It was time for the annual Missions Dinner at the Dragon Palace. Most of the congregation of Trinity Baptist had gathered in the basement hall of the Chinese restaurant to eat and listen to a "special speaker" urge us to keep world evangelism a priority in our thinking and giving. Several long, parallel rows of tables covered in white linen spanned the expanse of the hall. My brother, David, and I found ourselves seated at the end of one of the rows across from the inimitable and elderly widow, Aida D., and her polar opposite, the middle-aged spinster, Phyllis G., the very model of quiet decorum and poise. In short order, Dave, Aida and I were boisterously carrying on while Phyllis sat like a well-dressed flagpole, straight, still and properly imperturbable.
Our conversation was soon interrupted by the meal - much to the relief of Ms. G. In light of the fact that we were in a Chinese restaurant, one would expect chow mein, fried rice and egg rolls to fill our plates but, unhappily, the fare turned out to be very caucasian. Chicken, mashed potatoes, and boiled mixed vegetables were the order of the day. The food was drab and spare but we all tucked into it regardless. David and I wolfed our meal, Aida ate in a steady and meditative way, and, frequently dabbing at her mouth with her napkin, Phyllis delicately nibbled her chicken and potatoes. About mid-way through her meal, Aida turned to Phyllis and in a matter-of-fact way declared, "I think I'm going to be sick." And then, without any further preamble, she vomited onto Phyllis' lap. For some of us, vomiting is a noisy, torturous business, but for Aida it seemed no more troublesome than breathing; it was more of a liquid exhalation, really, a moist sigh that spewed a hot pile of barely-digested gore onto the dignified - but now horrified - Ms. G.
I'm afraid I was no help at all at this juncture. Honestly, I was mesmerized by the scene before me, morbidly fascinated at the sudden and grotesque turn of events playing out on the other side of the table. I didn't offer a napkin or even a word of concern or sympathy; I simply gawked. Phyllis blanched and grimaced at the vile mess in her lap but to her great credit, she did not shriek or leap up in horror. Her commitment to proper decorum was adamantine. We all waited to see if Aida had any further eruptions to make but her first seemed to be a one-off. Through her thick spectacles, Aida peered up at Phyllis and murmured, "Oh dear..."
"It's all right," Phyllis replied in a high, strained tone, "Napkins. I need napkins."
The two ladies began to solicit napkins from everyone in their vicinity and after a minute or so of sopping and wiping Phyllis was able to stand and, with Aida in tow, retire to the washroom.
David turned to me, his expression a mixture of disgust and concern. "I hope the food isn't bad. This place is gonna' be a mess if we all start puking."
"I feel fine," I replied.
"Yeah, so do I." We fell silent, both of us carefully considering the state of our digestion.
The horror show ended, and feeling fairly confident I wasn't food poisoned, after several minutes I began to grow bored. To alleviate the tedium of the moment, I cast about for something with which to occupy myself. Our paper plates and plastic cutlery had not been removed from the table and so, inevitably, my attention settled upon them. I began to push my uneaten boiled vegetables around my plate with my fork. David picked up his spoon and flexed it back and forth. We looked at each other. "You could probably shoot a pea right across the room with that," I remarked. David's eyebrows lifted. A sly grin spread across his face. "Here, try a carrot cube," I suggested. Eyes darting left and right, he positioned a cube in the bowl of the spoon. He kept his movements small, surreptitious. Looking straight at me but aiming to his left, David flexed the spoon to its full extent and then released it, blindly flicking the carrot cube down the table. It zipped through the air and, quite incredibly, landed on - and adhered to - the upper, outer corner of the left lens of Ray S.'s glasses! I was astonished - and delighted! What a shot! And Mr. S seemed oblivious to it! First some gastro-intestinal drama and now this! What an evening!
With rising amusement, David and I watched Mr. S. talk with his table-mates. The carrot was firmly fixed to his glasses and in just the right spot to escape his notice. Those to whom he was talking could, of course, see the strangely-placed vegetable quite clearly. And so, instead of looking Mr. S. in the eye as he spoke to them, the attention of Mr. S.'s table-mates was fixed on the carrot. As his head turned back and forth in the course of conversation, like the audience at a tennis match, the eyes of his table-mates would follow. Eventually, Ray noticed this phenomenon, and began to grow self conscious. As he talked, he rubbed the left side of his forehead and smoothed his hair. The bright orange cube remained, unmoved - as did the focus of Ray's observers. Mr. S.'s brow furrowed and an expression of unease spread across his face. A couple of sniggering idiots, David and I were nearly apoplectic with suppressed laughter. Ray turned his head, a crowd of eyes shifted to track his orange protrusion. I could see the great question swelling in the minds of those seated around Mr. S.: How on Earth did he manage to get the carrot on his glasses?! Mr. S. could see them puzzling, too. What were they puzzling about?! He hadn't the slightest idea and so began to dart looks of sharp concern at his wife seated beside him. At the third such look, his wife's eyes widened in surprise and she exclaimed, "Ray! What have you got on your glasses?!" She plucked the cube of carrot from his lens. Mr. S. peered at the bit of vegetable pinched between his wife's fingers. His face reddened. "What the...?!" he exclaimed. Ray's table-mates laughed. His blush darkened. "Goodness, Ray," his wife teased, "Someone needs to teach you how to eat!"
At this point my brother and I boiled over. We began to snort and pop, giggling uncontrollably and, of course, drawing the attention of Mr. S.. He studied us. His eyes narrowed to slits. His jaw jutted forward. I could tell he was trying to work out how to accuse us of the carrot on his glasses but couldn't hit upon the mechanism by which we'd put it there. He knew we were to blame...somehow. We just grinned and waved, confident he'd never figure it out.
The rest of the evening transpired much as you'd expect. We ate dessert, listened to evangelistic urgings under the dull mental fog of post-meal drowsiness, and returned home. Were my life to depend on it, I could not tell you who the missions speaker was nor what was said. But, Aida had tossed her cookies and we had tossed a carrot and to my fifteen-year-old mind that made the evening unforgettable.
Our conversation was soon interrupted by the meal - much to the relief of Ms. G. In light of the fact that we were in a Chinese restaurant, one would expect chow mein, fried rice and egg rolls to fill our plates but, unhappily, the fare turned out to be very caucasian. Chicken, mashed potatoes, and boiled mixed vegetables were the order of the day. The food was drab and spare but we all tucked into it regardless. David and I wolfed our meal, Aida ate in a steady and meditative way, and, frequently dabbing at her mouth with her napkin, Phyllis delicately nibbled her chicken and potatoes. About mid-way through her meal, Aida turned to Phyllis and in a matter-of-fact way declared, "I think I'm going to be sick." And then, without any further preamble, she vomited onto Phyllis' lap. For some of us, vomiting is a noisy, torturous business, but for Aida it seemed no more troublesome than breathing; it was more of a liquid exhalation, really, a moist sigh that spewed a hot pile of barely-digested gore onto the dignified - but now horrified - Ms. G.
I'm afraid I was no help at all at this juncture. Honestly, I was mesmerized by the scene before me, morbidly fascinated at the sudden and grotesque turn of events playing out on the other side of the table. I didn't offer a napkin or even a word of concern or sympathy; I simply gawked. Phyllis blanched and grimaced at the vile mess in her lap but to her great credit, she did not shriek or leap up in horror. Her commitment to proper decorum was adamantine. We all waited to see if Aida had any further eruptions to make but her first seemed to be a one-off. Through her thick spectacles, Aida peered up at Phyllis and murmured, "Oh dear..."
"It's all right," Phyllis replied in a high, strained tone, "Napkins. I need napkins."
The two ladies began to solicit napkins from everyone in their vicinity and after a minute or so of sopping and wiping Phyllis was able to stand and, with Aida in tow, retire to the washroom.
David turned to me, his expression a mixture of disgust and concern. "I hope the food isn't bad. This place is gonna' be a mess if we all start puking."
"I feel fine," I replied.
"Yeah, so do I." We fell silent, both of us carefully considering the state of our digestion.
The horror show ended, and feeling fairly confident I wasn't food poisoned, after several minutes I began to grow bored. To alleviate the tedium of the moment, I cast about for something with which to occupy myself. Our paper plates and plastic cutlery had not been removed from the table and so, inevitably, my attention settled upon them. I began to push my uneaten boiled vegetables around my plate with my fork. David picked up his spoon and flexed it back and forth. We looked at each other. "You could probably shoot a pea right across the room with that," I remarked. David's eyebrows lifted. A sly grin spread across his face. "Here, try a carrot cube," I suggested. Eyes darting left and right, he positioned a cube in the bowl of the spoon. He kept his movements small, surreptitious. Looking straight at me but aiming to his left, David flexed the spoon to its full extent and then released it, blindly flicking the carrot cube down the table. It zipped through the air and, quite incredibly, landed on - and adhered to - the upper, outer corner of the left lens of Ray S.'s glasses! I was astonished - and delighted! What a shot! And Mr. S seemed oblivious to it! First some gastro-intestinal drama and now this! What an evening!
With rising amusement, David and I watched Mr. S. talk with his table-mates. The carrot was firmly fixed to his glasses and in just the right spot to escape his notice. Those to whom he was talking could, of course, see the strangely-placed vegetable quite clearly. And so, instead of looking Mr. S. in the eye as he spoke to them, the attention of Mr. S.'s table-mates was fixed on the carrot. As his head turned back and forth in the course of conversation, like the audience at a tennis match, the eyes of his table-mates would follow. Eventually, Ray noticed this phenomenon, and began to grow self conscious. As he talked, he rubbed the left side of his forehead and smoothed his hair. The bright orange cube remained, unmoved - as did the focus of Ray's observers. Mr. S.'s brow furrowed and an expression of unease spread across his face. A couple of sniggering idiots, David and I were nearly apoplectic with suppressed laughter. Ray turned his head, a crowd of eyes shifted to track his orange protrusion. I could see the great question swelling in the minds of those seated around Mr. S.: How on Earth did he manage to get the carrot on his glasses?! Mr. S. could see them puzzling, too. What were they puzzling about?! He hadn't the slightest idea and so began to dart looks of sharp concern at his wife seated beside him. At the third such look, his wife's eyes widened in surprise and she exclaimed, "Ray! What have you got on your glasses?!" She plucked the cube of carrot from his lens. Mr. S. peered at the bit of vegetable pinched between his wife's fingers. His face reddened. "What the...?!" he exclaimed. Ray's table-mates laughed. His blush darkened. "Goodness, Ray," his wife teased, "Someone needs to teach you how to eat!"
At this point my brother and I boiled over. We began to snort and pop, giggling uncontrollably and, of course, drawing the attention of Mr. S.. He studied us. His eyes narrowed to slits. His jaw jutted forward. I could tell he was trying to work out how to accuse us of the carrot on his glasses but couldn't hit upon the mechanism by which we'd put it there. He knew we were to blame...somehow. We just grinned and waved, confident he'd never figure it out.
The rest of the evening transpired much as you'd expect. We ate dessert, listened to evangelistic urgings under the dull mental fog of post-meal drowsiness, and returned home. Were my life to depend on it, I could not tell you who the missions speaker was nor what was said. But, Aida had tossed her cookies and we had tossed a carrot and to my fifteen-year-old mind that made the evening unforgettable.
