endless flat highways with nothing to see but farmland and an occasional grain elevator. Zero time spent on my passion. Never a chance to create something compelling and break into the local art scene.
I stationed myself in front of the Taco John's because a local told me this weirdo lived in a small house behind it. As he marched down the sidewalk, he started thrusting his arms forward in alternating strike and block gestures. Each movement brought a repeated cadence. "Oohoow" on the inhale and "ahhhhaaa" on the exhale. It had an almost musical beat to it.
I'm not the timid type. Most aspiring journalists aren't, but I have to admit, the closer he got, the more jittery I felt. I kept thinking about how I was prepared to sue the paper if I ended up in the hospital from a karate chop to the throat. It might not be all that bad. I could retire 40 years early, and maybe if I was lucky, the editor would get fired.
Mimicking his technique, I breathed in deep and exhaled words at him when he got within earshot.
"Excuse me, sir?"
He stopped, tilted his head, and raised his wild eyebrows as he examined me.
"Hi sir, I'm sorry to bother you," I said. "My name is Ethan Gundersen, and I'm a community reporter for the Fargo Forum."
He gave me a slight bow and said in a raspy but higher-pitched voice than I expected., "I'm Ted Hagen."
I was still thrown off my game, but at least I knew that he wouldn't be attacking me. At least, not immediately. Scanning people happens to be one of my talents, and I could tell that Ted enjoyed destabilizing me a little.
"Well, I suppose I should tell you why I'm bothering you."
He nodded and raised his large palms, welcoming me to continue.
"As I said, I'm a reporter from the Fargo Forum." I showed him the press credential hanging around my neck. "We are planning a feature on 20 fascinating people in North Dakota, and someone recommended that I come meet you."
"We might as well talk at my home. It's right behind the restaurant."
I didn't mention that I already knew where he lived because we were off to a great start. I just followed him as he guided me around the corner and to the small wood-paneled block of a home.
"You know, this once was a schoolhouse," he said as he walked in the already-open front door. Back in Fargo, like most places in the country, we lock everything. But in these smaller towns in the Dakotas, people don't bother.
I nodded and took my pen and pad out of my backpack.
"I've always told my neighbors that I should make it a schoolhouse again," he said.
I resisted an eye roll and stepped through the door into his living room; it looked pretty good for an aging bachelor. Actually, it was already better and bigger than my apartment. The flat widescreen TV in the corner, beige renter's grade carpet on the floor, a full bookshelf against the wall, and a black futon with a red patterned blanket draped across the back.
"I guess I expected some martial arts stuff in here."
"Balance is a key to martial arts. Besides, you haven't seen the rest of my house," he said with a broad smile that triggered a web of wrinkles across his face.
I nodded my head and chewed on the tip of my pen in thought.
I felt an uncomfortable thread of envy growing. I was still living like a college student, sitting on a second-hand couch tapping laptop keys in my studio apartment with a
TV tray table for a desk. At least if he died, you would know that he had lived there.
Looking at his home, I found myself underwhelmed at this point. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting when I came inside. A padded room, perhaps?
"You have quite a library here."
"I wouldn't have learned most of the things that I know if I hadn't been a big reader." He walked over to an end table and grabbed two books. "These are the two that I'm reading right now. I've read Zen and the Martial Arts so many times, I've lost count," he said while flipping through the dog-eared book filled with notes and yellow highlights.
"So, you're a Buddhist then?"
"Methodist!"
"I'm surprised. Based on... everything," I said as he ignored my comment and showed me the other book.
"This one is new." He held up Be Water, My Friend by Shannon Lee.
"Is this author related to Bru—"
"Yup, this is Bruce Lee's daughter. It's all about her father's teachings. I'm still reading, but it's real good so far."
"So, you're a big Bruce Lee fan?"
"I'll let you be the judge," he said as he opened the door to the tiny bathroom and went through to his bedroom on the other side.
Posters, like wallpaper, covered every inch of the room. The walls, the doors, and even the ceiling layered with martial arts posters. Most of them pictured Bruce Lee in various poses. Others looked like old Chinese movie posters with martial artists and actors that I didn't know.
"Ho-ly shit!" I found myself without other words as I looked around.
What normal adult would have a bedroom like this?
The last time my parents visited, my mom hassled me for the barren walls in my apartment. "No wonder you're not taking pictures lately. This place must suck the inspiration right out of you!" My Dad grunted in a way that a stranger wouldn't notice, but my mom and I knew exactly what he was saying. He didn't buy all the art stuff. He always pushed me to move to the Twin Cities, put in my dues, climb a proper corporate ladder, even if it was only at a newspaper. Ignoring but mentally noting my Dad's protest, I told Mom that I didn't spend enough time there to worry about decorating the walls.
If my walls looked anything like Ted's, my mom wouldn't be merely disappointed. She'd try to have me committed.
"So the answer is, yes," I finally said as I continued to pan back and forth around the room. "You're his biggest fan."
Ted laughed out loud, not catching any of the scorn in my voice.
"This is my fanatic zone. I have at least one poster from each Bruce Lee movie."
"What about the others?" I asked.
"They're all the official posters from movies that really connected with me in some way." He pointed toward the window side of the room and said, "Most are old classic kung fu movies."
My eyes met one poster that stood out from the rest: "Barry Gordy's The Last Dragon." It had to be an American karate movie from a more recent decade. In the center, it had a young man performing a kick, shirtless and wearing white karate pants. His upper body was ripped with lean muscle, and it glistened with a rich golden-almond glow.
I must have stared at it for a noticeable time because Ted walked over and looked at it beside me.
"This one came out in 1985. The critics panned it, but it's become a cult classic. I admit, it's campy, but there's somethin special in the message. The main character is on a quest to find something he calls the "golden glow." Honestly, it's one of my favorites. I've memorized it."
"Memorized?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, blushing a little. "I've literally memorized all of the dialogue, all of the Motown soundtrack. Everything."
Looking at the poster and hearing Ted's brief description, it all somehow sounded familiar. Then it came to me. Dad went out with a work buddy to see this movie, and I demanded that he take me with them. I was too young to know what was happening in the film. I only remember the glowing thing and thought that part was cool. It may have been the last time Dad ever took me to a movie.
Ted led me out into the kitchen toward the back door.
"Want a pop or anything?" He asked, waving his hand toward the fridge.
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks," I said.
"Let's sit outside if you'd like to chat some more."
I'm not sure what I expected but again, what I saw caught me off guard. It felt like I just stepped out of his home and into a dream. A wooden privacy fence hid an impeccable Japanese-style garden. There were precisely clipped shrubs all around and a path paved with small stones leading to a fountain in the middle. The trail continued to a miniature Zen sand garden raked with intention. A small pagoda-type structure stood with a large mat and a heavy bag dangling inside in the far corner of the yard.
"This is really something, Mr. Hag—."
"Ted. Let's go sit on the mat. It's where I meditate and practice my art," he said as I followed him on the path.
I noticed a definite design in how the small stones were laid, and my eyes were fastened to them as we walked.
I thought it was visually stunning, but it also screamed excessive compulsive disorder.
He lowered himself into a crossed leg sitting position in one motion while I, a much younger man, had to brace myself with an arm as I brought my body down.
"Where did you learn the martial arts?"
"I'm self-taught."
"Oh, I guess I assum—"
"I've always been fascinated not only by the martial arts but by the entire philosophy and culture behind it. For me, it isn't a sport or a hobby; it's a way of life."
"Do you practice a particular style?" I asked, tapping my pen on the pad.
"No, I just mix together whatever works for me. But I'm always learning."
"Do you do this full-time, or do you work somewhere?"
"I grew up in this house. When Mom and Dad passed away, they left it to me free and clear," he said as he held his palms together in a prayer motion. "But I work part-time at the state hospital. It's enough to pay for the basics."
I had to believe a state psychiatric hospital would vet its employees thoroughly. However, I still wasn't totally convinced this man was stable.
"I hear that you walk all around town. Is there a reason for that?"
"The best way to get from one place to another is to walk," he said with a wheezy cackle.
"Well, I guess a car would be easier, wouldn't it?" I asked with a smartass smirk of my own.
"Quicker maybe, but not easier. Walking isn't so bad. It gets you where you're going, but it also strengthens your body and feeds your mind."
I nodded my head while writing the quote in my notebook.
"I admit, our winters can make walking a challenge, though!"
"You know what they say: the cold weather keeps the riff-raff out," I said, smiling.
"Don't worry, we have plenty of our own riff-raff," he said. "You should hear what it sounds like living behind the restaurant on weekends."
I sat for a pregnant moment, trying to figure out the best way to phrase my next question—the most obvious question.
"Why do you always wear martial arts uniforms? I mean, that is the thing that everyone notices. Is there a reason?"
"It's my passion, Ethan. My way of life. My art. Why not show it?"
"Fair enough," I said. "Do you mind if I take some pictures before I go?"
He nodded his head and rose with the same fluid movement. I reached in my backpack as I propped myself up with an elbow and felt for my camera. When my fingertips touched it, my reporter's mind shut off, and creative instinct activated.
"Looks like you got a lot of use out of it," Ted said, pointing to my dinged-up Cannon.
"I've had this since maybe junior high. Must've taken thousands of pictures with it. It feels like a part of me now."
Ted's lips thinned to almost nothing as he smiled back at me and started performing kung fu movements.
I hadn't had the chance to practice my photography in a while, but I found myself quickly in sync with him. It felt like a dance. He thrust his arms, and I pivoted to one side and snapped. He kicked with his leg, and I moved to the other and captured it. By the time he started striking the heavy bag, everything had happened in perfect unison. He moved, let out a "kiyaah" cry, and attacked. Dust exploded from the surface, and I clicked rapid fire. The chain squeaked, and the pagoda groaned like music as he kicked the bag, and I zoomed in and out, capturing the moment from every angle. I found myself on the ground, looking up with tunnel vision at his face just before his final flurry of fists struck.
It seemed that we were only doing it for seconds, but I had at least 40 photos captured. I showed him the small screen on the back of the camera, and he nodded as I moved through them at a rapid pace. It seemed like animation.
"Not so bad. It looks like I'm not the only one practicing my art today," he said as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
Ted looked different now; he almost had an aura about himself. In fact, the setting sun did cast a kind of halo behind him. I didn't say anything but brought up my camera and snapped one last picture of him, trying to capture the moment.
As we walked back into the house, I still had my camera out and took a few additional shots of the backyard. When we went inside, Ted allowed me to take a few pictures of his bedroom. As I made my way to the front door, he told me that he had to start getting ready for work, so we said our goodbyes.
When I first met Ted, I thought he was insane, but he grew on me after spending some time with him. Was he a total flake? Yes! But he was also happy, content, and passionate about his art. In that way, I had to envy him. Heck, I might even say that I liked him. This trip did not go as I had expected…but in a good way.
I reached my rusty Pontiac parked a block away and tossed my backpack in the passenger seat. I turned the key, and as the engine revved, I decided to take a little spin through Jamestown before going back home. I've passed through town on the interstate but never stopped, so I wanted to get a better feel for it before writing the profile.
I drove up 18th Avenue to the state hospital grounds, isolated on a hill overlooking I-94 on one side and the rest of town on the other. I followed the road circling around the campus, with the hospital complex at the center and a ring of small transitional living homes along the outside. I wondered where on campus Ted would be working tonight. I came back down the hill and drove past the Jamestown Art Gallery near Highway 281. Before getting back on I-94, I stopped at Jamestown's prominent landmark, the World's Largest Buffalo Monument. I read a sign from my car. The concrete giant stood at 26 feet and weighed 60 tons. It was named Dakota Thunder in 2010 but had been standing watch over town since 1959.
"Long streak, fella, but there is a new guardian in town…and he wears kung fu clothes," I said as I turned around and made my way to the onramp.
When I got back to my tiny apartment, I sat at the card table in my kitchen, looked at my notes, and began writing the first draft of my Ted profile. I kept getting distracted by the noise coming from nearby NDSU housing. Here I am still living this close to campus all these years later, and what have I accomplished? Where am I besides a sucky studio apartment? Maybe I should've just listened to Dad. Perhaps I should've forgotten about photography and moved to Minneapolis. Maybe it was worth it to abandon what I love in exchange for some dignity.
I exhaled, leaned back against the metal folding chair, and started looking at my pictures, hoping to snap out of my doubt. Instead of inspiring me to write the profile piece, I found myself focused on the individual images. I analyzed every element, the composure, the light, and the placement of objects in each one. Studying them like they were holy scriptures, I waited as if I expected a divine meaning to be revealed.
I put down the camera, walked across the room, and listened to my old loveseat groan as I plopped down. Impulse, or maybe it was just boredom, drove me to turn on the TV. I found myself searching for that movie that Ted loved, "The Last Dragon." I paid to stream it, convincing myself that it qualified as research and could be reimbursed.
This definitely was the movie that Dad took me to way back when. I still didn't remember much about it, so I felt like I was watching now for the first time. It was the 100% truth when Ted said that it was "campy." I felt the 1980's assaulting me in every way as I watched, and I can't say that it was my cup of tea. On the other hand, it revealed a much better view of my subject. The main character, "Bruce Leeroy," dressed in all traditional Asian attire throughout the movie. He was socially awkward but fully committed to the martial arts and the entire philosophy behind it. The film centered on Leeroy's quest to find a mysterious new master that would help him reach a new level and obtain something he called the "golden glow." He looked in all the wrong places until he eventually found that he only had to look inside himself.
I went back to the kitchen table and pulled down my laptop, and started typing. This movie seemed to be a much more significant part of Ted's life than I initially imagined. I mean, he had totally ripped off Bruce Leeroy's odd choice in attire and shared both his dedication and his awkwardness. I have to admit, though, that Ted, like Leeroy, had entirely accepted himself and dedicated himself to his passions.
My revelations about Ted after watching the movie inspired me. I pounded that keyboard with the cadence of one of those catchy Motown tunes. I didn't pull punches about how odd Ted still seemed to me, but it felt like I balanced it with equal parts fascination and respect as I wrote. I wanted the reader to get a complete view of my subject. The world is full of people that half-ass everything, sell-out over the years or give up on their dreams. Ted stood on the other side of the spectrum. He jumped into his madness with both feet and to hell with what anyone thought about it. As I wrote, I couldn't help but admire him in that way. I certainly hadn't mastered that particular art.
My original goal was to finish the first draft when I got back from Jamestown. Still, I found myself continuing into the early hours of the following day. Finally feeling satisfied, I attached my draft to an email and sent it to my editor. After getting some sleep, I again examined my pictures from Ted's house and thought that there were at least five good ones. But I kept coming back to the simple final headshot, the one with the yellow aura bursting above his head like a crown. It wasn't just the sunlight that made it special. The light, the look on his face, the shine of the beading sweat on his forehead. Together it all packed quite a visual punch. I attached it to another email to my editor and suggested that it accompany the profile.
Later that afternoon, I made it to the Forum newsroom, and that ruddy-faced bastard spotted me hiding in a corner. He waved me over to his office. He was smiling, but then again, this guy was always smiling. Sometimes I felt like he missed his real calling. With that fake smile, he could've easily made it as a sleazy used car salesman or maybe a pitchman for a personal injury law firm. He could fire you or promote you with the same sing-song tone.
"Hey, son, take a seat. I read that profile," he said.
I hate it when he calls me "son."
"Take a seat." He said again, waving me to the green pleather-lined chair in front of his desk.
"Oh, what do you think?" I asked.
"Loved it! Boy, they weren't kidding. That guy is a fruitcake!" He laughed.
Even though I still thought that Ted was an odd duck, I found myself offended on his behalf.
"Look, my boy, I think it's some of yer best work!"
He had a small army of sports bobbleheads guarding a corner of his desk. He reached behind them and picked up a printed version of my Ted profile.
"I've already finished editing it. Take a look."
At the top, I read the title "The Lost Dragon." It seemed needlessly demeaning to me right at the jump. Using something that was so formative for Ted and transforming it into some kind of a pejorative. A joke.
As it turned out, the title was the least offensive thing about his edits. He pulled out all of the balance that I had worked so hard to strike in the piece. He kept all of the crazy and eccentricities. He pulled out all the dedication, passion, and appreciation that I weaved throughout. It felt more like one of those ugly political hit pieces. My hands were shaking as I read.
"Hey, I never said that he was a patient at the state hospital!" I said, looking up at him for the first time.
"Read it closer, kid."
"Ethan," I said with a purposefully exaggerated scowl.
"Right. But my edits don't actually say that he was a pati—"
"Come on. That's what you're going for! You're making a joke. Making him into a cartoon."
He looked at me for the first time in four years with anger in his eyes. I never knew that his fuse was that short. Even in my anger, I felt a moment of fear. I'm not sure if I was afraid of being fired and failure or that he might reach out and punch me.
"Listen, Mr. Gundersen! You better think long and hard about what you say next. Long and hard, do you hear me?"
I glared at him but managed to keep my rage inside.
"I took a big risk, hiring you right out of college. You've done a lot of good work since then…this piece is some of the best. Do you really want to risk insubordination, your promising career on for this? For this guy?"
I wanted more than anything to smack him in the face or maybe demolish the prized bobbleheads nodding away on his desk. Harmon Killebrew, Kirby Puckett, Adrian Peterson, and all the rest were about to go sailing across the room. But as mad as I may have been, I just sat there. I only registered my anger by the look on my face and my refusal to answer his question.
After a few moments of him waiting for me to answer, I could see his levels of anger dial back down as quickly as it ignited. The color on his face began to cool back down to his regular red blotchy complexion.
"Look, Ethan, I'm the editor, and you are a community reporter. Your job is to go into the community and to report. Mine is to edit."
Coward that I am, I gave up on the battle. I gave up on my own standards, and I gave up on defending Ted. In his office, in those moments, I decided to prioritize my career, even as I detested it.
He looked down at his desk, adjusted some papers, and looked back at me.
"Go back to work…I think we're done here."
I had a million smartass comments stored up for him in my head, but I left it all unspoken as I turned and silently walked out the door.
For weeks following the meeting, I stayed as far away as I could. I didn't want to engage with him anymore, and I'm sure he didn't have any genuine desire to speak to me. I thought I could just let it blow over. But then I saw the print version of the profile and found myself seething all over again. This time it felt even worse.
I didn't expect him to make any changes to his version of the story, but I still held out some hope that he might adjust a bit. Nope. The final version was exactly what I read in his office. The most insulting part of the printed version is that he cropped my favorite photo of Ted. He cut out the golden glow from the sun. The only thing that stood out was Ted's frizzy hair and an out-of-context look on his face that made him look mad. What he did to the piece was terrible enough but misusing my photography, my art, to hurt someone…I just couldn't take it.
I started reading colleague's entries for the "20 Most Fascinating People in North Dakota” feature, thinking that maybe he treated the others in the same shabby manner. Nope. Even the self-taught stunt pilot from Ellendale had a profile dripping with editorial admiration. If that crazy bastard's sanity wasn't questioned, how could he do it with Ted? At least Ted wasn't risking his actual life.
I wanted to quit right then and there. But I thought about my Dad. He already wasn't proud of my career choices and my mom wasn't a fan of my living arrangements. If I quit, what would I do? Move back in with them and let the shame become permanent? Instead, I called HR at the paper and told them that a family emergency had come up and I had to use up some of my banked personal days. Really, I just needed time to think. To reassess. Everything.
I sat in my car trying to summon some courage, but I kept playing all the worst-case scenarios through my mind. I tried interrupting the thoughts by focusing on a guy walking his jolly chocolate lab down the street in front of me. Massive tongue hanging from her mouth and her body soaking wet, dripping a trail behind it. I sprung out of the car and pulled out the wrapped package with care. I walked up to the door, feeling my pulse thrumming in my ears. I gave a quick tentative wrap on Ted's screen door and waited.
A shadow appeared in the doorway like a dark ghost. I assumed it was Ted, but I couldn't really see him. He just stood there for what seemed like a millennium, not speaking or moving toward the door. Those moments felt like a full-blown panic attack might be imminent.
He finally opened the screen door and seemed to study me with squinted eyes.
"Uff da!" He said, dialing in his focus on me.
"Ted. I wanted to come here pers—"
"Uff da, Ethan."
"I know. I wanted to apologize. In-person."
"I've never been interviewed by a newspaper, but I didn't expect that."
"I can't tell you how sorry I am, Ted," I said. "My name was on it, but that wasn't really mine."
He shook his head up and down as if he was trying to process what I meant in the most positive way.
"My editor changed a lot…The entire tone."
"I see…"
"I want you to know that I fought him on it…I was so angry when I saw it that I haven't been back to the office since."
"What? You didn't have to quit over me, Ethan."
"I didn't quit. Yet." I said.
"Good. I was caught a little flat-footed for sure. I normally don't care what people think, but I was getting harassed quite a bit when that piece first came out."
I felt like I wanted to cry right then. I just couldn't believe that I had contributed in any way to bringing down this happy-go-lucky soul.
"Kids at the restaurant found out that I lived over here and yelled all kinds of nasty things late at night. Maybe the worst part was going to work and having patients at the hospital telling me that I'm the one that should be in a room up there."
"Ted. I'm really ashamed. I'm so sorry."
"I know…Why don't you come in," he said, waving me through the open door.
I stepped into his living room, trying not to scuff the large rectangle package in the doorway.
"So if you do quit the paper, what will you do?" He asked.
"Well, I'd try to find something that involves photography…or at least something that will let me practice it on my own time."
He nodded, and I caught him beginning to focus on the large package under my arm.
"While I've been away from the paper, I've been focusing on photography. I can't tell you how liberated I've felt, even though I don't know what will happen next."
He smiled at me with approving, almost fatherly eyes.
"I even made contact with the art gallery here in town and asked if I could exhibit some of my stuff."
"In Jamestown? Over near 281?" He asked in surprise.
I nodded and couldn't hold back the smile. I wondered if he already knew where I was going with this idea.
"I guess this is as good of a time as any to give you this gift," I said as I handed him the package.
"Oh Ethan, that wasn't necc—"
"Yes! Yes, it was!"
I watched him open it and felt excitement. I had no idea how he'd react to the gift or to the final bit of news that I wanted to deliver.
He tore at the Kraft paper, and after striping it away, he soaked in the image with a straight face that made me worry. It was a professionally framed photo of himself, my favorite one of him, in the yard backlit by the setting Dakota sun. The silence continued to hang over the room, and each moment made me more unsure. I thought it was one of my best photos ever, but maybe he didn't like it. If he didn't, it would derail my other plans.
He finally spoke in a whisper, reading the bottom right corner. "Ethan Gundersen, October 17, 2021, one of ten." He looked up at me as if he were in shock but didn't say a damn word. He just went back to examining the photograph, tilting it in the light cast from the lamp across the room.
Trying to fill the tortured silence, I forced out a tight chuckle. "Look, Ted, you've got the glow! You've got the golden glow!" I hoped my reference to "The Last Dragon" would penetrate the silence, and it did. Finally, something did.
Ted burst out into laughter that made his eyes water. I wondered if they were tears born in humor or if he was moved by the image. Maybe a bit of both, I thought. Hearing his explosive cackle helped release a lot of the pressure that I'd been holding since the profile ran.
"Good one, sir! Well done indeed! I havta tell you, Ethan, this really is special. It's touching."
Relief flooded me to the core, and I finally managed to relax.
"I'm so glad you like it, Ted!" I said with swelling pride. "With your permission, I'd like to include it in the exhibition. Along with a couple others that I took here."
"Really? Of course! How could I refuse such an honor?" He said.
"The others are good, but this one is my favorite," I said.
He put his right hand over his heart and looked like he was at a loss for words.
"One more thing Ted."
"You have more surprises? I don't know how you could top this, Ethan!"
"On the opening night of the exhibit, I would like you to be my personal guest."
"For sure," he said, managing a slight bow while still holding the large frame. "But only if I can wear one of my special Chinese silk robes."
"You can wear anything you want, Ted."