God damn you half- Japanese girls!
My mother's friend, Kathy, came into town, and to show her some Good Times the Nashville Way! my father decided to take us to eat at The Bluebird Cafe. The Bluebird Cafe is a dank, dingy little restaurant that attracts live country music and its followers in droves. I squeezed on to what I hoped to be a discreet stool in the back. I glanced around the room in order to avoid listening to the loud, crude performance. My eyes skimmed across face after slack- jawed face of those who have set the southern stereotype in stone in the mind of many a northern tourist.
Then I saw the group of Japanese tourists. I stared at them for a few seconds to let their presence sink in. I felt as though I'd just been asked to play the "One of These Things is Not Like the Other" game. I felt as though I'd won too. They sat huddled around their table sipping Shirley Temples; even the men. As I watched them, it became readily apparent to me that they were far more entertaining than Big Al and Baby Davey's jokes about pickled okra and maximum security prisons. The group looked detached and alert; like scientists observing lower life forms. However, it was their individual reactions to the scene that warmed my heart in the way that only incredulous tourists can. The man sitting farthest from me was young, despite the fact that he had a comb-over, bifocals and a golfing shirt. He wore an expression of utter, bewildered disgust as he looked upon the drunken, Hee- hawing crowd. The girl to his left was slender and pretty in the way that Asian girls seem to be. She was bobbing her head to the wretched twangs and yodels in the way that most mothers bob their heads to top 40 radio when their kids' friends are in the car. I can fully tell that this outing was suggested by the man sitting to the left of head- bob girl. He has spiked hair, sunglasses, and sports a gold chain. He keeps glancing at everyone around the table in turn before quickly pretending to enjoy himself. He puts his arm in a prompting sort of way around the girl to his left. This girl wears her hair in two lose buns that hang coolly at the nape of her neck. Behind her chic glasses, her eyes are the unequivocal example of exasperated boredom. She languidly chews her gum as she stares past the performers in a superior way. The man seated to her left, and the last member of this unlikely group, has his hair gelled up in a great swoop two inches high. He grips his Shirley Temple in the manliest way, I think, that the drink has ever been held. He, at least, is obviously enjoying himself, and wears a most kingly look of amusement upon his broad face.
I turn back to the show, grinning profoundly at everything going on around me.
"And you said we wouldn't have any fun," Dad says, nudging me jovially, "Shame on you!"
Then I saw the group of Japanese tourists. I stared at them for a few seconds to let their presence sink in. I felt as though I'd just been asked to play the "One of These Things is Not Like the Other" game. I felt as though I'd won too. They sat huddled around their table sipping Shirley Temples; even the men. As I watched them, it became readily apparent to me that they were far more entertaining than Big Al and Baby Davey's jokes about pickled okra and maximum security prisons. The group looked detached and alert; like scientists observing lower life forms. However, it was their individual reactions to the scene that warmed my heart in the way that only incredulous tourists can. The man sitting farthest from me was young, despite the fact that he had a comb-over, bifocals and a golfing shirt. He wore an expression of utter, bewildered disgust as he looked upon the drunken, Hee- hawing crowd. The girl to his left was slender and pretty in the way that Asian girls seem to be. She was bobbing her head to the wretched twangs and yodels in the way that most mothers bob their heads to top 40 radio when their kids' friends are in the car. I can fully tell that this outing was suggested by the man sitting to the left of head- bob girl. He has spiked hair, sunglasses, and sports a gold chain. He keeps glancing at everyone around the table in turn before quickly pretending to enjoy himself. He puts his arm in a prompting sort of way around the girl to his left. This girl wears her hair in two lose buns that hang coolly at the nape of her neck. Behind her chic glasses, her eyes are the unequivocal example of exasperated boredom. She languidly chews her gum as she stares past the performers in a superior way. The man seated to her left, and the last member of this unlikely group, has his hair gelled up in a great swoop two inches high. He grips his Shirley Temple in the manliest way, I think, that the drink has ever been held. He, at least, is obviously enjoying himself, and wears a most kingly look of amusement upon his broad face.
I turn back to the show, grinning profoundly at everything going on around me.
"And you said we wouldn't have any fun," Dad says, nudging me jovially, "Shame on you!"