Part II
“The piano has been drinking, my necktie is asleep584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb3lqLuIR3K
And the combo went back to New York, the jukebox has to take a leak584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsvMQ6b5NhM
And the carpet needs a haircut, and the spotlight looks like a prison break584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXoWMuyAF6c
And the telephone's out of cigarettes, and the balcony is on the make584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzBW7aGkLnl
And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking...not me”
Tom waits – The piano has been drinking
I walk fast. Always have done. My father insisted on walking everywhere when I was younger, and his pace was the only pace. I guess it’s stuck with me and now I walk everywhere. I don’t feel comfortable taking the bus. Too many people anyway, and the lights are too bright at night. All white and blue like a crime scene investigation. Great there you go again. Stop being terrified of people.
But they’re not like spiders! They aren’t as terrified of you as you are of them… Are they? In any case I’m walking down to work.
After a year of living on frozen chunks of chicken and pasta, I had found it necessary to make a little extra money on the side. Wasn’t easy though. People just seem to get a job in the films. The moment they need it, it’s there. There’s no long, protracted scene of the main character going from place to place handing in CVs and applying to countless advertisements only to hear nothing back. They just walk on in and start scrubbing pans or serving food. Sometimes I think that might be the trick. Just walk on in. Pretend you work there and don’t stop until someone questions what you’re actually doing.
“Do you actually work here?” They’d say. I’m sorry, I’m just taking an order. What was it you wanted madam? The soup of the day, well I’m afraid I don’t know what it is. Perhaps you can ask my colleague here.” “Look do you work here or what?”584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtx0THGmEO4
“No, but I could do. I’m good, see…. No, please don’t call the police, I’m going, I’m going!”
But I did get one in the end. A job, I mean. Not exactly conventional, or it’s sort of conventional, but with a twist. You see right now in my backpack are a pair of flip flops, wrap around trousers, that give a fair amount of space for my guys to hang low, and a short sleeved baggy shirt with gold embroidered dragons up the front. That’s right. I’m a Kung Fu master… no that’s not possible. What with my amazing ability to touch my head, shoulders, knees and not toes and not toes, I don’t think I’d fare well in the martial arts world.
I work in a Thai restaurant, as a waiter. It’s odd, right? I mean when you think Asian restaurant, or any region related food, you think of the appropriate nationality serving it to you. Even McDonalds employees seem to fit the bill half the time. But does it necessarily have to be that way? You don’t need said server to have grown up eating the food. The chef, sure, at least they can have spent some time studying it. But the waiter, so long as they’ve eaten it once, I’m not too fussed. Besides the guy who owns the place isn’t even Thai. Perhaps I should start with him. Because not only is my position there unconventional, but the whole place is a strange melting pot of cultures and odd characters that you wouldn’t think to find in a Thai restaurant.
Cue the Guy Ritchie style character introduction; complete with funky guitar and a backbeat drum line. So the owner, Eddy, is Chinese Malaysian. Eddy Wang. Born in Malaysia but educated in a public school in Oxford from the age of twelve. He’s not around much and for the first month working in the restaurant I didn’t see him once. Then one night a thin Asian looking guy came in chewing a cocktail stick, dressed in a leather jacket, dirty t-shirt, and a loose fitting pair of jeans with paint spattered on them. Everyone stiffened up the moment he ducked into the room, and he proceeded to talk with the manager, in a thick cockney accent, stumbling over his R’s.584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8xwoFjCj0u
“Alwight, Ania,” he said to the manager. “Ev’wyfing going ok?”
He didn’t seem to care about the answer but instead glared around the restaurant and looked at me. I couldn’t really tell if he was scowling or if his face was permanently stuck in that position. It’s stuck in that position.
“Alwight,” he jabbed.584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu1rYQKCHhR
“Hi, do you need a table” I said.584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrPbT6oX0aR
He didn’t say anything, just kind of smiled.
Then he turned around and limped out the door. With every other step he took down the stairs there was a noticeable clunk on the wooden steps as he dragged his right leg behind him. I never discovered what was actually wrong with his leg, but rumour has it’s fake and he’d lost it after running drugs over the Cambodian border from Thailand. He’d gotten lost in the hills, fell down a ravine and snapped his leg in the process, had to cut it off for one reason or another, 127 days style. Course that’s just rumour, and somebody else told me it got mangled in a motorcycle accident when he was young.
The manager, Ania, she’s Polish and the most touchy-feely person I’ve ever met. Not in a pervy way. Just, you know…I’m British and I don’t really want to be touched, full stop. No brushing of the arm, touching of the hand… hugging! No please, I’m ok, just keep one step away at all times. At least that’s how I’d felt when I first started working there.
She’d rub my arm and say “How are you Seb!” Every time I arrived to work. I’d kind of gotten used to it now though, and it had done a lot of good for my social anxiety to be able to allow an almost stranger to touch me.
Don’t get Ania wrong though, she is no softy. When things get busy and customers get shitty, she is the one to look for. Once a guy tried to run out on paying his meal and she chased him all the way down the High Street in her flip-flops, in the middle of winter, grabbed his wallet out of his pocket and refused to give it back until he paid up.
Then there was Song. Song was one of the few people in the restaurant that were Thai. He had a long thin cowlick of hair that stuck up from his crown at all times, square rimless glasses and a smattering of pin prick freckles on each cheek. He looked like a Peanuts character. He is small and scuffs his feet as he walks around the restaurant, so you can always hear him coming. For the first few weeks I thought he was the owner, he seemed to have some authority about him, but it turned out he’d just been there a long time. Longer than anyone, bar Ania, in fact. His quiet persona is all a ruse though; given the chance to drink and party, the man is a maniac. Halfway through his forties, he still loves to go clubbing, where he vigorously jumps up and down, emitting a high-pitched squeal causing everyone around him to immediately sober up and spectate, in what is one of the strangest sights this side of the Atlantic Ocean. I cried with laughter for ten minutes straight when I saw it the first time, in the way that only the purely unexpected moments in life can make you.
Last is Nathan. Nathan is also Thai, but had grown up in the UK from the age of eight. He is Ania’s boyfriend and is the glue that binds this international lottery of people together. He’d known them all previously and took them all behind the scenes of the Asian restaurant business. He is well liked by customers and employees alike, which is where my problems start. I just can’t get on the same page as him. He’s nice I don’t dispute it. Always making jokes, laughing and chatting, but there’s just something off with him that I can’t quite put my finger on. When he smiles, it’s only from the mouth, never from the eyes. Sometimes I see him talking to customers, turn around with a big smile on his face, and then it drops immediately, as if it’s on a timer. But then again, I never get on with men. When I make friends it’s usually social rejects like myself, in which case the sex doesn’t seem to matter (enter Rich), or if they are slightly more normal, it’s a woman. I don’t know why that is. I’ve just never really got men. Conversation is always so competitive and either sport or women orientated, neither of which I enjoy talking about, the first of which I know nothing about, and the second…well the second I know about only one.
So here I am at work, clad in full Thai attire, doing what I have to do for a bit of extra cash.
“Hi, Seb” cooed Ania, as my feet slurped up the stairs in my flip-flops. “How are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good.” I said, meaninglessly.
Does anyone really answer the question “How are you?” with anything other than “ok”, or “good”? Of course, I’m truly grateful that the truth is not expected. Then I’d actually have to share my feelings, and that’s no good.
“Hello,” said Song, dragging on the oh sound in an accent that would be deemed politically incorrect to imitate. Of course, that was his genuine accent so what could he do? “You still so skinny. Why you don’t eat?”
“I do,” I replied. “I’m just lucky, I guess. My dad’s the same. Guess I’ve got his genes”
“Ooh, ok.” He said, seemingly satisfied. “Lucky. If you go Thailand, you gonna eat so much. So cheap,” He paused and looked over his glasses knowingly. “Then you gonna be fat like me!” He laughed furiously at his own joke and then walked over to a table.
I walked over to the bar and ducked down to see what was in the fridges. There was never really any need to do this; Ania always had everything under control, yet it had become my routine. I popped up from the behind the counter and looked out over the restaurant. It was a beautiful old building. I’d say Tudor if I had to guess, but like I said, that’s a guess, I have no idea. It was old in any case. Squished into a small alley off of High Street, the building was so tightly wedged in that it bulged out in its centre and bowed over the alley like a tree branch covered in snow, ready to spring back at any moment. Inside, pokey rooms crisscrossed with wooden beams were embellished with Thai wood carvings that fit surprisingly well in the old English interior. A faded wooden staircase greeted you as you came in, winding up to the restaurant in the first floor (second for you Americans).
Ok, only a few customers so far. It was only six o’clock, but it was Thursday and it could get seriously busy fast if bookings weren’t kept on top of. I could see a customer waving in the corner. Time to start. I’d been doing it for three months now, but I still couldn’t help but feel terrified every time I walked over to a table to take an order. I knew the drill, but it didn't help. It went as so.
“Hi, are you ready to order?” “Yes, we’ll have a number three, kaaah nom jeeeep” they’ll say, a question mark floating in the air in front of them. That’s Thai for dumplings. Then they’ll look at me expectantly, waiting to see if I have understood. I give nothing away. Eventually they give up and say, “is that how you say it?” I’ll reply, I have no idea, I’m not Thai. Then we’ll all laugh, and I’ll take the rest of the order. But all the while I'm waiting for this to stop so I can go back to standing behind the bar.
Ok so here it goes.
“Hi, are you ready to order?” I said, as politely as I could.
“Hi,” said a small man with dark curly hair, greying around his temples. “Yes, I was wondering if you could give us a bit of advice about what’s good”
His accent was Welsh, thick, definitely from the valleys.
“Well number three’s very popular as a starter. Then I’d recommend either pad thai or the green curry as a main.
“What’s in the Pad Thai?” asked the woman sitting opposite him. Her face was mousy, and she had a lost look in her eyes, magnified by her thick round glasses.
“Well it’s the classic Thai dish. Fried noodles…”
“Oh no, can’t be having noodles, can we Ewan?”
“No dear,” he agreed. “Bit exotic. No, I think we’ll take that green curry
that you said.”
“Can I have mine half and half.” the woman said, looking up at me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“With rice and chips”
“Er no, I’m afraid we only have rice. We have five kinds though.” I replied, instantly regretting the decision.
“What are they then?” Asked the woman.
“Plain jasmine…”
“No thanks,” interjected Ewan,
“…Coconut…” I continued.
“Well I never,” exclaimed the woman.
“…Brown, sticky and fried.” I finished, reeling off the last three in quick succession before I could be interrupted again.
“Don’t like the sound of that last one.” Said Ewan. “I’ll take white rice if you have it. Uncle Ben’s will do for us lad,” Ewan bellowed and then smiled wide. “That was a joke. We aren’t too familiar with this kind of food. In fact, we’re not really used to any of this city stuff. Here on holiday you see.”
“I’d never have guessed” I grinned.
“Great place though, beautiful architecture. You live here?”584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmgtx49IbB2
“Yeah,” I replied, surprised that this had got past a minute of conversation. “I do. I’m studying here.”
“Oh are ya,” said the woman. “You must be smart.”584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXKSixdwBAI
I laughed and said, “Well not that smart, I’m in Brookes, not Oxford.”
“Oh right,” she said, and smiled giving me the impression she had no idea what the difference was.
“Anyway, we’ll have that green curry and rice if you don’t mind, and what was that number three you said about to start? What’s that when it’s at home?”
“It’s a dumpling.”584Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH5doHbFgVC
“Sounds perfect” Ewan said.
I walked away smiling. I guess people weren’t always so terrifying.
The shift ended up being a quiet one. I clocked out at ten thirty, relatively early for a Thursday. After getting changed I started to walk upstairs to say goodbye to Nathan and Ania but stopped when I heard raised voices.
“You can’t keep giving money to them!” Came Ania’s voice. “That’s our money, my money!”
“You know I have to Ania.” Replied a defeated sounding Nathan.
I carefully stepped backwards down the steps, then slammed the changing room door and shouted up the stairs. “Bye guys! See you next week!”
I didn’t wait for a reply, just walked out before I had the chance to hear anymore. It wasn’t my business, nor did I want it to be.
I began my walk home. Earphones in, I set my playlist and stepped out into High Street. I took out a pouch of tobacco from my coat pocket and proceeded to roll a cigarette. I’m terrible at rolling, but I prefer the taste of the loose tobacco (plus it’s cheaper). I didn’t make it easier for myself by rolling whilst walking, but I didn’t like to do it in front of Ania. I knew she didn’t approve of it, and I can’t help but feel a little ashamed. Finished. It looked like an old white sock full of wet sand, lumpy and uneven. I tapped it firmly against my palm, and then lit it up. I sucked hard and the smoke rushed down and filled my mouth with the sweet tang of tobacco. Inhaling deeply, I looked upwards. The night had settled in thick across the clear autumn sky, pinpricks of starlight piercing through the crisp air. I exhaled as the second track of Diveneri started in my ears. I loved to listen to Einaudi in the cold at night, wondering down High Street in no hurry whatsoever. I meandered along the pavement, flowing with the sandstone buildings to the lull of the music, nicotine buzzing in my brain. Only a handful of people were around. Oxford is most beautiful when nobody is around. Without the distraction of other people, you can really focus on the surroundings. Just stop and look. Grand colleges, cobbled alleys, weathered pubs, all embellished with ornate caricatures of angels and demons, scholars and bishops, that jump out from the corners of buildings and above gateways. It really is a pleasure to live here, to be a part of the furniture— just another caricature in the stones of the city.
I was coming up to the botanic gardens that lay along the side of the river, just before Magdalen Bridge. To my left was Magdalen College, the place I was set to meet Hermione tomorrow. Holy shit, I had to meet this girl again. Alone. Tomorrow. I crossed the road and leaned against the stone bridge barrier, looking over at the college across the river. I took a last drag of the cigarette and flicked it into the road behind me. It hit the tarmac and sparked a few orange embers into the air before rolling down into a drain. The college was silent, only the rustling trees could be heard, their leaves fading into the rich colours of autumn, and dropping gently down to the river below. The world was shedding its skin once more, ready to start again. What if I’m going to go into the college? I thought. Shit, I’ve got to buy a new shirt.
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