Behind the counter, I was dwindling the pencil in my hand, waiting for new orders to flow in, observing the quirk and the peculiarities of people. A hand shot up in the sky, weaving in circles, gesturing me for their bills. I dully poked the screen of the monitor to show me the figures of the bill of the table, I got of my chair, plodded my way to the table, uttered the price in a forced vehemence hanging with a counterfeit smile that was rudimentary for this industry.
I trudged my way back to the counter in the same fashion as the searing heat of the midday sun was draining the force out of me. As I was pulling out the notes for the change of the customer, a common, yet interesting and venerable guest walked in. He was swarthy, lanky, spiked-hair, dressed slovenly with a polo t-shirt mottled with black oil. His trousers were also oil-smudged as his shirt, and fitted with a medium-sized boot was odious, filled with scars of his career, a mechanic.
He sat at his usual nook, and waited for me to take his order. As I spoke to him to get his order, he did not reply, I showed him the menu instead. He pointed at the image, cupped his hands that of a big bowl, I nodded as I knew his order, and understood his predicaments. I shoved my thumb up, gesticulated a question asking him for his choice of beverages. He pointed at a cup of Chinese tea on the menu, shivered. I gave him a thumb’s up, and walked back to the counter.
Fried rice, iced Chinese tea. That was his order. I keyed them in accordingly, as I lifted up my head, I saw him talking in hands to his phone. Out of my insatiable inquisitiveness, I served him with the ice Chinese tea, catching a glimpse into his life at the same time. The pixelated screen of his smartphone depicted a complexion of a demure look of a woman of his age, his lover I deduced as he was effusive with happiness when chatting with her, in a language that only the deaf and mute used to communicate. He ate with the phone in front of him, I presumed that they were having lunch through a virtual platform.
I sank back into my place behind the counter, ruminating about this guy who impressed me greatly by the fact he could be independent, and had a lover. Moments passed with orders flying in, and people wanting to foot the bill. A lanky hand shot up waving a twenty ringgit note in his hands, I walked to his place picked up the money, giving him a broad smile. I changed him the exact amount, no more, no less. He trusted me in being honest, and thus I should be. I had an unimpeachable, queer respect for this man.
P.S. JAN 2017
still working, a venerable customer,
a mute and deaf person,
who deserved my utmost respect.
I’m not sure exactly why but this weblog is loading extremely slow for me. Is anyone else having this issue or is it a problem on my end? I’ll check back later and see if the problem still exists.
okay