15 Minutes at Ping’s

As evening rush-hour traffic began thinning I made my way out of the house to satisfy the rumbling in my stomach. Chinese food sounded good in that moment, so I made my way to a small take-out place less than a quarter-mile from my house. Maneuvering my way through the busy intersection and into the shopping center parking lot, I pulled into an open spot next to large four-wheel drive Ford pickup. It was a relatively new truck, but showed clear abuse received by many off-road adventures. The suspension system was lifted far beyond typical 4x4 trucks. This truck was clearly trying to mimic the ‘monster trucks’ that used to put on their shows at the Pontiac Sliverdome. Glancing inside the Chinese take-out place, even before I turned off my engine, I could see the likely driver of this unnecessarily large vehicle.
I open the door and heard the chime announcing my arrival to the staff of the establishment. The restaurant is quite small. The dining/waiting area is only large enough for 7 tightly placed tables; 3 four-tops and 4 two-tops were carefully placed in the room. Newspapers were scattered around the vacant tables, left by earlier visitors. The vinyl tiled floor was clean, and the decorations where minimal, just enough to remind visitors that they were in fact in a Chinese restaurant. A large light box hung on the wall above the order window. The photos displaying the dishes were faded to the point where the images were almost indistinguishable from each other. The pictures bore vague descriptions beneath them such as “chicken with broccoli” and “beef with rice and vegetables”. From the door I could see the hurried activity going on in the cooking area. I made eye contact with the wife of the owner of this establishment. She finished what she was working on, and then hurried toward the counter.
Mr. Monster Truck sat at a table digging into a carryout container with a small plastic fork. At a glance the food looked like it might have been an order of General Tao spicy chicken, with white rice. He had a dirty hat on his head. The logo was difficult to read through the grime of oil and sweat. The hat covered up what was unmistakably a mullet. He was clean-shaven, and didn’t appear dirty, other than the hat. He wore a baggy brown t-shirt, and frayed cut-off cargo shorts. On his feet was a well-worn pair of doc marten’s. He sat there quietly eating, reading the section of newspaper that was on his table. He didn’t even look up as I entered the doorway.
Over by the windows, at one of the 4-top tables sat an older woman with an elderly woman, possibly her mother, as their facial features bore some similarity. Both had surprisingly white hair. They were mumbling their conversation to each other. The elder woman had that confused-vacant-pained look in her eyes that those suffering with Alzheimer’s, and other forms of dementia, seem to have.
“Pickup?” said the petite Chinese woman behind the counter.
“Nope,” I replied, “I want to place an order.”
“What you want?”
I placed my order, a number 6, sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, and an egg roll, to go. I don’t think I have ever eaten anything else in a Chinese restaurant in many years. This little place does a good job with this dish, so I see no reason to experiment with anything else. I certainly would not risk trying the bizarrely displayed dishes in the photos that were now above my head as I stood at the counter.
“$6.88” she responded as I handed her my debit card. The card reader required a couple minutes to communicate with whatever other computer it is programmed to speak with. Then the little machine began to slowly grinded out a tiny receipt. As the woman handed it to me, for my signature, she said “ten minute”. I handed the signed copy back to her and headed to an empty 2-top against the wall.
I sat with my back to the wall, at a table nearest the uni-sex restroom and farthest away from the door. I starred vacantly out the floor to ceiling windows. I was watching the traffic in the parking go by the restaurant, and the foot traffic walking by on the sidewalk. In the distance was the road traffic getting steadily lighter as people were reaching their afternoon destinations. I was unable to take my peripheral vision off of the people in the restaurant with me.
The elderly woman reached for three small plastic packets of dark liquid that sat within her reach. “It’s soy sauce,” said the younger white haired woman. “soy sauce.” There was a short pause then “It’s soy sauce, people put it on their rice and stuff.” She explained. “No, you don’t need any, you’re all set.” Mr. Monster Truck stood up, gathered his food containers and made his way to the garbage receptacle. This movement distracts the elderly woman away from the tiny packets of a soy sauce that had intrigued her only seconds before.
As Mr. Monster Truck walked toward the door I noticed the large tattoo on the back of his calf. It appeared to have been a Native American dream catcher design. The marking was quite large; it covered nearly his entire calf muscle; complete with the traditional circular design and collections of feathers hanging from the 9 o’clock, 3 o’clock, and 6 o’clock positions. I watched as he climbed up his vehicle to open the door, then climbed even higher to get into the drivers seat. The bottom edge of his door reached the middle of the window on my passenger door. My mid-sized SUV looked like a child’s play toy next to this inflated truck.
As I wait for my food to be prepared I continued sitting in the uncomfortable chair made of aluminum and worn out foam padding. My eyes focused on nothing really, just starring out the window. I noticed a man and a young boy walking toward the door of the business next to the Chinese restaurant. The man appeared to be in his mid 50’s and the boy was no older than elementary school age. The man wore his hair long and greasy; his beard was scraggly looking. It was questionable whether his shirt and jeans had been washed recently. His well worn sneakers had seen many better days. The boy at least looked clean. That’s when it occurred to me that the business on the other side of that wall is a bar. Did I really just see a man take a little boy, presumably his grandson, into a bar? As I tried to mentally digest the implications of that the man and boy emerged from the drinking establishment escorted by a tall well built young man wearing a bright yellow t-shirt that said SECURITY across the back. Obviously the guy the yellow shirt felt the same about that situation as I did. The older man pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number as the little boy sat on a concrete flower bed.
The elderly woman and her daughter were done eating and began the process of gathering up there stuff toward making their exit. “We don’t need to take the soy sauce with us.” The frustration was obvious in the younger woman’s voice. She pulled the table back to make it easier for the elderly woman to get to her feet. With her cane positioned properly she slowly lifted herself up, being steadied by her dinner companion. She stood, uneasy, as the younger woman picked up the plastic bags filled with containers full of their left-over’s. “No, we’re all set; we don’t need to take the soy sauce with us.” The half dozen steps from their table to the door seemed to take an eternity. As they reached the door a hurried young man got their just before them. He held the door and patiently waited until they cleared the door way. The look in his eyes was anything but that of patience. He was in a hurry and these old women were slowing him down. He was dressed in a warm-up suit, as if having just come from the health club down the street. He was being polite, and feigning being a gentleman. But he clearly wanted these ladies to pick up the pace.
A young boy, clearly the son of the woman who took my order, met the health club guy at the counter with a couple bags full of carry-out. “Are you the sweet and sour chicken, sweet and sour pork.” said the boy stopping because he was interrupted. “Yeah carry-out for Swift.” Did he really just say his name was Swift? I thought to myself. The credit card machine was taking far to much time for Mr. Swift’s liking. After scribbling his name on the slip he hurried his way back out the door at breakneck speed. He chose not to hold the door for another pair of ladies that was nearly at the door. Watching him burst from the door I failed to notice the boy set another plastic back with my food on the counter. My eyes were stuck on this odd pair walking into the restaurant.
The women walking in the door were unmistakably related. They had to be a mother and daughter; they had almost identical face separated by 25 years of age. They had identical faces, but their bodies couldn’t have been more different. The older woman was no taller than five foot three, and petite. It would seem unlikely to me if this woman weighed more than 125 pounds. She was jabbering away on her cell phone, and was clearly to busy to help her daughter with ordering their food. The daughter was huge, in comparison to her mother. The younger woman was no less than 6 foot 3, and built like she could play center for the local NFL team. She was a large, there is no way she was tipping the scales at anything less than 350. She was a very handsome woman. Out the window I noticed a middle-aged woman hurriedly approach the grimy old man and little boy. The boy clearly recognized her and gave her a hug; she hugged him back. The woman directed some short words at him, an anger face, and an accusing wagging finger in his face. She left with the boy, and the greasy man went back into the bar. The mans head hung low, I don’t think this was the first time he’d had that conversation with her.
I didn’t hear what the large woman and her mother ordered, as I was trying to imagine what words were being exchanged outside. I wonder if the boy was understand that his grandfather has a drinking problem. I wonder if he even understands what that means.
“Hey, did you order a sweet & sour chicken combo?” the boy behind the counter said to me, pulling me from my speculation.
“Yes,” I replied “I did.”
“Here you go.” He held up my bag. “You already paid, right?”
“Yes, I did. Thanks.” The door chimed again as I opened it to leave and head home.