Meatball War

My father had been having a very tiresome morning.

It didn't help that my mother kept pestering him about things that were neither here nor there which made it just empty air transforming into lead weights dropping into his ears. And yet his bottomless well of patience helped him keep his hands steady on the steering wheel and his right foot not too heavy on the pedal.

"....and when are you going to clean out the back shed? And then the grass? I could probably feed all the cows in India with all the tall grass growing wild back there..."

"I'll get to it when I get to it."

I had been hearing their constant back and forth trivialities since I was young and it had become commonplace now. I'd learned to zone them out and tune into my internal radio or listen to the melodious voice of Joseph Fiennes as his perfect English accent falls from his lips.

"And I don't want you going over to George's anymore. All they ever do is talk you into playing cards and you don't even know how to play poker! Don't you know that's the only reason why they want you over there?-- To take all of our money!"

"Yes, dear, it's a conspiracy between George and his wife to see us on the streets because they have nothing else better to do." My father said this in his monotone voice, dripping with sarcasm.

My father was always a calm man, never really raising his voice with mom or any of us kids. But when he got upset you can tell with his eyes and his pensive silence that could crack concrete.

"Don't you get smart with me, mister. You're not going and that's that."

He always let my mother win even though he'd probably find a way to go to George's anyhow while conning my mother into making George a custard pie, too. He always had magic tricks.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Hong Kong Supermarket and my mother said she'd be over at the tofu shop and me and dad were supposed to go buy some bread at the bakery.

As we walked side by side, daughter and father, I could tell he was glad to be away from my mother even for just a few minutes. In the little strip of vendors, there was a bustle of people doing their Sunday shopping.

I asked dad, "Should we buy $1.00 or $2.00 worth of bread?" And realized he had wandered off to one of the neighboring vendors. I decided two bucks and quickly paid the baker and went to find my father.

His salt and pepper hair stuck out in the crowd in front of the Vietnamese fast food place. I realized that there was a sort of verbal argument going on. And it was being led by my father.

"All I want is one meatball! Why can't I buy what I want? You have plenty of meatballs there, just let me buy one for a $1.00!" I stared in a twisted ball of embarassment and shock, letting my eyes flick back and forth to see if anyone around looked familiar but luckily they were all strangers.

The old woman behind the counter had a stern face, small eyes, and powder white skin as if she'd pressed her face in a vat of flour. She might have been beautiful when she was younger but now she just looked like a bitter old hag who wouldn't sell a meatball to my father.

"We have a $2.00 purchase minimum. You have to buy two for two dollars."

My father huffed and I could see his eyes turn a red hue. He was pretty upset. But my embarassment seemed to have melted and I was enjoying watching my father's battle.

"$2.00! What if I was a hungry man on the street with just one dollar and needed something to eat?! Would you still make me buy two dollars worth. You old woman, you don't know anything! Where's the manager? I know you're not the manager. Tell the manager to come out here!!"

The old woman rolled her eyes and called out to the back for the manager who was a young man. Maybe her son?

Dad leaned on the counter and pointed to the pile of meatballs. "I want a meatball. Just one. N0t two. Not three. Not a half. One for a dollar! But this old hag won't sell me one. What kind of business are you running here?"

Hmm...does dad really like these meatballs this much? And I know he had three dollars in his hand, not just one. I stood placidly behind him wondering if people were wondering how embarassed I was feeling when in reality, I was happy my dad was doing this. I also didn't know how to speak Vietnamese so I coudln't chime in.

Finally the exasperated manager gave into my father's reasoning and packed up one meatball to go and took my father's crumpled dollar.

Even though he hadn't been in many confrontations in his life, he was walking away weary from this battle yet, my triumphant dad held his head high with his trophy meatball held tightly between his hands.