Mr. Write's Page

A few days ago, an errand took me to Winder, the next town south of Jefferson. Winder is one of my least favorite towns in the area. It’s unattractive, overbuilt, and perpetually choked with traffic. When the town is in the news, the subject invariably is drugs, crime, or political corruption.

But they have a pretty good bookstore, and that’s where I went on my errand.

It was lunchtime when I finished. Determined to try a new restaurant, I pulled into a strip mall that housed one of those ubiquitous, hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurants. Rain was falling like crazy.

Inside, the place was quite nice. Also quite empty. I stood at the front counter for a moment, and soon, a tiny, stoop-shouldered old Chinese man emerged from the kitchen.

“How many?” he asked. I held up a forefinger.

“You come,” he said and ushered me to a booth.

“What you want drink?”

“Hot tea, please.”

“No sweet tea?” he said with a cackle. “All people here drink sweet tea.”

“Well, I like hot tea in Chinese restaurants,” I told him.

“Good, good,” he said, and away he went, still snickering.

A few minutes later, he brought my tea. I ordered the house special, seafood soup, and settled back to await my meal.

As I sat gazing absently out the window on my left, a medium-sized bus pulled up to the curb in front of the restaurant, blocking the view, such as it was.

“Magnolia Estates” was emblazoned on the side of the bus. On board, I could make out numerous heads bobbing.

The door of the bus opened, and a 30-ish woman in a nurse uniform disembarked. Behind me, I heard the front door of the restaurant open.

“How many?” I heard the Chinese man ask.

“Can you handle a big group?”

“We can handle.”

“There are 14 in all.”

“We can handle.”

“It will take us a while to unload and get everyone inside.”

“Okay.”

The woman from the bus went back outside. The old man was joined by an elderly Chinese woman, and the two of them began pushing tables together.

Unfortunately, they chose to do it immediately adjacent to my booth. The 20-foot-long table they fashioned was slightly behind me, but a mere four feet from my elbow.

At first, I thought why me? Then I realized that most likely, an entertaining spectacle was about to unfold.

I was right.

I glanced out the window. The two attendants were busily helping the passengers de-bus in the rain. At that particular moment, the wheelchair lift was lowering an old man to the sidewalk. He was standing unsteadily on the metal platform, clinging to an aluminum walker.

If I had any doubt that Magnolia Estates was an assisted living facility, it was thenceforth erased.

Several residents were already out of the bus and lined up against the wall, out of the rain. The other attendant was helping a white-haired woman carefully exit the front door of the bus. The woman was using a magazine to shield her hair from the rain.

As predicted, it took a while to get everyone off the bus and lined up against the outside wall. When the deed was done, the attendant came back inside.

“You ready for us?”

“We ready.”

Behind me, I heard the door open. The passengers began to file in, chattering like a flock of birds. I didn’t turn to look, but I got the audio.

“Janie, just follow him. Not too close. Don’t run your walker up his leg.”

“WHAT?”

“Go slow, people. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“WHAT ARE YOU GONNA HAVE?”

“Something without chicken in it.”

“Why are you stopping? Keep going!”

“Bob, move to the end of the table, please.”

“That’s what I’m doin‘.”

“Raise up your behind. I’ll push your chair in.”

“Ruthie, let me have the walker. I’ll move it out of the way.”

“BUT I NEED MY WALKER.”

“Not right now you don’t. I’ll bring it back after we eat.”

“GOTTA HAVE MY WALKER. CAN’T GET AROUND WITHOUT MY WALKER.”

“Carl, roll up closer to the table, please.”

“Come here and lock my wheels.”

“Hey, watch it!”

The Chinese lady materialized at my booth and placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of me.

“Seafood soup,” she announced formally. She backed away several paces, turned, and went back into the kitchen.

The bowl of soup was steaming ominously, like molten lava. I sampled it very carefully. It was insanely hot, impossible to eat yet.

Suddenly, something whacked me hard on the right elbow.

I looked up, and in the aisle stood a woman with a walker. “Oops, sorry!” she said. “Bob, scoot your chair in. I can’t get by, and I ran into the gentleman.”

I glanced back at Bob, whose chair was two feet away from the table, blocking the aisle.

“I can’t scoot any closer,” said Bob. One of the attendants arrived to help him.

“WHAT ARE YOU GONNA HAVE?”

“Orange chicken. Soup and orange chicken.”

“Oh, do they have soup? Soup sounds good!”

“Of course they have soup. All Chinese places have soup.”

“What kind of soup do they have?”

“I don’t know. Look at the menu.”

“People, listen up! They want to get your drink orders first.”

“WHAT?”

“DRINKS. What do you want to drink?”

“Diet Coke — sweet tea — water — tea for me — Diet Pepsi — tea –“

“Wait a minute! One at a time! Start with Janie and go around the table.”

The group grew silent for the first time. Drinks were ordered per the instructions, then the chatter resumed.

“Here’s the soup list. I want the egg drop.”

“I never heard of some of these.”

“Why do they have Vietnamese soup in a Chinese restaurant?”

“Can you get a side salad?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Mary, do you want a bowl of soup, hon?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know.”

“They have egg drop, wonton –”

“Oh, I love wonton. I want wonton.”

“Yuck! I don’t like wonton!”

“Bob, you don’t like anything.”

“That’s not so!”

“They have hot and sour soup, too, people.”

“Oh, not that stuff!”

“That’s terrible!”

“Lord help! If I ate hot and sour soup, I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep tonight!”

“Well, I’m having the hot and sour. I love it!”

“Lord help!”

The table talk next to me ebbed and flowed. My molten lava soup, after it cooled to a tolerable level, was very tasty.

A couple of times, I glanced to my right to get a quick look at my lunch companions. Everyone in the group was white, white-haired, and in the 80s to 90s range. Only three were men. One of the attendants was black, one white.

After the initial hubbub, they had settled down and seemed content. Around the table, six or eight different conversations were underway.

Soon after I finished eating, the little Chinese man appeared at my table. “You like seafood soup?” he asked.

“It was excellent,” I told him. “Very good.”

“Hot tea okay?” I said it was terrific, too. He nodded vigorously, placed my check on the table, and departed.

I got up, collected my rain jacket, left a tip, and headed for the cash register. The Chinese lady was waiting there. I handed her the check and a $10 bill.

“You like soup?” she said. I replied that the soup was superb.

I gestured toward the contingent from Magnolia Estates. “Too bad they planned this outing on a rainy day,” I said. “The rain makes it harder on everybody.”

“Oh, no,” she replied, shaking her head. “Rain not hurt anything. Rain make day more exciting. That good for the old folks.”

She counted out my change, hesitated for several seconds, then handed it to me.

“Sorry, I very tired today,” she explained. “Sometimes, work all day, get very tired.”

“Maybe old folks home a good idea,” she said with a chuckle.

“Maybe my daughter take over restaurant, and we go live at old folks home,” she said. “No more work. We come to eat at daughter’s restaurant!”

We were still sniggling about the idea when her husband walked up.

He said something to her in Chinese, probably “What’s so funny?”

“I decide to go live at old folks home,” she said with a grin. “You and daughter run restaurant, I go take it easy.”

He looked at her blankly, which made her laugh anew.

I thanked them and turned toward the exit.

“You come again,” she called out, still chuckling. “I probably still here.”