Friday, February 27, 2004
A Little Knowledge Too Late
My current temp assignment is at the reception desk of a Children's Clinic. The woman whom I share this job with, takes an inordinate amount of interest in my lunch. What did I bring, where will I eat out, did I enjoy my lunch... I realize this is just simple friendliness, but I find it disconcerting.
Today, I brought no lunch and was considering the greasy, sticky sweet muck available at the local Magic Dragon, when she suggested a small Vietnamese place just down the street called The Moonlight Restaurant. Aparently this place is all the rage in this office, so I figured I'd try it. The neighborhood's most prominent feature is a Wonderbread Factory, which I immediately took as a bad sign; nevertheless, I went in and took a misanthropic table in the back, far from the silent karaoke stage and any other patrons.
A flustered little woman in pink came to take my order. She poured my tea and spilled almost as much on the table as she got in my cup. When I mentioned the large spreading stain on the tablecloth, she said something unintelligable in heavily accented english and scampered away. I figured it was her tablecloth, so I didn't much care.
I stared out the window waiting for my five spice chicken. I felt inclined to be patient, because once I was finished there, I had only the second half of my work day to look forward to. Nevertheless, the wait did become extraordinarily long, and although I wasn't wearing a watch, I did begin to worry about the time. I had to get back to the clinic and open the window, otherwise the little, little children couldn't get thier low-cost healthcare. I noticed that other people were being served, albeit slowly and with many apologies. The pink woman gave a hurried excuse, but it was, like the rest of her english, unintelligable. I began to think that they had only one cook, and perhaps this one cook had died and the pink woman was running the place by herself. I might have considered it a tragedy, had I not grown increasingly hungry and cranky as a result of the wait.
My food did arive. I found the limp pile of iceberg lettuce and whiteish tomato slices to be inauspicious; however the rice was nicely done and the chicken was flavorful, if a bit greasy. I finished it handily, considering it almost worth the wait. As I scooted the last of the rice around my plate, I saw a man enter the restaurant and sit down. The pink woman rushed up to him and told him that they were closed, he couldn't be served. This was the height of the lunch hour, or what was left of it, and I was a bit perplexed. Perhaps my assumption about the death of the cook wasn't so far off.
I walked to the front counter and handed the pink woman my credit card. She apologized a few more times, although she was unspecific about the cause. Near the door to the kitchen, three people stood talking. The couple, a man and a woman both carried clipboards, wore baseball caps and ill fitting blue jackets which made them look like people masquerading as ATF agents. They were talking at a small Asian woman who seemed to bear thier presence like an old horse bears the whip. The clipboard woman became louder and more animated, until her voice bounced off the walls.
"We're shutting you down... you can't serve food here anymore. We've told you this before and every day you're open we're going to fine you five-hundred and sixty seven dollars... five-hundred and sixty seven dollars, understand? If you don't close your doors we're going to call the police and they'll come here and shut the doors for you..."
The food in my stomach felt heavy and unstable, like I'd just swallowed a bowl of greased ball bearings. The Health Department was closing this place down... right now. They were obviously concerned with the well being of the public, saving people from food-borne illnesses and unsanitary practices. They did not, however, see fit the warn the poor fools currently eating the fucking food. I imagined rat hair, rotting meats and a cavalier disregard for the "Employees Must Wash Hands After Use" signs. I began to wonder, a chill running down my spine, what were the symptoms of Hepetits A... so I knew what to look for.
Numbly I gave them a $1 tip, accidently writing the total on the signature line instead. I gave the pink woman the paper and then walked to the door. It was locked, but the employees had left the keys in the lock so that I could escape. I walked out, past the innocuous Health Department vehicle, into an unknown, frightening future.
