After the 12th plate the waitress comes over (smiling sweetly) and puts the check on my table as if to say “Yo, chubby, I think you’ve had about enough” and then goes and says some angry words in Chinese to the busboy over in the closed section. For the next 7 plates she stands at the end of my row and stares at me. I’m finishing my egg drop soup and when I look back up she’s gone…
She’s over in the next row stripping a crab leg for the guy eating over there. (She’s sitting at his table with him) She’s cooing about the wall and Chiang Kai-shek and General Tso.
Shit – the family sitting across from me – any one of them could show me up. No one under 300 lbs. They’re all on their 25th trip. The mother asks for another Diet Coke…
Oh, yeah – the fucking fortune cookie. It reads “You will have dreams of turnip leaves. It’s about fucking time.”
I leave and drive over to the gas station. I go in and ask the guy how much the windshield washer fluid costs. He says it’s $2.10. I said “I’ll tell you what.” The guy says “I’m listening.” I say “Give me $5 on the Powerball and when I win that fucker I’ll come in and buy a jug.” That was OK with him.