Tongue-Tied (WIP)
Ariadne Tay
“Tommy! Come here!” Dad yells into the loudspeaker. “Tommy!”
I jog from the storeroom to the herb counter before he yells my name again. I hate it when he uses the PA system to call for me, especially when he has a freaking phone within reach. “Ba, you know we have a phone, right?”
He grunts. Grunting is his response to pretty much everything. “This girl needs help and I don’t understand anything she’s saying.” Dad gestures at a petite little lady standing at the counter, dressed in a sport coat and black slacks. She’s really freaking cute.
I lean on the counter to get a better look at her, but my dad slaps me on the arm. “Hey. Ask her what she needs.”
“Okay, dad. Okay.” I turn to her with an eyebrow raised. “So, uh, do you speak Chinese?”
“Ya lah! But your abah dunno mah.” She’s bold and brash and bright. I can barely understand what she’s saying myself, so it takes a few seconds to process.
I turn back to my father and give him the stink-eye. “Dad, she says she speaks Chinese. Just talk to her in Chinese.”
“Aiyah, Tommy. I don’t speak Hokkien, only Cantonese and Hoisanese.” Another grunt. “And I can’t understand her English, all that giligulu gibberish. She talks too fast and she sounds funny.”
“Hey! I heard that!” She crosses her arms and glares at us.
I grimace. “Dad, I think she understands Cantonese.”
“Just because she understands doesn’t mean she can speak. Just help your old man with this one, okay?” I’m about to protest, but he cuts me off before I can get a word in. “Give you tomorrow morning off.”
“Okay, okay. Fine,” I sigh and turn back to the girl. “So what are you looking for?”
She purses her lips, and I press my own lips together to stop myself from licking them. “Got pandan leaf anot?”
I give her an awkward smile. “Uh, do you know what it’s called in Cantonese?”
“Baan laan yeep.” She rolls her eyes and huffs, muttering under her breath. “All tampans ni are always so stupid.”
Luckily my dad is still listening to our conversation and understands her request because I can’t get my mind off of the last thing she said. Did she just call me a stupid tampon?
This is probably the first time I’ve ever used the word “flabbergasted“ to describe myself. Absolutely gobsmacked. Like, really, dude? Who the hell calls people a tampon, of all things? And a stupid one, at that. As if tampons could be smart. This girl may be cute, but she makes no fuckin’ sense and she’s kinda being a bitch. Seriously. The only reason I’m still standing here, staring into the fire of her dark eyes, is because she could be a paying customer and I’m supposed to do the whole “customer service” thing.
I’m so bothered that I don’t even notice my dad coming back with whatever the hell she was asking for. He grunts as he hands a plastic bag to her. “This one is okay?”
She inspects the contents, then nods briskly. “Can.”
“Six and a half dollars per ounce,” my father says, and she abruptly drops the bag onto the counter.
“Wahlau, damn expensive!”
Dad nudges my arm. “Hey, son, is she buying it or not?”
“Eh…” I’m looking back and forth between them like they might suddenly burst into a quarrel. “I don’t know, she said it was expensive.”
He sighs. “Of course it’s expensive—it’s imported from Malaysia and I can’t buy in bulk. If she doesn’t want it, I’m gonna put it away.”
She suddenly slaps some cash on the counter, nearly knocking me over in surprise. “Tree ounces.”
“Hah?” My father raises his eyebrows in confusion.
“Tree ounces,” she repeats, holding up three fingers.
“Fee on-see ah? Okay, okay.” Between Dad’s questionable English and the girl’s thick fobby accent, I’m stuck internally translating everything they’ve said into some awful mess of Chinglish—only to wonder if they’re even speaking the same language.
But I don’t have time to ask. As soon as the change is counted and the leaves are bagged, she grabs them and disappears out the door.
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