JERKING AGAIN

Unfortunately, a title like that will probably keep most people from reading this post. That would be a shame, depriving the public of an opportunity to hear about my latest bout of questionable behavior.

Actually, I did good this time. Instead of just exploding into a ball of rage, I resorted to smart-asshood. Funny, but I remember a time when I’d go into my arsenal of smarmy remarks quite regularly, like a veteran seven-footer in the post. Seems I’ve become too much like Shaq lately. I’ve been relying almost exclusively on dunks, that is, getting belligerant in the faces of people I don’t like. While that kind of behavior is probably more exciting than using my brain against people (and probably looks more kinetic on instant replay, too), it quickly becomes monotonous. Also, it could lead to double-teaming, which I might not be able to handle.

Before I get too bogged down in basketball talk (Although answering people sarcastically is a lot like running the triangle offense), let me paint the scenario: Last night, K. and I got back late from Manhattan. Rather than cook something for dinner, we opted for the chinese restaurant near her place. It was about half-past nine. In Brooklyn, the only food available at that hour is American fast food or ethnic fast food. Luckily, the menu hanging from the bulletproof glass in the take-out joint looked fairly decent.

Here’s what wasn’t decent: The kitchen worker (who also took your money and handed you your food through an elaborate series of panes) was trying to get a customer’s order ready. Said customer, however, behaved rudely. He kept barking commands like, “Cut the chicken! Cut it! Cut it!” The kitchen worker didn’t appear to fully grasp the directions, so the man who supposed himself to be the lord and master got more and more incensed.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I believe that if you go to a restaurant, be it Don Shula’s Steakhouse of Kentucky Fried Chicken, you’re entitled to get your food the way you want it. This dude, however, took his rights too far. The man in the kitchen was doing the best he could. He simply didn’t understand that the customer wanted his chicken wings cut in half. Does a mild bout of confusion give someone else the right to start being rude? No, it does not. Still, here was the asshole customer, bullying a minimum wage-level employee around like his own personal slave. “More napkins! Gimme more napkins! Not that sauce! I don’t want that sauce! Gimme the other sauce!”

A sidebar: Who the hell cuts chicken wings in half anyway? A box of chicken wings cut in half ain’t gonna fool anybody into thinking he splurged on extra chicken wings. It’s gonna look like chicken wings chopped up by somebody who thought the arm and shoulder connected at a different point. It’s pretty pathetic, actually.

I mean, did this guy actually plan to serve chicken wings cut in half to someone? Did he expect that person to be fooled? “Oh boy, eight chicken wings instead of four! And each wing is half the size of a normal chicken wing. Isn’t that funny? I must be eating wings from chickens who weren’t able to jump very high.”

But I’m forgetting the best part. At one point, this surly customer, noticing the bit of a language barrier between himself and the kitchen help, turned to me and said, “Hey, talk to that man, will you?” I don’t know what insulted me worse, that he assumed the cook and I spoke the same language, because we were both Asian, or that he assumed I gave a damn about his food-ordering problem. However, I remained cool. I presented him with a confused look, then said, “Why are you asking me?”

In effect, I was daring him to make some ignorant remark about all Asians being alike. But he didn’t take the bait. Actually, he seemed very confused at first. Gradually, I thought I recognized a brief glimmer of intelligence peeking through the cloudiness of his brain, as if it had dawned on him, with the sudden impact and subsequent illumination of a lightning bolt, that the Asian race might be composed of many smaller sub-groups, who communicate using different languages…

Then he seemed confused again. “Oh, uh, I just thought…” He was mostly quiet until he got his food, possibly embarrassed. But after he left, I started speaking Cantonese with the kitchen guy. His name’s Hing, his family opened the take-out joint six months ago, and a plate of four chicken wings and fries is only $2.99 on Thursdays.