Some effort required at the burbling of the pair opposite, evidently unhappy about something or other, the older gal in particular. Poor chap on the end of their table needed to bow to it quietly, no way out. It was easy to understand the bigots struggling with that rhythm of speech, the altogether other music. Fausi immediately flashed to mind with his imitations from behind his counter up the road, where mornings his Viet customers predominated. During the war the Black GIs had mastered some of the phrases just like the little trickster, and for the same skirt/sarong-chasing reason too. A young chap who rocked up to the closed market doors with his girl—one of at least half a dozen through the course of the hour—laughed at their predicament very much in the rhythms of the new, adopted country. Well established two part hee-haw that was never practised by the original boat-people. Over the other side of the street the old worn biker had arrived out front of Huong, a highly unlikely convert to vegetarianism, much less veganism. Puffing on his ciggie, waiting. Big draws that suggested the stick had not been picked up from the pavement, or the ashtrays along the strip. Man had only partly dismounted his steed, peering through the window. You might be pushing things there, Bud. Luckily the front tables were vacant, as the lady would not appreciate that mug putting off her patrons. The lady at the resto had a Buddhist nun aunt, who made the spring rolls they served there. Walked the proper Buddhist talk the niece.
No comments:
Post a Comment