Jerry and I were starved after completing our workout; a post-training snack was in order. Given how hard we had been hitting the gym lately, we agreed that we should eat something healthy. Neither of us had the energy or interest in cooking, though; so take-out was the natural choice. Except our workouts tended to be later in the evening these past few weeks, leaving us with few "healthy" options.
But Jerry remembered a sushi place he had been to on a date recently, and he suggested we go there. "There" was Okiyama's, a small, family owned restaurant, which wouldn't be too busy this time of night. Considering that we were wearing our sweaty gym clothes, we thought it best to avoid any places whose staff might balk at our attire. Thus, Okiyama's was the obvious choice.
The restaurant was a mere 10 minute drive from the gym, and we found a parking spot on the avenue near Okiyama's quickly. I glanced over the menu on display in the storefront's window before heading inside. Theirs was standard fare, which suited my pallet and mood just fine at this time of night, as I was more interested in clean proteins than an exotic roll.
A pleasant, diminutive Chinese man greeted us as we entered. He wore a chef's hat and a friendly smile; upon seeing Jerry he exclaimed, "Welcome back! No pretty girl this time?" Laughing, Jerry pointed at me and said, "Nah, I'm stuck with my gym buddy tonight, Sammy." I spent a few seconds glancing over the menu again, while Jerry and I waited for our server.
We had been seated at our booth for 15 minutes, yet our server hadn't even come to the booth once. But I could have sworn that there was a figure seated at the waiter station toward the back of the room, playing a game on their phone. Just as I was about to tell Sammy that we were ready to order, a waitress appeared beside our booth. She was a rather tall—perhaps 5'7"—and slender Chinese woman with a very flat chest and ass; her raven black hair was tucked into a boring bun, and her black, horn-rimmed glasses framed an entirely modest, flat face; her lips were painfully thin, forming something of a peevish snarl on her mouth. The phrase "anti-sexy" was apropos of the woman standing before us.
Without looking up from her pad, she sighed, and then groaned, "What do you want?"
"Give me the sashimi platter," I said.
"Ok," she managed before directing a "You?" at Jerry.
"I'll take a miso soup, a 'California roll,' and 2 orders of the the 'Happy Boom Boom #1' roll; oh, and a Coke."
She blurted out an "ok" before snatching the menus off our table, and disappearing into the kitchen. Her snatching motion caused water to spill from our glasses onto the table; she didn't pay this any mind , and she hadn't even bothered to give us napkins or settings. Generally, I give most restaurant staff the benefit of the doubt—all too often they're made to deal with the poorest of excuses for human beings as customers; but I was really rankled by our waitress. I get it—it was late, and she wanted to go home; but a modicum of respect wouldn't have killed her, especially since we weren't being jerkoffs.
"The fuck, bro?! I don't even think she wrote down your order, Jerry."
"Eh, I am sure she memorized it; we're the only two in the joint," he said.
"And she didn't even take my drink order," I retorted.
"YOU didn't give it to her when you had the chance, Omar."
Fair point, but I was still pissed.
"Fuck off, Jerry—and 2 of those stupid BoomBoom rolls with a coke no less? Real healthy, bro."
"Butt hurt much, Omar?," quipped Jerry.
"Ball buster," I responded.
Again: fair point, but I'm always right—even when I'm wrong; I'm right.
Ms. Congeniality begrudgingly walked Jerry's Coke and soup over to our booth, plopping them down with palpable contempt, causing some of his soup to spill onto the table and his lap.
"Enough is enough!," I thought to myself.
She ignored us from the moment we got there; she was openly hostile to us; she barely engaged us when taking our orders; she hadn't put settings on our table; and now she had spilled hot soup on Jerry without even offering an apology. Before she could stomp away from the booth without even acknowledging her mishap, I grabbed ahold of her right wrist, yanked her towards me, and barked, "OH!, where you goin'?! Clean that up and get him napkins!"
She glared at me momentarily, but as she strained against my grip, she looked downward in submission. I let go when I noticed a red welt forming on her dainty right wrist; as she scurried back to the kitchen, I yelled, "bring me a ginger ale." "Dude, what the fuck?!," Jerry griped. "I like this place; I don't want to get banned—or worse—because you lost your shit over nothin.' Not cool!" Maybe Jerry was right—perhaps I overreacted...nah, fuck that.
Sammy appeared with a stack of napkins, apologizing profusely. "Mindy very tired—long day, long day." She should be apologizing to me, not this poor guy. I grabbed the napkins, and placed them on the table, dismissing Sammy without as much as an afterthought.
"Are you still following that crackpot Vince Gironda's bodybuilding nutritional plan?," Jerry asked.
"Yeah, why?," I responded.
"No wonder why you're such a fuckin' whackadoo tonight!...between the 3 dozen eggs a day, and the orchic tablets, you might as well be doin' Dianabol—you're balls are all twisted!"
Jeez, the fucker was making great points—again.
"Look, I'll leave her a nice tip, but I'm not in the wrong."
"Whatever," said Jerry.
I fiddled with my phone while I waited for her to return with our order.
The doors to the kitchen swung open minutes later; Mindy hurriedly walked to our booth, deposited our order on the table, and walked away quietly, although I could hear her mutter something that sounded like "strong grip" under her breath while she was still within earshot of us. Interestingly, she left two cans of ginger ale on the table with my meal.
Jerry laughed to himself.
"What's so funny?," I asked.
He responded, "She's pissed."
"What makes you say that—she had less of an attitude this time, and she gave me an extra drink."
"Brah, she just called you 'bac guai.' Do you know what that means?
"No," I answered.
"White devil—she called you 'white devil' under her breath," Jerry laughed before shoving a piece of his California roll into his mouth.
"Ha, bullshit! I thought she said something else; plus, Arabs aren't white," I said.
"Actually, I'm just fucking with you. She said some shit, but I couldn't hear it. And you're only half Arab. Just chill out!"
"Jerkoff!," I said.
"What did you think she said, anyway?," asked Jerry.
"Who knows, bro?—let's just eat."
Jerry laughed to himself while he chomped away on his Boom Boom rolls. I didn't want to admit to him what I thought she said; I just dug into my sashimi platter.
However, I noticed that Mindy was standing toward the back of the restaurant in the aisle closest to our booth; she had positioned herself directly in my line of vision. I could see her rubbing her right wrist; "damn, she MUST be in pain," I assumed. I felt the slightest tinge of guilt; then something strange happened: a smile started to form on her mouth while she rubbed her wrist. "Maybe the rubbing eased her discomfort?," I thought to myself.
Sammy walked toward Mindy, then, with a towel in his hand. He bowed his head slightly when offering it up to her; she swatted it out of his hand, sending ice cubes sliding across the floor. Jerry was too busy stuffing himself to notice this scene, but I was transfixed with what I saw next. The man got on his hands and knees to pick up the ice cubes from the floor; Mindy lorded over him with contempt; her body language was a study in pure disgust for this sweetheart of a man, who was now literally groveling at her feet.
At that moment, she took her right wrist in her left hand and started rubbing it again; looking up the aisle in the direction of the booth where Jerry and I were seated, Mindy made laser like eye-contact with me. She smiled deeply as she rubbed her wrist, and stared at me. I could feel my cock straining against my sweats; that cleared it up for me: she despised weak men, and I realized that I had probably turned her on when I reprimanded—verbally and physically—her in front of everyone.
Sammy walked away from Mindy dejectedly. He groped for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket distractedly, shuffling out the front door for a smoke—a broken man. Jerry stood up, announced that he had to take a dump, and then disappeared into the bathroom. Classic Jerry.
Now Mindy and I were alone.
