Don't Break My Rice Bowl by Robert H. Dodd

Author:Robert H. Dodd
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Holey Jumper Press
Published: 2023-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

‘Exactly so, Eddie,’ Dr Tommy beamed, his round face shining with sweat and oil. He reached over and placed a hand on my shoulder.

Ted was grinning; his head suddenly jerked to one side. ‘Quite true. Ever so, Eddie,’ he said vacantly. ‘Ganbei, old boy!’ Ted picked up his wine glass and bumped it to mine making a distinct clink. The wine slopped over our hands. ‘You've gone right to the heart of the matter, as usual.’

Dr Tommy smiled, then patted Ted’s shoulder. ‘Americans are often very… well, stiff; very difficult to…’

‘Reserved?’ I asked, tilting my head, trying to follow his words.

‘Yes. Reserved,’ he replied, looking my way but seeing nothing. ‘But you are not. Not you and your friend Ted.’

I couldn't eat another bite. I looked over at Mr Woo who was still deftly picking up bits of food with his chopsticks from the plates in the centre of the table and popping them into his mouth.

‘How do you manage to stay so thin, Mr Woo?’ I asked with difficulty.

‘I watch what I eat. I'm very careful. I don't ever drink milk,’ he answered, then added: ‘Also, I jog.’

‘Don't drink milk?’

‘No, that is for baby cows!’ he answered as he speared another piece of chicken.

‘Mr Woo jogs, Ted. That's how he stays so thin!’ I said somehow, as the red walls started moving; red walls, lanterns; a swirling splash of scarlet… I shut my eyes.

‘Admirable,’ Ted mumbled.

I looked at Mr Woo. He seemed higher, taller and quite pleased with himself as he skilfully lifted more bits of food into his bowl.

‘We Chinese try to keep fit,’ Dr Tommy said, his tongue getting in his way. ‘We aren't fanatics, you know, but we keep ourselves sharp.’ He casually hooked his hand beneath my arm just in time to keep me from sliding under the table.

‘Admirable!’ Ted exclaimed again to no one in particular. ‘All very admirable!’ Something crashed at the other end of the room. One of the men had dropped his head and arms on the table, knocking a few dishes and glasses over as he went down.

‘Excellent dinner,’ I croaked, trying to hold on until the end. Two girls pushed through the side door carrying trays of fruit. ‘Ah, the oranges,’ I sighed gratefully.

‘Yes, the oranges,’ Dr Tommy said, wiping the grease from his face with a large handkerchief. The girls managed to find places at the table among the heads and arms and glasses and chicken bones to put the trays down. ‘The dinner is finished,’ Dr Tommy said with finality, stood up, affectionately patted his swollen belly, belched violently, then, looking composed and dignified, sauntered unsteadily towards the exit.

Ted fished me out from among the food scraps and chair legs; we righted ourselves, and with a lot more difficulty than Dr Tommy, wobbled from the restaurant into the steamy night.

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