Alien Contact: FWG encounters a miniature humanoid

In my inflamed condition I'm desperate to stay cool. I'm spending the afternoon across the street from the Grotto at Starbucks, home of turbo air conditioning, iced chai lattes and two big comfy chairs surrounded by a lot of stiff wooden ones.

I'm reading and sucking back chai lattes like a fiend. Facing me, from the other comfy chair, is a young man working on a scholastic project while sucking on his silver crucifix jewelry. One of the local personalities, a man who marches to his very own special beat, who relies on community assistance and the generosity of neighbors and strangers, sits in the corner singing along to all the songs being played - but with his very own lyrics which go precisely like this:

You're my favorite person in the house!

You're my favorite person in the house!

You're my favorite person in the house!

You're my favorite person in the house!

Repeat...

A woman bemuled by the extensive gear that supports herself, her small baby and her son - perhaps five years old, is barking her own incantation which has little to do with the music and goes like this:

Nicolas don't touch that!

Nicolas get down from there!

Nicolas stop that!

Nicolas put that down!

Repeat...

Between verses she tries to comfort the squealing baby.

I'm fine with all this by the way, and even fine with the ear ache; rather zen at the moment and able to concentrate on the book.

But eventually the five-year old takes notice of me and leans on the arm of my comfy chair and giggles at me. I carry on reading.

He reaches out and tickles my hand and takes hold of a finger. The student is looking up and smiling at the little creature's antics. The little creature is grinning maniacally.

He blurts, "What's your name!"

I have no idea why these next words come out of me, other than that it is my instinct to be uncooperative: "I am known by many names, earthling." The mom suddenly looks over. The student lets the cross fall from his mouth.

Local dude, oblivious, goes on singing, only now his lyrics have become:

I have been to hell!

I have been to hell!

I have been to hell!

I have been to hell!

Repeat...

The kidlet persists. "Like what?"

'Like... SATAN!' I wish to say, and then hiss like a snake - just for kicks, you know. Just to see if I can make him pee his pants. I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I don't know how to communicate with kids on their level. I haven't a clue. Instead, brilliantly I say, "You really want to know my name?"

He nods, still beaming like a miniature lunatic and still holding my finger. I consider a few more ridiculous responses and finally cave in and give him my name. "And what's your name?" I ask, knowing full well, of course.

"Nicolas!"

"Do you like it here, Nicolas?"

"Yes!"

"Are you having fun?"

He nods rapidly.

"Well that's great. I'm happy for you."

"Nicolas, come here please!" says the mom.

The kid releases my finger and runs away - from - not too - the mom.

I go back to my book.