almost okay

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF MARTY SHERMAN
"Make Mine To Go...Please!"

She was tall and manly, her skin dark brown, her hands large with short natural nails and free of rings. Her hair was a careless mop of fuzzy curls and she wore dark sunglasses, spoke in a soft monotone and so slowly she could barely be understood. She had come into the restaurant and stood directly in front of the small counter, faced the stack of paper menus and bowls of soy sauce and hot mustard packets that cluttered the end of the counter top and made sitting on that stool difficult.

“You eat for here or iz ah carryout?” asked the Chinese girl at the counter.

“Hmm,” said the woman, “I'm... not... sure...” She picked up a menu and started looking at it, noticed the Chinese owner sitting behind the pile of menus on the counter for the first time. The owner was working away at some unseen task, her hands low under the counter, the motions of her shoulders indicating that she might be folding napkins around silverware, wrapping the bundles with strips of self-adhesive paper. “Hi,” she said to the owner.

“Hellohhh,” said the owner in a happy sing-song voice, as though she recognized the woman.

“I think... I'll sit... down here,” said the woman as she moved to the stool nearest the register, menu still in hand. She looked around the room with a slow rotation of her head, spied a man eating his lunch. “What's he have?” she asked the Chinese girl. “That.. looks... good.”

“Zat ah Szechuan Chee-ken,” said the girl.

“What's in that?” asked the woman.

“Iz ah chee-ken steer fry,” said the girl, “wiz ah care-rot, celerly and ah peppah.”

“Hmm,” said the woman, “That... looks... good. I'll try that.”

“How spicy?” asked the girl.

“What does it come?” asked the woman. “Mild... medium... hot?”

“Ah, mee-dee-um,” said the girl.

“Okay,” said the woman, “medium.”

“Wot soup?” asked the girl.

“Soup?”

“It ah come wiz soup. Wot soup?” she repeated.

“What kind of soup do you have?” asked the woman.

“We have ah egga drop, ah hot and sower, and ah won ton,” said the girl.

“Won ton, what's that?”

“Iz ah noo-der” said the girl, “wiz ah pohrk inside.”

“Hmm,” said the woman, “I really... don't want any... soup. Does that come with fried rice?”

“It ah come wiz fry rice or steam rice,” said the girl.

“Can I get shrimp fried rice?”

“No,” said the girl firmly. “It ah come wiz prain fry rice. No shreemp.”

“I can't get shrimp fried rice?” asked the woman.

“You want ah ohdah of shreemp fry rice?”

“Yes.”

“So ah wot rice you want wiz ah cheek-en?” asked the girl.

“I want shrimp fried rice,” said the woman.

“So you not ah need rice wiz ah cheek-en?” said the girl. “So one ohdah of Szechuan Cheek-en, one ohdah of shreemp fry rice?”

“I can't get the shrimp fried rice with the chicken?” asked the woman again, just then understanding the menu choices. “Scratch this one then,” she said indicating the chicken, the word 'scratch' confusing the poor girl even more. “Just bring me the shrimp fried rice. That's really my thing.”

“So, ah you not want cheek-en?” said the girl, also just beginning to understand. “Just ah shreemp fry rice?”

“Yes, cancel the chicken,” said the woman. “Just... bring me... the rice.”

“Shreemp fry rice iz ah shree-ninety-eight,” said the girl.

“We pay before we eat?” asked the woman. The girl just stared at her.

“Iz a shree-ninety-eight,” repeated the girl.

“I don't look like I'd pay you?” asked the woman. “We pay before we eat?”

“Iz ah carry out?” asked the girl.

“No,” said the woman. “I'm going to eat here.”

“Oh, sohree,” said the girl. “I ah thought it ah to go ohdah. Which ah taber you want to sit?”

“I guess right there,” said the woman. Another plate of food passed on it's way to a table. “Mmm, what's that?” asked the woman.

“Iz ah Shreemp Lo Mein,” said the girl, displaying a remarkable level of patience.

“That... looks... good...too,” said the woman.