VACATION?

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PROLOGUE: There's a cramped four shoulder-wide little Chinese take-out slot in a wall down at the decaying strip plaza right on the corner here in the village at which I've been stopping by at least once a week ever since I relocated back in 2006. This Chinese take-out is the standard fare that serves the standard fare with the thick, greasy, gooey, artery-choking, junk Chinese food that just about everyone loves to inhale. And true to stereotype, the Boss Lady and her motley minions, including her electronic cash register-wielding ten-year old son, could only manage the slightest grasp of our ever-so-slowly-but-most- assuredly fading English language.
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So difficult was it to exchange typical menu selections by word of mouth, that a mountain of brightly colored menus printed on cheesy, just-a-bit-more-than-toilet paper stock was stacked high on the counter with a worn-to-the-nub Number 2 standing sentinel, impaled in a close proximity plastic tub of invalid rice. In an effort to make each visit as easy and efficient as possible, I would always request the same three food items: two pork egg roll:one quart sweet and sour chicken:one quart won ton soup. This never flagging consistency in menu selection soon jelled into the YOOZHU...the usual.
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In time, this never flagging consistency in menu selection would no longer require any sort of spoken word at all. The scene opens: I walk in. I spy her. She regards me. She questions with but a single nod. I affirm with the same. Observant patrons intercept the Q & A but appear mystified. So focused and so closed circuit the signal. The same signal that also bound me to the same take-out order time and time again. The YOOZHU.
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Picture a fiery, frenetic far eastern woman, say in her late thirties, not unattractive, stiff black hair, severely restrained in a tight bullwhip ponytail. Tiny, but not an oompaloompa. A whirling, swirling Asian Ricochet Rabbita, built like a petite brick shit house, barking out food orders to the minions in her hometown dialect, which was all Greek to me. Her ten-year son, at various assignments: answering the phones, manning the cash register, doing his homework at one of the few tables, at ease, an addict, doing time, in the dim blue flicker of his Nintendo DS Lite.
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Many cooks and ancillary grunt personnel would appear and then disappear with disturbing regularity. This winter, an college-age dark-haired, fair-skinned, white guy enlisted part time, answering the phone and making the deliveries. He spoke the house language like a homie but seemed to regard his employer with just a little less than disregard.
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But always, the Boss Lady, her son and her husband, or maybe he was just the boy's father. They were always there.
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This has changed.
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ITEM No.1: Four weeks ago, I arrive at the take-out on a bland Tuesday afternoon, only to find that the Boss Lady, her son and her husband, or maybe he was just the boy's father, were not there. Who was there was a young studious looking Asian girl, just barely in her twenties, wearing politically incorrect-to-mention Coke bottles. Demur she was, but she spoke the King's English quite well. Her presence and the Boss Lady's absence allowed me to opt out from the YOOZHU so I got an H2 instead, which is a big aluminum deep dish of pork fried rice with a boatload of those blood-red colored meat strips that look like carvings of car seat vinyl piled on top. I thought ask where the the Boss Lady might be, but jepped the query instead.
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ITEM No.2: Two weeks ago, I arrived at the take-out on a bland Friday afternoon only to find the same as before. No Boss Lady, no son, no husband, or maybe just the boy's father. Who was there was the same young studious looking Asian girl. Being a creature of some habit, I got another H2. I thought again to ask where the Boss Lady and the family might be and this time, I did it. "Where's the boss?"
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The young studious looking Asian girl, now startled, nervously adjusted her Coke bottles and groped for the Engrish words that might frame an answer. She then sputtered: "She went to the place!" "Vacation?" I intoned with a arched Spockian eyebrow. At the word "Vacation", a Scooby Doo double take. Then, as if under threat of US Government sanctioned water boarding: "No! No! She went to the other place!" The inquisition was over. It was all too clear. She was truly rattled. I have found that "Vacation" in the ubiquitous Chinese buffet carries with it an unspoken, onerous meaning. I wanted to know what this "other place" was but I had already pushed my luck. I left the Chinese take-out with my H2 concealed in an unmarked brown paper bag.
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ITEM No.3: This past Monday, another typical bland afternoon, I couldn't resist. But things had changed again. At the counter, another young Asian girl, also just barely in her twenties. But she was not studious looking, did not wear the Coke bottles. Could barely utter more than a few words in the local lingo of the land. Curiously, she looked a lot like the Boss Lady, maybe a younger sister, maybe a younger cousin. More delicate and China doll-like. Prettier. Less hardened, less muscular and less sweaty. Her minimum pronouncements would provide no answers. But as I left the Chinese take-out with my new YOOZHU, my H2, concealed in an unmarked brown paper bag, the young college-age, dark-haired, fair-skinned white guy was on his way in. "WHERE'S THE BOSS?" I shouted. "MANHATTAN! PERMANENTLY, I THINK!
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EPILOGUE: Here are the focal points.

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Much like the larger Chinese buffet, employees at Chinese take-outs at strip malls and down on the corner appear and then disappear with disturbing regularity.
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The English word "Vacation" spoken within the environs of a Chinese buffet bears a remarkably significant meaning and tone that is not synonymous with "deportation". This appeared to be further verified during my recent stop-bys at the local Chinese take-out.
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The reference to "the place" and "the other place" seems to match the delivery guy's reference to New York City but mere mention of it also appeared to evoke an intense, far-less-than-positive response from the currently installed prettier, less hardened, less muscular and less sweaty counter girl. Thus, "the other place" just may be the final cattle car off ramp to...Vacation.
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And...Vacation...is another story.
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