Expat Observations: Mad Men’s Paul Kinsey

Paul Kinsey and the Hare Krishnas.

He was the only one in the place smoking an e-cigarette, puffing along with an imperious demeanor like Paul Kinsey and his pipe in the critically acclaimed drama Mad Men. Now that I think about it, he looked like him, too, especially after Kinsey joined the Hare Krishnas. Tall, on the husky side of middleweight, a growing gut that’s covered former athletic pursuits.

But his gait lacked the confidence you’d expect from a fella blessed with height. You could tell from the way he maundered through the joint. He was leering at everyone, mad that they were having fun and doing it loudly.

To be fair, it was a small space. Any boisterous group would impinge on any effort at a quiet beer or two. There are a handful of tables spread about a hotel foyer. A tiny alcove to the left, just beyond the entrance to the hotel, contained the bar running along its left-hand side and a kitchen at the back. The bar, despite its size, had twelve taps.

Ten people could belly up comfortably before it borders on nuts-to-butts. An open space above the bar was accessible by a steep staircase. At that moment, it was filled with folks from an office party.

Once he entered the hotel lobby, he scanned the room and looked for whatever seats were left at the bar. The gentleman sitting next to me took one look at him and moved. I should have taken that as a sign, but I was too naive to understand what was happening.

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Paul, that’s what we’ll call him, filled the vacuum. He sighed as he sat down and ungracefully pulled the seat closer as he set his phone and e-cigarette on the bar. Leaning back, he scoped out the chalkboard to his right. It hung over the kitchen entrance, where the proprietors updated the beer list by hand.

All except two of the beers on tap were from China. They’ve seen a boom in the craft beer sector, with new breweries opening all over the country. Some of the best are right here in Beijing, but I digress.

Paul studied the list intently. He said a few things in Mandarin to the bartender, who had just returned from running food to customers in the lobby. The guy who moved to give him space looked up from the game he was playing on his iPhone. The bartender gave an exasperated look.

After a few quick exchanges between the bartender and Paul, he finally settled on the Pilsner from a brewery in Wuhan named Little Devil. I finished my second and considered leaving. Instead, I stayed and pointed to the fridge with the sliding door behind me. It had a few chilled Moosehead Lagers. The bartender nodded in response.

It reminded me of my college days. And being a sucker for nostalgia, I grabbed one. I used to get six packs of the Canadian beer because I knew no one else would. And if I saw some random Chuck, Bob, or Brayden walking around with a bottle or two, it’d be time for a word. But what would I do except maybe call them a motherfucker? I wasn’t much of a fighter.

Before I could even get back to my seat, Paul chimed in.

“It’s not cold enough,” he said quietly but with marked annoyance as he looked straight ahead.

“What,” the bartender responded.

“The fridge isn’t cold enough. The beer needs to be colder,” his voice grew in intensity.

The bartender looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

“It’s fine,” I said. It probably could have been colder, but it wasn’t worth the hassle.

“Do you want a glass? I can get you some ice.”

“Nah, a glass will be just fine.” I’m definitely not putting ice in my beer.

She pulled a glass from the shelving above her and handed it to me. I could feel Paul growing annoyed and dismayed.

“I like my beer ice cold,” he said as he leaned closer to my already limited personal space. He was a close talker who liked his beer so cold he couldn’t taste it. Great.

“That’s perfect for a hot summer day,” I responded as I tried to be agreeable.

He nodded.

We spent the next few minutes discussing beer and the battle between craft beer and macro-breweries. Despite his air of sophistication, he was rather provincial regarding his beer choices. All these new craft breweries were making beers that were too bitter or too sweet. He didn’t want something made of fruit.

There was a pause to take sips of our beers. He took a puff or two from his e-cigarette. Its vapors dispersed into the ether beyond the taps.

Paul Kinsey smokes a pipe.

“You know, America’s really struggling to make cars these days,” he said as he restarted the conversation with a new theme.

“I don’t really know much about that. It’s not something I pay attention to.”

“Since the last economic crisis, American cars are weaker. There are no big Buicks or those power cars America used to be known for. It’s all e-vehicles and hybrids now.”

I took a sip to give myself time to think about a clever response. E-vehicles are prominent in China, too, and I’ve seen several folks driving Buicks in Beijing. But, in America, we’re still producing massive trucks yearly, so I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. I hoped the pause might give him more time to draw his point.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” I said when he looked at me for a response.

“Maybe.”

We paused again. There was a moment of spontaneous laughter from the office party above us. If we wanted to talk, we’d have to wait until it died down. We both took sips of our beer. He puffed his e-cigarette and blew the vapors into the ether again.

“You know, in America, you can be a man and use the women’s bathroom…”

‘Oh no, here it comes,’ I thought to myself.

“...by saying you’re a woman and then not be held accountable for sexually assaulting another woman in the women’s bathroom. And you cannot question the man who claims to be a woman. You have to accept their mental state.”

I usually have a hard time masking my displeasure. But apparently, I did a decent job there because my internal monologue isn’t fit to print, even if it’s my personal blog.

“Well, my good man, as a red-blooded American who lived there nearly all his life, I can tell you this scenario isn’t a thing. And the folks doing the bathroom piddlin’ are almost always the heterosexual ones,” I responded after I composed myself.

He nodded. Correctly reading, I accepted no further discussion on the matter. Then took a sip of his beer. And puffed his e-cigarette some more.

At the time, I thought the segue to car talk was odd, but upon reflection, maybe he was testing the waters to see how I’d respond. When he didn’t get a clear read on where I stood on what I perceive to be his idea of manliness or masculinity, he went for the nuclear option and brought up trans-rights.

After a few moments, I finished whatever was left of my beer and paid my tab. It was time to get the hell out of there.

“Buddy, it was good chatting with you,” I said as I strolled out.

He nodded back.

This was a surprising interaction, though. Because it left me struck by the realization that no matter where folks are, people will be predisposed to controversial positions on social issues. Or maybe, despite the perceived difficulties in accessing American news, Paul has been exposed to the conservative talking points on many right-wing shows.

Maybe I’ll run into Paul again during my stay in Beijing. And perhaps he was just having a bad day, and I’ll have to adjust my impressions of him. Which is fine by me because I’m always down to have to adapt my first impressions.

But the bottom line is this conversation flipped the script on my experience in Beijing thus far. And that, itself, caused me to readjust some of my first impressions.