July 20, 2010

• A Dinner with the Triads.
  And how I live to tell about it.
  

  
  I must save face.

  Act I: Impeding doom.

  If your fourth of July was filled with sparklers and fireworks, mine was like the middle of Baghdad. My dinners can be eventful, full of interesting stories and events. Like Thanksgiving of 2008, when my dad managed to destroy the turkey, converting the bird into charcoal; it was like a magic trick, a really bad one. My latest dinner involved tattoos, fake-breasts, and triads. Not quite the normal dining experience. If this was the last supper, start praying for me now.

  It’s a hot July afternoon and I’m traveling into Chinatown with my quasi-partner in crime to meet a friend. Most people were out of town, escaping New York City for the 4th of July weekend. I was already hanging with Michelle, when she decided to take me to dinner. What she failed to mention--though in her defense, had no idea as well--was it was a triad dinner. Things didn't look quite right the moment I approached the entrance. There was a bouncer in broad daylight at  "Not-too-shabby"* restaurant in Chinatown. He glared at me as I opened the door, and that's where I spotted the handle of his pistol peeking through his jacket. Perhaps he didn't think I posed a threat since I wasn't a "White Devil". Or he was busy staring at Michelle's boobs. Regardless, I walked in with ease, but in retrospect, better off being denied access considering what I was about to experience.

  
  The best way to look like a true triad is to look in all different directions.

  The moment I walk in, I receive a weird vibe. Kinda like that time you knew your teacher was about to pop a surprise test on you and knew you were in deep ish from that point on. It was an ensuing avalanche of WTF.

  After a few seconds of scoping the dining area, I thought to myself "this is either The International Asians Association for shiny business suits, or the mother effing triads.

  “Who are you with, sir?” the cashier, a young girl, asks me.

  “Not sure,” I reply. I look to Michelle, “I think we should get out of here.”

  The cashier looks at me funny. “Is something wrong, sir?”

  “Don’t you see the man with a gun outside?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Take a look.”

  The girl looks outside. “Oh my God!” she says. “Why?”

  “Terrorism? Gang activity?” I say jokingly. “Who knows?”

  “Wow,” the girl says. “Unreal.” I knew she was playing dumb. Never trust an Asian girl.

  "Michelle!" I hear in the back of the room. I see someone waving us over. It was Michelle's friend (the reason we ended up here in the first place), Charles* calling us over to the table.

  Act II: The Kiss of Death and Fake Geisha Boobs.

  
  I want pepperoni for some odd reason after looking at this.

  We nervously slide through the crowded tables, excusing each stranger's shoulder I make contact with my butt. Immediately, I see people in tailored suits, tattoos peaking through their collars and wrists, and of course, the "Head Boss." We'll call him the "Head Boss" because it seemed only fitting for the man who immediately got a bow and greeting from anyone walking through the entrance. He was of average build, but had a dark tan, like he just got back from the Jersey Shore and fell in a pit of tar. He looked fairly weathered with obviously dyed black hair. He walks up to Michelle, kisses her hand. I half expected him to put his hand out for me to kiss his hand, or suffer having my pinky chopped off for dishonoring his family. I stick close to Michelle's side because she could spare me a good five seconds as I push her to the men and I make an escape through the back doors. I'm a gentleman, what can I say?

  The Head Boss turns to Charles and says in Chinese (but didn't think I knew Chinese. Idiot.), "Who is this?"

  "Oh, Michelle's friend," he replies.

  "Ahhh! Okay." His eyes light up and quickly shakes my hand. "Let us get a drink!" in perfect English. He takes me to the bar as I'm still in shock and weirded out by what just transpired. Or maybe it was the feeling of my pants being soiled.

  We make out way to the bar where I spot middle-aged women in kimonos, boobs popping out that are jockeying for position with tattoos on their neck. One woman lets out a sibilant hiss of air and looks at me like I’ve crawled out from under a rock. Smiling at her disarmingly I note her flaming orange hair, thick-rimmed glasses (read: Hipster), garish lipstick, over abundance of rouge and clumped orange mascara. If she was trying to look like The Joker she succeeded. I had to resist cracking jokes about it though. It was either a laugh (to myself) or getting my other pinky finger cut off. With a few nods by Head Boss to the man behind the bar, the bartender quickly, yet nervously fetches and pries open a beer. I guess I wasn't the only guy wondering if we were going to end up being the main entrée for saying or doing something stupid.

  Act III: The Initiation.

  
  Trying to compare body hair, or lack of.

  I grab my drink and head over to Michelle, already sitting down at the table. I settle down at the table where Charles is busy discussing real estate and being part of the "fraternity" as they like to call it to a cohort. Like the others he has a huge tattoo across his arm reaching far across his back. I look at him and then Michelle, picturing her as the "Boss' Lady". My imaginative visuals almost took shape since she  normally wears ludicrous amounts of black and studded leather jackets. Maybe Michelle was setting me up! The traitor!

  Midway through the dinner, Michelle excuses herself to use the restroom. This was where I thought to myself "Okay! This is where I brace for impact by death from katana blade!" The Head Boss then comes around and wraps his arm around my shoulder and asks me in a serious tone, "So are you here for the initiation?"

  I coughed up the beer that was in my mouth. "The what?" I almost soiled my pants a second time. My dry cleaners would surely ban me for life after this.

  "The initiation. What? Why are you here?" Head Boss' arm grips tighter around my shoulder. It didn't help I worked out my shoulders that afternoon. Ass.

  "I'm with Michelle. He's Charle's girl friend."

  His kung-fu grip loosens. I could finally breath. "Ah! I see."

  A few seconds later, Michelle returns from the restroom--in the knick of time. "You'll have to excuse me, 'Big Boss'. I have to use the restroom." I say with a forced smile and half head bows. I looked like I was convulsing, but whatever. I needed to get my soiled boxers arse out of that situation.

  Act IV: The Epic Escape.

  At this point my jeans are a nice tint of PooPoo Brown. I run to the bathroom and lock myself in the last stall and seat myself on the toilet. I frantically text my friends, "SAVE ME!" Other sent texts included:

  "I'm in the middle of a serious triad dinner in Chinatown. Holy crap!"

  "Freaking Michelle...omg. We're done for."

  "I'm done for dude...they asked me what im doing here."

  During my texting flurry, I expected someone to open this hidden door in the bathroom and start choking me, like in Austin Powers. When you have the triads sitting outside the bathroom you're sitting in, that's no joke! You can never be too paranoid.

  
  "Who does number two work for?"

  About what seemed like 30 minutes was actually 10, and thank god I didn't take a minute longer. There was a line amassed outside. The dirty looks I received did not help my case. It was then and there that I had to leave. I quickly walk to Michelle and see her updating Twitter (or downloading porn). I had hoped she Tweeted for others to call the cops. I whisper to her with urgency, "Michelle, let's get outta here."

  "Sure."

  "Well, that was easy," I say to myself. We gather our belongings and head to the exit pushing a few people aside. On the way out, I get a tap on my shoulder. "Leaving so soon?" I turn around hoping it was anyone but Head Boss. Nope. It was Head Boss. I knew my life was ending right there. "You forgot your sunglasses!" and pats me on my shoulder. "Oh! T-t-thanks!"

  "I'll see you around," he says. Well, that's comforting. I exit with my back to the door. I hear the taxis honking and smell the fishy Chinatown air. I was free.

  I'm certain that there was a huge fight going down right before we walked in. And as soon as the doorman spotted us, yelled through the front door "Yo! Someone's coming in!", and all the triads stopped punching and stabbing, and tidied up themselves and the room before we walked in--only to resume the fighting after we left.

  I wonder if I would get their protection now. Either I have their protection now or kiss of death.

  *names changed to protect identity.

  • 10:01 pm
  • 996 Comments