A Lesson In Racism

By Nathaniel Tower

“So I was at this buffet with my fiancée, and she got pissed at me because I only left one dollar on the table for a tip.”

Parker was on one of his anti-serving class power trips.

We were at lunch break from the firm, at some large Chinese restaurant probably with “King” or “Panda” in the title. It was a hotspot for all the firms in the metro area, likely for its ridiculously creamy crab Rangoon. Parker had been a little late, a sign that he was probably with another woman, so I had ordered without him.

“I mean, all the bitch did was ask me if I wanted more water and clear my plates after we left.
She didn’t even earn the damn dollar, and now Clarissa is pissed at me.”

Parker’s complaints were flying faster than I could chew my eggrolls.

“You know, Parker, you do make well over six figures, and you hardly do jack shit. You could have thrown her a fiver,” I suggested, siding with Clarissa mainly to piss him off.

A short Asian woman, probably Chinese, with short brown hair tied back in a ponytail interrupted our conversation to take Parker’s order.

“What you have?” she asked impatiently.

Parker placed his order, mispronouncing General Tsao’s chicken, likely on purpose. He had ordered it at least fifty times.

“Steam lice o’ fly lice?” was the next question.

“Fly lice? That’s disgusting. What the hell are you people serving here?” Parker said without a smile.

“Steam wice o’ fwy wice,” the woman repeated, rolling her eyes as much as she could.

“What the hell is wice?”

“Parker, you ass, what kind of rice do you want?” I whispered with a swift kick under the table.

“Ohhh, fried rice,” he said, somehow making the words polysyllabic. “I love me some fried rice. Bring me some extra,” he added with a wink.

The woman wrote down his order and stormed away with a grumpy face. If the rice wasn’t as sticky as usual, we would know why.

“Parker, you’re a dick. You knew what she was asking,” I said with a sigh.

“That’s not the point. The point is that she should learn the damn language. I mean, come on. And how is it that she knows that I’m saying it wrong if she can’t say it right?”

“You’re just an asshole. It’s a cultural thing. You ruined her day. Did you see how grumpy she looked?” This was a part I was used to playing when around Parker. Were it not for me, I’m not sure how many times the man would’ve been sued for sexual harassment. He certainly wouldn’t have a job anymore.

“They always look grumpy. Either that or slutty. And the only people that come to their restaurants are good ole fashion American bluebloods like us.” He slapped me on the back. “My culture is her culture.”

“You’re an arrogant prick.”

“And that’s why you always go to lunch with me.”

“No, I always go to lunch with you because I know that I need to save your ass.”

When Parker’s food came, he ate silently, not wanting to test my patience. Besides, I had been finished eating for a good ten minutes, and even though I knew I would be hungry again in twenty, I didn’t bother to order anything else partly because I didn’t want to be in public with Parker any longer than necessary and partly because I wasn’t sure which one was our waitress.

“We better ask the waitress for our check,” Parker said before his teeth had even begun to chew his last bite.

“Yeah, we don’t want to be late getting back to the office. Lots of work to do,” I said with a roll of the eyes. I knew he only wanted to leave because he wanted to have enough time to rendezvous with Melissa in the elevator before the lunch break was officially over. The bastard liked to begin and end every lunch with a quickie, although I wasn’t really sure what precisely he had time to do in the few minutes he piddled around with the office assistants.

“Which one is our waitress?”

We looked around and spotted three short Asian women waiting on nearby tables.

“I don’t remember,” I lied, “but I’m sure she’ll come back.”

“They all look the same to m—”

“Shh, she’ll hear you.”

“Yeah, don’t want to offend the woman who brought me this delicious meal before you give her a big fat tip for doing jack sh—”

“Here’s your check,” a suddenly friendly voice spoke before he could finish. We looked up hesitantly, cards ready to hand to her, and saw a goofy smile plastered crookedly across her face. Neither of us could muster a word, but it wasn’t long before she broke the silence. “And don’t worry, you all look the same to me, too.”

Parker had never left a bigger tip.

And he didn’t have sex with Melissa that day either.

Nathaniel Tower writes fiction, teaches English, and manages the online lit magazine Bartleby Snopes (www.bartlebysnopes.com). His stories have appeared in dozens of print and online journals.