Encounter in a Super Market

Dhaka presents many opportunities to converse with people who are excited to see and speak with a white American. Often these conversations begin when I notice that a man is standing awfully close to me, then I usually acknowledge his presence (unless I am really not in the mood) which inevitably leads to the question "what is your country?" (Bangladesh's identity as a formal nation is one of nationalist triumph, and people here prefer the moniker Bangladeshi rather than Bangali, which refers to the region of Bengal that includes parts of India).
I answer "Ahm-ri-ka," and we will talk in basic English for a brief time. Many of the Bangladeshi people I meet are simply excited by the opportunity to try their English with a native speaker, and their knowledge of English does not extend much past scripted greeting and small talk scenarios. As a result, I will be greeted with "Good morning!" as the sun sets, or given "Fine, thank you" as a reply to any question that I give, or told "thank you" as a waiter sets down a plate of food.
Last week I ran into a man in a Korean grocer on Kamal Ataturk just past Gulshan 2 Circle (about 10 minutes from my house with traffic). He was dressed in worn and dirtied clothes, his hair was wiry and unruly, and expanded above his shoulders as it escaped from his trampled hat. The conversation began normally, but he quickly explained that he had lived in San Diego for some time years ago. He demonstrated a passable knowledge of the area so I believed him, and he quickly pressed on to describe his current Dhaka doings. Apparently, he has been writing a script for a while and plans to send it to the heads of every major American studio.
Hearing this, my attention was officially piqued, and I had to inquire as to the subject of his story. As I examined the hard but flavorful pears in the produce section, he told me about his ambitious historical fiction picture.
Many people know about the rise of the Nazis, the terrible execution of their abominable beliefs; but few know the REAL story. According to my new friend, who was careful to state that his movie was a reflection of a "theory" rather than his true beliefs, the Nazis were actually abducted by aliens when they were just babies. On the spaceships, the aliens infused their superior alien genes and knowledge into the children. As they grew, the genes became more and more expressed in their abilities and beliefs. The effect of this insidious infiltration was a group of young men who believed they were a "master race" and had excellent technological abilities... of course aliens would think they were superior to the worthless humans!
I told him I thought it was great, but I wanted to read the whole thing. He asked me if I had a phone number, which I avoided providing by telling him my phone "doesn't work" many times. We exchanged e-mail addresses so that I could "give him some notes," but I have yet to get my hands on his script. His business card, which I wish I could quote at the moment, stated he had a yahoo e-mail address, maybe I should contact him to see what's going on... I hope I haven't been cut out of the creative process.
After about 8 minutes of talking, he let me go to get some more yogurt. I saw him about 15 minutes later as we were about to check out, idling between the cereal aisles. I wonder if he actually has written a single word of his story, if he simply hangs out around the grocery all day, what is daily routine? Just another day in the life here, the never-ending carnival of the absurd.