KGBurger King

A random facet of the Salt Lake airport is that most of the people who work in the shops are foreign, and most of these foreign people are Russian. Usually, this is not a big deal, because usually they speak better English than I do, and have amusing stories about how they got cuffed by a bear once during an icy trek in mountainous regions. But sometimes there are those for whom the language barrier is a barrier, and one of these those works at Burger King.
I had stopped off to have it my own way while I was enjoying some AAT, or Airport Appreciation Time, which is what we call it when they schedule us a three-or-more-hour break between flights. And after I had gotten my credit card back from a young worker whose last name was comprised of mostly consonants, I asked if she could make change for a twenty (because on the plane, everyone wants to pay for liquor with a twenty).
"You geeve me kredit kard," she says.
"Oh, no," I say, "I mean for a twenty."
"You geeve me kredit kard," she repeats, forehead forward.
At this point I give up hope of getting any change, because I know no further sense is going to pass between us. But there was a little part of me that wanted to clear the air and let her know that I wasn't just trying to get change back from an even credit card transaction, and so I tried again. "No, no, I... I wasn't trying to get change back from the card. I just wanted to know if you... if you had enough change for a twenty."
She leaned over the counter and I think I heard the edges of the register crack in her fists. "You geeve... me kredit card."
I ran away. I didn't want a piece of anyone who gets cuffed by bears.