Playing Sleep

six » the lunch

“Jason! Honey, over here!” A high pitched and overly eccentric voice called out, and shivers ran down my spine at the familiarity of it. I turned to the direction of the voice, and found to no surprise, my mother. She stood dressed to impress with her white pearls and professional dress beside my father, who looked equally as dressed up. Simply looking at them made me feel underdressed, but I didn’t let it get the better of me. Forcing a smile, I made my way over.

“Mum, dad.” I greeted once I had arrived at the table they had clearly reserved, giving my mother a hug and my father an old fashion handshake.  “How are you guys?” We all politely sat in our respective seats, which to no surprise meant they were sitting beside each other whilst I was situated directly in front of them. All the better to interrogate, I say.

“Oh, we’re lovely, lovely. Aren’t we Harrison, honey?” My mother had a tendency to repeat certain adjectives, and often enough it was impossible for her to not address my father by his full name.

“Right you are, darling.” My father confirmed, his voice impassive with a facial expression to match. Occasionally, I think half of the things he does is to simply please my mother, as he was clearly not as interested as seeing his only son as she was.

“Should we order something? I shall call the waiter over.” My mother raised her slight hand and looked in the direction of a lanky guy that seemed to be in the middle of high school. Poor lad. He hurried over, notepad at the go and shot us a compulsory smile.

“Harrison, honey. You go first.” My mother urged. She shot a strained smile his way and handed me a menu, mouthing for me to look over the options.

My father ignored whatever she had said and looked up to our waiter, “I’ll have the beef noodle phở?” Only he pronounced it ‘fough’.

Chuckling, I raised my eyes from the menu to my father, “actually, dad. It’s pronounced ‘fuh’.”

I could practically see the steam pouring from his ears as she clenched his menu and glared at me over the table. Just before he was about to do something extremely public and drastic, my mother cut in with her order.

“If you won’t mind I’ll have the vegetable noodle soup. Whatever that’s called.” My mother, as usual with her total disregard for bothering herself with traditional names, simply pointed to what she wanted on the menu before looking back up to the waiter.

Just as I was about to place my own order, she spoke up again. “And my son here will have the same.”

Holding back a dramatic sigh, I simply opted for rolling my eyes. “Actually, I’d prefer the Bún Thịt Nướng with a side of Bánh tẻ and Bia hơi.” Allowing myself to use this chance to let my parents pay for my meal, which I knew they would do, I ordered some of the more expensive meals on the menu.

My mother who had been flipping through the menu looking for what I was ordering, only happened to find the last item I had mentioned and immediately went purple. “You are not having beer!” She shouted, the reaction causing neither my father nor I to jump in any way. We were far too used to her outbreaks.

“Interestingly enough, mum. I am.” I smirked, crossing my arms as our waiter scurried away to place our order. It wouldn’t have surprised me had he been terrified of my mother’s wrath. Most people were.

She looked desperate, and turned to my father for help. “Harrison, you can’t let this happen!” Her hands were planted firmly on his forearms as she pleaded with him for such a pathetic cause.

Rolling my eyes again, I leaned back in my seat, “mum,” I drawled, waiting for her to scowl at me before continuing, “I’m nineteen. I can drink. Deal with it.”