Lost In Translation

It’s a shitty, rainy day here in Manhattan and for the first time in a while I decided to stay shacked up in my office and have my lunch delivered to me. Little did I know that a mere 83 minutes later I’d feel terrible about myself and ultimately my decision making.

12:55- My stomach emits a sound alerting me that I need nourishment. I’ve only had a banana thus far in the day, and gauge my hunger level at about an 8 out of 10.

1:00- Being as famished as I am I decide the best bet is to order from the establishment with the closest proximity to my mouth. China Gourmet. I call and speak to a very kind, inarticulate woman who sounds as if she’s in the midst of a riot. She can’t understand me, I can’t understand her. But we power through and I have my order of General Tso’s Chicken with fried rice in by 1:05.

1:06- I hang up the phone, as the thought of impending food spikes my hunger level to a 9. I worry the guy won’t get here in time and I’ll have to resort to cannibalism. I look around the office for possible candidates.

1:45- No food has arrived. This is unacceptable, I begin salting my arm. Hunger level 9.5.

1:55- my telephone rings, and Asian man I can barely understand screams into the receiver on the other end. Transcript:

“Hello?” I say.
“Herro, I’m in robby, herro.”
“Okay I’ll be right down,”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Robby.”

1:57- I’m in the lobby. I see no delivery guy. I walk to the opposite entrance, there is nobody here. I feel a vibration in my side, my stomach must have collapsed and began eating away at itself. I realize it is my phone.

“Hey man I’m here, where are you?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“What?”
“Herro? You orda food?”
“Yes, WHERE ARE YOU? I’m in the lobby.”
“Yeah, yeah, robby.”

2:01- He hangs up on me. I inhale deeply, meditatively. The guy won’t be able to understand me so how can I make sure he’s at the right building? I call the restaurant again, tell them I’m lost in translation and that the delivery guy is lost. They apologize and instruct me to stay put. They’ll call him now.

2:02- I utter the word “fuck.” Hunger level 10.

2:03- The security guard in the lobby sparks idle chatter. “You know I never understood when people say pardon my French when they say fuck. It’s actually old English.” I search for a blunt implement to strike him with.

2:10- I call this schmohawk again. This time I figure if I sound angry he’ll understand the language I speak. He does not. All he says is “yeah, yeah, yeah.” People that work in the building are entering with their bags of lunch, I strongly consider stealing a bag from a passerby and just jetting down the street. Meditative inhale. Hunger level 11.

2:13- The restaurant calls my phone, ensuring me the delivery guy is in the lobby. I am blown away by their refusal to believe me when I tell them he’s lost.

2:15- FINALLY. An Asian walks through the revolving doors holding a white plastic bag. I rush him like an Olympic sprinter.

“He man sorry for all the confusion. How much?”
The gentleman stares at me blankly. I’m furious he can’t understand even the most simple consumerism lingo of the English language.
“China Gourmet, right?” I ask.
“No…My name is David…I work on the 28th floor. This is my sandwich”

2:17- I walk through the rain to the nearest deli. That awkward moment when you realize you’ve just displayed a grotesque form of unintentional racism. Meditative inhale.