A story in 1 part
I walk into the Chinese restaurant, past the enormous stone Terracota Soldiers guarding the doors, their spent cigarettes dotting the ground beneath them.
"Try the Deep-Deep Fried Rice," says one with a deep, earthy voice.
I nod but make no eye contact. "Fuckin, ass-hat whitey," whispers the other, just loud enough for me to hear. I don't mind, I understand it's all part of the hazing I was told to expect. All part of the test. I ignore their snikering and step inside.
Inside the main lobby of the restaurant, the party is in full swing. The ceiling and walls are washed in a pale pink, highlighted here and there with the vibrant red tassles favored by such places. The far end of the room, if indeed there was any, is too far away for me to see, tables taking up space all the way to a horizon that faded into blackness, so that the room resembled a giant throat. A monolithic red tassle affair dangls from the centre of the room, completing the resemblance by serving as that 'dangly-thing-in-the-back-of-the-throat'. As for the floor, I can barely tell, so covered by tables, patrons and entertainers is it that I don't care to notice. The tables are all different sizes and shapes (some so high I can't see what is placed on them, those patrons seated there wearing stilts or jetpacks or some combination thereof) and there isn't an empty seat that I can see. Everywhere, human-like figures feast, drink, sing and dance, all in a blur. Each person - if they are indeed human - emits a bright but limited light, sometimes of a single colour but sometimes many. Mysteriously, everything in the room except the walls are cast in vibrant blues, greens, browns, aquas, yellows, even blacks. The sound is so loud that it is impossible to pick up any one conversation, but I at least know the language they're speaking: a futuristic version of English based on "The Price is Right".
I wait at the entrance, excited to be here but nervous to fail, when a few of the partiers point at me and colapse to the ground, wailing. I sense more than see their faces contort and frown widly as they cry "What's your bid?", and "Higher! Higher!"
At first I am stunned, terrorfied I have already blown my chance, but I know that I have to do something - say something - to show I'm worthy to work here. I don't know how long I retreated into my thoughts, but I suddenly realize that all activity has stopped and a potentially infinite number of eyes are fixed on me. Every one of the colourful figures weep openly, beating their chests and throwing themselves onto the ground in agony, screaming numbers. By now the kitchen staff has come out to see what is causing the comotion. The head chef - I recognized him from the advertismentes he sent to my dreams - simply stands, arms crossed, watching me expectantly rather than angrily. He wants to see how I handle it.
What the hell, I think to myself. I wave my hands at the crowd, wordlessly pleading them to be silent for a moment, and at once all noise ceases. Every one of them is frozen in place, bodies contorted in various degrees of distress, some hovering soundlessly despite the roar that their jetpacks should be making. Every set of eyes watch mine. I take a breath, and step forward.
"1 Dollar, Bob."
There is a moment, and then laughter. Thunderous laughter, god-laughter. Every single light-person points at me and laughs to the point of tears(themselves colourful and bright), for what seems like hours. Eventually, it dies down, and the general revelry that greeted me upon entering resumes, but not before I feel the burning sting of supreme embarassment.
"Well, at least you match the walls." Said the head chef as he walked towards me. At first, I thought he was refering to the shade of red I had turned as the blood rushed to my cheeks, but even as I observe my own hands, I watch them turn the same pale pink as the wall. Looking at the chef in astonishment, I notice that he too was the same colour.
"It means the restaurant likes you. Don't mind the diners, they put you on the spot and you got burned for it, but you'll get the hang of it."
I realize I must not be able to mask my relief, as he smiles and conceeds, "Yea, you got the job. Here's the guitar. The set-up is in the back, in the fridge."
Almost shaking with enthusiasm, I take the plastic white guitar and march confidently into the kitchen, the swing-doors opening easily. A blast of steem greets my face, its heat and moisture cleansing my skin, and my thoughts. I made it, I think. A gruff voices interupts my self-congradulation.
"Hey, you!"
A gigantic, muscular east-asian man in blue overalls and sporting a fu-man-chu mustache brandishes a saucepan in my direction.
"Are you the new kid?"
I quickly nod yes, my new found confidence just about crushed.
"Great. Hurry and set up. I havn't cooked in days!"
The giant man waits patiently as I run behind him, finding the fridge and turning on the XBox 360. The TV isn't great, but better than most I've played on. I ready my instrument and load up Guitar Hero 2. I select "Sweet Child of Mine" as my inagural track, and I hit all the first notes.
"Oh yea, that's great kid!" shouts the giant, as he deftly starts chopping a carrot and stirring meat over a lit stove pilot at the same time, all to the beat of the song. I feel the rush of my confidence returning, and let it fill me.
I'm going to be the best damned Guitar Hero player this ethereal Chinese Restaurant has ever seen.
"Try the Deep-Deep Fried Rice," says one with a deep, earthy voice.
I nod but make no eye contact. "Fuckin, ass-hat whitey," whispers the other, just loud enough for me to hear. I don't mind, I understand it's all part of the hazing I was told to expect. All part of the test. I ignore their snikering and step inside.
Inside the main lobby of the restaurant, the party is in full swing. The ceiling and walls are washed in a pale pink, highlighted here and there with the vibrant red tassles favored by such places. The far end of the room, if indeed there was any, is too far away for me to see, tables taking up space all the way to a horizon that faded into blackness, so that the room resembled a giant throat. A monolithic red tassle affair dangls from the centre of the room, completing the resemblance by serving as that 'dangly-thing-in-the-back-of-the-throat'. As for the floor, I can barely tell, so covered by tables, patrons and entertainers is it that I don't care to notice. The tables are all different sizes and shapes (some so high I can't see what is placed on them, those patrons seated there wearing stilts or jetpacks or some combination thereof) and there isn't an empty seat that I can see. Everywhere, human-like figures feast, drink, sing and dance, all in a blur. Each person - if they are indeed human - emits a bright but limited light, sometimes of a single colour but sometimes many. Mysteriously, everything in the room except the walls are cast in vibrant blues, greens, browns, aquas, yellows, even blacks. The sound is so loud that it is impossible to pick up any one conversation, but I at least know the language they're speaking: a futuristic version of English based on "The Price is Right".
I wait at the entrance, excited to be here but nervous to fail, when a few of the partiers point at me and colapse to the ground, wailing. I sense more than see their faces contort and frown widly as they cry "What's your bid?", and "Higher! Higher!"
At first I am stunned, terrorfied I have already blown my chance, but I know that I have to do something - say something - to show I'm worthy to work here. I don't know how long I retreated into my thoughts, but I suddenly realize that all activity has stopped and a potentially infinite number of eyes are fixed on me. Every one of the colourful figures weep openly, beating their chests and throwing themselves onto the ground in agony, screaming numbers. By now the kitchen staff has come out to see what is causing the comotion. The head chef - I recognized him from the advertismentes he sent to my dreams - simply stands, arms crossed, watching me expectantly rather than angrily. He wants to see how I handle it.
What the hell, I think to myself. I wave my hands at the crowd, wordlessly pleading them to be silent for a moment, and at once all noise ceases. Every one of them is frozen in place, bodies contorted in various degrees of distress, some hovering soundlessly despite the roar that their jetpacks should be making. Every set of eyes watch mine. I take a breath, and step forward.
"1 Dollar, Bob."
There is a moment, and then laughter. Thunderous laughter, god-laughter. Every single light-person points at me and laughs to the point of tears(themselves colourful and bright), for what seems like hours. Eventually, it dies down, and the general revelry that greeted me upon entering resumes, but not before I feel the burning sting of supreme embarassment.
"Well, at least you match the walls." Said the head chef as he walked towards me. At first, I thought he was refering to the shade of red I had turned as the blood rushed to my cheeks, but even as I observe my own hands, I watch them turn the same pale pink as the wall. Looking at the chef in astonishment, I notice that he too was the same colour.
"It means the restaurant likes you. Don't mind the diners, they put you on the spot and you got burned for it, but you'll get the hang of it."
I realize I must not be able to mask my relief, as he smiles and conceeds, "Yea, you got the job. Here's the guitar. The set-up is in the back, in the fridge."
Almost shaking with enthusiasm, I take the plastic white guitar and march confidently into the kitchen, the swing-doors opening easily. A blast of steem greets my face, its heat and moisture cleansing my skin, and my thoughts. I made it, I think. A gruff voices interupts my self-congradulation.
"Hey, you!"
A gigantic, muscular east-asian man in blue overalls and sporting a fu-man-chu mustache brandishes a saucepan in my direction.
"Are you the new kid?"
I quickly nod yes, my new found confidence just about crushed.
"Great. Hurry and set up. I havn't cooked in days!"
The giant man waits patiently as I run behind him, finding the fridge and turning on the XBox 360. The TV isn't great, but better than most I've played on. I ready my instrument and load up Guitar Hero 2. I select "Sweet Child of Mine" as my inagural track, and I hit all the first notes.
"Oh yea, that's great kid!" shouts the giant, as he deftly starts chopping a carrot and stirring meat over a lit stove pilot at the same time, all to the beat of the song. I feel the rush of my confidence returning, and let it fill me.
I'm going to be the best damned Guitar Hero player this ethereal Chinese Restaurant has ever seen.
posted by Lawson at 9:21 PM
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