Karaoke
Ruthie keeps her bar running on a series of clichés. On Texas Hold ’Em Fridays, you wear your tight jeans. When the fishing boats come in, you keep coffee going all day. And if there are Asians in the bar, you bring out the Karaoke. I received these rules in the kitchen on my first night at Champs along with my polo and apron. I just blinked and bit my PC tongue, focusing on what Kacy had said about the tips.
There were no Asians in the bar my first night, a Thursday, just several drunk Coasties admiring the fit of Kacy’s polo. Other than that, the night passed quietly, and I didn’t get to apply any of the rules. On the next night, Texas Hold ’Em Friday, I was busy slinging jalapeño poppers and hot wings, and I almost missed the Filipino family enter and sit down at one of the back booths. Before I had time to make my way over to their table and take orders, Ruthie was already barking at Kacy to dig the Karaoke machine out of the cabinet with the broken pool equipment.
“Do you want me to ask them if they even want it?” I cringed at Kacy as she walked past, unaware that Ruthie was behind me.
“All Asians like Karaoke,” Ruthie snapped within perfect hearing of the family. “Use the black microphone. The gray one is busted.”
I was so embarrassed I could barely meet the Filipino grandfather’s eyes as he ordered for his family of seven. I was still scratching down the order details when Kacy reappeared with two books of songs and an ancient black box, which on closer inspection, seemed to be the love child of a boom-box and a VHS player. I hauled it over to the TV, but once there, I was at a loss on what to do. Luckily, the grandfather followed me over, and after politely brushing me and his cling-on grandchildren away, took expert control over the Karaoke machine. He had it hooked up in less than a minute.
Impressed and unnecessary, I retreated to the kitchen to help Tom with prep work. He tolerated me for a little while, but then he too brushed me off. When I walked through the swinging door to the front, I was assaulted with the lyrics of “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys. The grandfather was warbling for all he was worth, and he didn’t sound bad. The entire bar, including the Texas Hold ’Em boys, were either singing along or swaying in their seats. Not wanting to impede anyone’s view of the show, I walked to the back of the room to take a seat where I would be out of the way.
I approached a booth in the far corner, but realized it was already occupied. A younger, handsome Filipino man sat rocking a sniffling little girl in time with “Kokomo.” He smiled, and motioned for me to sit down.
“Your boss wasn’t wrong, you know,” he shrugged. “My father comes to this bar especially for the Karaoke.”
I nodded, evidently the older man was enjoying himself, but Ruthie’s generalization made my scalp itch. I opened my mouth to apologize for her, but was interrupted.
“We’ll get there FAST and then we’ll take it SLOW. That’s where we wanna GOOO. Way down to Kokomo!” Eyes closed, the grandfather swayed with two giggling grandchildren on either side.
I covered my mouth, but the little girl on her father’s knee let out a snort that pushed all three of us over the edge into side-clutching laughter.
When the song ended, I hiked up my tightest jeans, and went to refill water glasses. I also made a mental note to grind extra coffee since the boats would be coming in Saturday morning.
